Chapter Twelve #2
“I’m coming, Adrian. With or without your approval. I’d prefer with, but I’ll make my own arrangements if necessary.”
Brother and sister stared at each other across the table, wills clashing. Marianne watched with interest—this was a new Catherine, one with steel beneath the silk.
“Fine,” Adrian said finally. “But you stay close to one of us at all times. Venetia’s court will be full of wolves looking for weak prey.”
“Then I’ll have to prove I’m not weak, won’t I?”
After luncheon, Adrian requested that Marianne join him in his study. She found him standing before the fireplace, the wolf figurine from Catherine positioned on the mantle like a guardian.
“You need to understand what you’re walking into,” he said without turning. “Venetia’s ‘particular sort of society’ is not just scandalous—it’s dangerous.”
“Dangerous how?”
“She collects people with... specific tastes. Men who enjoy pain, women who profit from secrets, couples who share more than matrimony allows.” He turned to face her, his expression grave.
“It’s a world where boundaries are fluid and consent is sometimes negotiable.
Where laudanum and opium flow as freely as wine and restraint is viewed as weakness. ”
Marianne felt heat climb her cheeks, but she held his gaze steadily. “And you were part of this world?”
“For a time. Before I understood its true nature. Before I saw that Venetia did not merely indulge these vices—she recorded them. Every weakness, every shame, every surrender became coin in her hands.”
“She has something on you.” It was not a question.
“She believes she does.” His smile was sharp as tempered steel. “But what she deems shameful, I have already owned. My desires, my inclinations—you know them all. There is no power in a secret once it ceases to be hidden.”
“And the others? Catherine?”
“Catherine is an innocent. She must remain so, at least in appearance. One whisper of impropriety and her chances for a good marriage disappear entirely.”
“Then we protect her.”
“We protect all of us. But Marianne...” He moved closer, his hands settling on her waist. “Venetia will try to seduce you.”
Her brows lifted. “What?”
“It’s her way. She believes everyone can be corrupted—that with the right pressure, anyone will yield. You’ll be a particular challenge: the merchant’s daughter playing duchess. She’ll want to prove you’re no better than what she considers you to be.”
“Let her try.”
His hands tightened fractionally. “This is no game. She’s destroyed lives for amusement. She drove Lady Thornton’s daughter to laudanum. She exposed Lord Ashworth’s letters to his lover, causing him to take his own life in his study soon after. She—”
“She’s a monster.”
“Yes. But a beautiful, charming, intelligent monster who knows precisely how to find one’s weakness—and exploit it.” He cupped her face, compelling her to meet his gaze. “Promise me you’ll be careful. Promise me you won’t let pride make you reckless.”
“I promise to be exactly as careful as you are.”
“That,” he said dryly, “is what I’m afraid of.”
He kissed her then—deeply, possessively—as though he might brand her his before sending her into battle. When they finally drew apart, both breathing hard, he pressed something small into her palm.
A knife—delicate, elegant, and deadly—its sheath crafted to disappear within a corset.
“Just in case,” he said.
“You think it could come to that?”
“I think Venetia’s friends sometimes forget that no is a complete sentence. Consider this insurance that they remember.”
***
The next three days passed in a blur of preparation. Trunks were packed and repacked as Sarah fretted over every ribbon and hem. Adrian spent the hours drilling Marianne and Catherine on the likely attendees—their habits, their alliances, their vices.
“Lord Harrison will be there—he’s been sniffing after Venetia for years, hoping for scraps.
Avoid being alone with him; he believes merchant daughters are fair game.
” Adrian paced the morning room like a caged panther, agitation simmering beneath control.
“Lady Thornton will feign friendship while gathering gossip—tell her nothing true—make up banalities if you must. Sir Gerald Hawthorne is tolerable when sober, dangerous when drunk. Keep well away from him after dinner.”
“You make it sound as if we’re going to war,” Catherine remarked.
“We are,” Adrian replied grimly. “A war fought with words instead of steel, and the battlefield is a ballroom.”
***
Marianne’s father arrived on the eve of their departure, bringing not just the emeralds but his own particular brand of merchant pragmatism.
“So you’re walking into a viper’s nest out of pride,” he said, studying Adrian with those sharp eyes that had built a fortune from nothing.
“Among other reasons,” Adrian answered evenly.
“Good. Pride’s underrated. But pride without strategy is just folly.” Edmund set a case upon the table and opened it, revealing not only the emeralds but a fortune in jewels. “Your mother’s collection. All of it. Let those inbred peacocks see what merchant money can buy.”
