Chapter Twelve
The invitation arrived with the morning post, borne upon a silver salver as though it were a weapon rather than mere paper and ink.
Marianne studied the handwriting—an ostentatious script with superfluous flourishes, each letter shaped with the kind of practised precision that spoke of vanity and a desperate need to impress.
The wax bore the Carlisle arms, pressed harder than necessary, leaving an angry crimson wound in the expensive paper.
“What is it?” Catherine asked from across the breakfast table, setting down her teacup at Marianne’s sudden stillness.
Adrian, who’d been reviewing estate correspondence, looked up with sharp attention. His ability to sense trouble was almost preternatural, honed by years of survival in places where missing subtle signals meant death.
Marianne broke the seal with deliberate composure, though her pulse had already quickened. The card within was gilt-edged, ostentatiously costly—the sort of stationery that might feed an entire family for a month.
Lady Venetia Carlisle requests the honour of your presence at Worthington Manor to celebrate her recent betrothal to His Grace, the Duke of Worthington. A fortnight of intimate gatherings and evening diversions has been arranged for select friends. Your attendance would bring particular pleasure.
Pray reply with all possible dispatch, as accommodations are limited to only the most valued connections.
It was a masterwork of veiled insult. ‘Recent betrothal’ emphasised its newness—more calculation than courtship.
‘Intimate gatherings’ and ‘evening diversions’ hinted at entertainments best kept in the shadows of propriety.
‘Select friends’ implied they scarcely qualified.
And ‘particular pleasure’—that was a blade wrapped in silk.
“Venetia’s engaged,” Marianne said at last, her tone carefully neutral as she passed the invitation to Adrian.
His expression barely shifted as he read, yet she caught the faint tightening about his eyes, the way his fingers pressed too hard against the paper. “Worthington. She moves quickly.”
“Who is Worthington?” Catherine leaned forward, curiosity brightening her features. “And why do you both look as though someone has died?”
“The Duke of Worthington is seventy-three years old,” Adrian said flatly. “Rich as Croesus, mean as a snake, and has buried three wives already.”
“Seventy-three?” Catherine’s eyes widened. “But Venetia can’t be more than eight-and-twenty”
“Nine-and-twenty,” Adrian corrected absently, still staring at the invitation as if it might reveal hidden secrets. “And desperate, apparently.”
“Not desperate,” Marianne said quietly. “Strategic. This betrothal happened after the assembly, after I—” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “After our public encounter.”
Adrian’s gaze snapped to hers, dark with understanding. “She’s establishing a power base.”
“Worthington commands more influence than Harrowmere,” Marianne continued, tracing the gilt edge with her fingertip. “As his duchess, she’ll take precedence over me at every gathering. She’ll have his wealth, his influence, his connections.”
“And when he dies—given his age and fondness for port, that may not be long—she’ll be a very wealthy widow.” Adrian set the card down with controlled precision. “Free to do as she pleases, and well equipped to ruin anyone who’s crossed her.”
Catherine glanced between them, dawning understanding in her eyes. “This is about you two. About what happened at the assembly.”
“Among other things.” Adrian’s jaw tightened. “We won’t attend.”
“We must attend,” Marianne countered at once.
“Absolutely not.”
“If we refuse, it will look like fear—like we acknowledge her power over us.” Marianne rose and paced to the window, her morning gown whispering with agitation.
“Besides, look at the guest list she implies—‘select friends’ means the highest circles of the ton. Those whose opinions shape society itself. If we are absent, she controls the narrative entirely.”
“Let her—”
“No.” Marianne turned back, spine straight, eyes bright with resolve. “We go. We show perfect unity. We demonstrate that her little schemes have failed.”
“It’s a trap,” Adrian said grimly.
“Of course it’s a trap. But sometimes the only way to defeat one is to spring it deliberately.” She moved to his side, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Unless you fear what she might reveal?”
His hand came up to cover hers, squeezing just hard enough to border on warning. “Careful, wife.”
“I’m always careful. It’s you who leans toward the dramatic.”
Catherine cleared her throat delicately. “I should mention—I know Venetia. Or knew her. We corresponded while I was abroad.”
Both Adrian and Marianne turned to stare. The morning sun seemed suddenly too bright, too exposing.
“You what?” Adrian’s voice dropped, quiet and dangerous.
“She wrote to me in Rome. Said she was concerned for you, that you’d become even more withdrawn after... whatever happened between you.” Catherine twisted her napkin, unable to meet their eyes. “She seemed genuinely worried. We exchanged perhaps a dozen letters over two years.”
“What did you tell her?” Adrian’s tone was sharp enough to cut.
“Nothing improper! Only talk of Rome, of childhood memories—hopes of reconciliation with you.” Catherine’s chin lifted, a spark of defiance in her eyes. “I was lonely, Adrian. She seemed kind, interested in my welfare. She said she cared for our family.”
“She was gathering intelligence,” Marianne said quietly. “Learning your habits, your weaknesses, your relationships. Information she might use later.”
The colour drained from Catherine’s face. “You think she was using me?”
“I know she was.” Adrian rose abruptly, his chair scraping the floor. “Venetia doesn’t have friends—only assets. And you, dear sister, were perfectly placed to be useful.”
“Adrian, don’t—” Marianne began, but he was already striding to the door.
“I need to think. Do not accept that invitation until we discuss this further.”
The door closed behind him with controlled violence, leaving the two women in uncomfortable silence.
“I didn’t know,” Catherine murmured, tears threatening. “She seemed so sincere in her letters—so concerned about Adrian’s wellbeing.”
“She probably was concerned,” Marianne said, surprising them both. “Just not in the way you thought. She feared losing her position—her influence over him. Your letters allowed her to track his movements, his state of mind, his vulnerabilities.”
“Goodness, I’m such a fool.”
“No, you were lonely, seeking connection in a difficult time. She took advantage of that. There’s no shame in being deceived by an expert.”
Catherine wiped her eyes with her napkin, smearing the delicate fabric with tears. “Will he forgive me?”
“He already has. His anger is for Venetia, not for you.” Marianne rose and came around the table to sit beside her sister-in-law. “But we need to know—what precisely did you tell her?”
For the next hour, Catherine recalled the correspondence as best she could.
What emerged was a portrait of calculated manipulation: Venetia’s questions had seemed harmless, yet each one drew out more about Adrian—his habits, his temper, his sleepless nights, his reliance on brandy, his tendency to withdraw when troubled.
She had learned of his fierce protectiveness of family, his guilt over Catherine’s exile, his relentless need for control.
“She knows him,” Marianne said at last, a sick heaviness settling in her stomach. “Perhaps better than he knows himself.”
“What do we do?”
“We attend the house party. But we go prepared.”
The remainder of the morning passed in brisk activity. Marianne summoned her lady’s maid, Sarah, and began issuing instructions that widened the girl’s eyes to near circles.
“Court dress, Your Grace?” Sarah squeaked. “But that’s only for—”
“Presentation at court or the most formal occasions, yes. And if the future Duchess of Worthington wishes to play games of precedence, we shall remind her precisely what a duchess can do when properly motivated.” Marianne unlocked her jewel case, appraising its contents with strategic coolness.
“We’ll take the sapphire parure for the first evening—it matches my wedding ring, a subtle reminder of my station.
The diamonds for formal dinners. And…” She paused, struck by inspiration.
“Send to my father. Ask him to lend me Mother’s emeralds. ”
“The merchant’s emeralds, Your Grace?”
“Exactly. Let Venetia try to sneer at my origins when I wear jewels that could buy her entire wardrobe twice over.”
Sarah bobbed a curtsey and hurried off, already calculating how many trunks they’d need for a fortnight’s worth of warfare disguised as fashion.
***
Adrian returned at luncheon, calmer but still tight with tension. He’d changed into riding clothes and his hair was windswept, suggesting he’d been galloping off his anger—a habit Marianne was beginning to recognise.
“We’re going,” he said without preamble, taking his seat at the head of the table.
“What changed your mind?” Marianne asked, though she suspected she knew.
“I received a note from Worthington himself. He’s genuinely pleased about the match, poor fool. Thinks Venetia’s ‘youthful vivacity’ will enliven his declining years.” Adrian’s mouth twisted with dark amusement. “He has no idea what he’s getting into.”
“Or perhaps he does,” Catherine suggested quietly. “Men that age, with that much wealth—they’re rarely as naive as they appear.”
Adrian looked at his sister with surprise. “That’s unexpectedly cynical of you.”
“I spent two years in Rome watching elderly cardinals with their ‘nieces.’ I learned to see past surface presentations.” She straightened her shoulders. “I want to come to the house party.”
“Absolutely not,” Adrian said immediately.
“I have to. If Venetia was using me, I need to face her. Show her—and everyone else—that I’m not some broken thing to be pitied or manipulated.”
“Catherine—”