“Papa,” Marianne breathed, touching the glittering array. “These must be worth—”
“More than the manor. Your mother insisted I bring them to you. Said her daughter should wear them now, while she’s young and beautiful. Keep them safe.”
“With my life.”
“I’d rather you use your wits, but that’ll do.” He drew her into a fierce embrace. “Show them what Whitcombe women are made of.”
“Steel and stubbornness?”
“And a healthy dose of merchant cunning.”
***
The morning of their departure dawned grey and misted, as though the world itself understood the gravity of their errand.
Their party was suitably grand: Adrian, Marianne, and Catherine in the main coach; Sarah and Adrian’s valet in the second; footmen and luggage in the third.
It was a deliberate display of ducal authority.
“Remember,” Adrian said as they rolled through London’s awakening streets, “we stay together as much as possible. We trust no one. And at the first sign of genuine danger, we leave.”
“Define genuine danger,” Catherine said, her attempt at lightness falling flat.
“If anyone tries to compromise you. If Venetia separates us for too long. If—” His jaw flexed. “If I give the word, we go. No hesitation. Understood?”
Both women nodded, though Marianne crossed her fingers in her lap. She would decide for herself what constituted true danger.
The journey to Worthington Manor lasted six hours, the roads growing steadily worse as the countryside swallowed them.
Adrian sat in tense silence, occasionally pulling back the curtain to gauge their progress.
Catherine tried to read, but abandoned the effort after attempting the same page thrice.
Marianne watched them both—these scarred siblings she loved—and wondered what price pride would exact from them all.
As they turned into the long drive of Worthington Manor, Adrian reached over and took her hand.
“Whatever happens,” he said quietly, “remember that you’re my duchess. Mine. No matter what she says or does, that doesn’t change.”
“I know.”
“Do you? Venetia will try to make you doubt it. She’ll imply, insinuate, invent—whatever serves her. Don’t let her.” His thumb brushed over her wedding ring. “That’s not just ornament. It’s armour.”
The manor appeared ahead—an immense Palladian edifice that loomed rather than welcomed. Carriages already filled the courtyard, releasing passengers like poisonous blooms unfolding in reverse.
“Ready?” Adrian asked.
“No,” Marianne admitted. “But that’s never stopped me before.”
His smile was swift and sharp. “That’s my duchess.”
They descended from the carriage in perfect formation—Adrian first, then turning to help Marianne, then Catherine. A statement of unity, of precedence, of protection. Footmen in Worthington livery rushed to attend them, but it was the figure waiting at the top of the steps that drew every eye.
Venetia stood like a queen receiving supplicants, dressed in cloth-of-gold that should have looked garish but somehow made her seem like she’d been dipped in sunlight. Worthington beside her looked like a withered tree next to a goddess—which was probably exactly the effect she’d intended.
“Adrian,” she purred, descending with feline grace. “How wonderful that you could come. And you’ve brought your entire family. How... comprehensive.”
“Lady Venetia.” Adrian’s bow was impeccable and ice-cold. “Our congratulations on your betrothal.”
“Yes, rather sudden, wasn’t it?” Her smile could have cut glass. “But then, you’d know all about sudden betrothals. Your Grace”—to Marianne, with a curtsey both flawless and faintly insulting—“how lovely to see you again. That silk at the assembly was so memorable.”
“As was your departure from it,” Marianne replied sweetly. “How fortunate that you’ve found a situation better suited to your... circumstances.”
Venetia’s eyes flashed, though her smile remained perfect. “And dear Catherine! How wonderful to see you emerge from your self-imposed exile. Your letters from Rome were such entertaining reading.”
Catherine went very still. “I was unaware entertainment was their purpose.”
“Oh, but everything can be entertainment—viewed from the right angle.” Venetia slipped her arm through Catherine’s with practised affection. “Come, you must tell me all about Rome. I’m simply dying to hear of your adventures.”
“Actually,” Adrian interjected smoothly, “we should like to refresh ourselves after the journey. Perhaps you could have someone show us to our rooms?”
“Of course. Though there has been a slight confusion with the arrangements.” Venetia’s expression was all false contrition.
“We’ve had to place you in separate wings.
The Duke and Duchess in the east wing, naturally, as befits your rank.
But dear Catherine must be in the south wing, with the other unmarried ladies—for propriety’s sake, of course. ”
“That’s not—” Adrian began.