Chapter Thirteen
The drawing room at Worthington Manor had been transformed into a gaming hell worthy of the most notorious establishments in St. James’s.
Card tables draped in green baize occupied every corner, their polished surfaces gleaming beneath chandeliers that threw light and shadow in equal measure.
The air hung thick with perfume, candle smoke, and anticipation.
Marianne watched from the doorway as Venetia held court at the central table. The woman’s laugh carried across the room—bright, brittle, and sharp enough to cut glass.
“Ah, our final players have arrived!” Venetia announced, her tone carrying that particular note of false warmth that made Marianne’s teeth ache. “Do come in, Your Graces. We were just explaining tonight’s entertainment.”
Adrian’s hand came to rest at the small of Marianne’s back, a gesture both protective and possessive. She could feel the tension radiating through him, the tightly leashed control that had marked his demeanour since dinner.
“Cards, I presume?” Adrian’s tone suggested indifference, though Marianne knew better. She recognised the subtle signs of his unease—the slight tightening about his eyes, the particular set of his shoulders that spoke of hypervigilance.
“Cards, yes, but with a delightful variation.” Venetia’s smile could have soured milk. “Tonight we play for truths rather than coin. The winners of each hand may ask the losers any question, and they must answer honestly. After all, what is friendship without a few unguarded moments?”
A ripple of discomfort passed through the company. Lady Thornton’s hand fluttered to her throat; Sir Gerald Hawthorne stared into his brandy as though it might rescue him. Even Lord Harrison, usually eager for any diversion, shifted uneasily.
“That seems rather … invasive,” Catherine ventured from her post near the pianoforte. She had been attempting to disappear into the wallpaper all evening, still drained from the afternoon’s ordeal with her unfortunate roommate.
“Invasive?” Venetia’s laugh tinkled like broken crystal. “My dear Catherine, surely among friends there are no secrets—unless, of course, one has something to hide?”
The challenge hung in the air like a thrown gauntlet. Marianne felt Adrian tense beside her, ready to intervene, but she pressed a steadying hand against his arm. This was a trap. To refuse would be seen as cowardice or, worse, an admission of guilt.
“What delightful entertainment,” Marianne said, gliding forward with deliberate composure. “Though I fear I shall disappoint anyone in search of scandalous revelations.”
“Oh, I doubt that very much.” Venetia’s eyes glittered. “A merchant’s daughter who captured a duke in so brief a time? Surely there’s a tale worth hearing.”
“Indeed there is,” Marianne agreed pleasantly. “He defended my honour, I admired his nobility, we married. Quite straightforward, really.”
“How refreshingly simple.” Venetia gestured to the tables. “Shall we begin? I’ve already arranged the partners. Your Grace”—to Adrian—“you’ll play with Colonel Morrison. I believe you served together in India?”
Adrian went very still. Colonel Morrison, florid and heavy-eyed, had indeed been in India. The pairing was no accident.
“And the duchess,” Venetia continued, “shall partner Lord Harrison against myself and Mr Thompson.”
Another careful move. Harrison was already half-drunk and indiscreet; Mr Thompson was Venetia’s creature through and through—a younger son with a sharp tongue and an empty purse.
“And Catherine?” Marianne asked, unwilling to let her sister-in-law be placed without oversight.
“Dear Catherine will play with the younger set—my cousin Lydia and the Ashworth twins. I thought she’d enjoy companions of her own age.”
The Ashworth twins were notorious gossips, and Lydia Carlisle had the morals of a snake.
“How thoughtful,” Catherine said dryly, surprising everyone with her composure. “Though I should warn you, I’m dreadful at cards. Papa always said I couldn’t bluff to save my life.”
“Then you’ll fit perfectly into our little game,” Venetia purred. “After all, we’re playing for truth.”
They took their places with the gravity of soldiers preparing for battle. Marianne noted how the room had been arranged—she could not see Adrian’s table from her position, nor could she monitor Catherine. They were isolated, separated, vulnerable.
The first few hands passed harmlessly enough. Questions concerned favourite books, childhood memories, opinions on fashion. Marianne began to relax, wondering if perhaps she had overestimated Venetia’s malice.
Then she lost a hand.
“Oh, how delightful!” Venetia clapped her hands, eyes alight with triumph. “Now, what shall I ask our dear duchess?” She tapped her chin in feigned thought. “I know! Tell us about your wedding night. Was the Beast of Belgravia as … demanding as his reputation suggests?”
A stunned silence fell. Every head turned. Such a question was beyond indecent—a deliberate strike at Marianne’s dignity.
Lord Harrison cleared his throat. “I say, Lady Venetia, that’s rather—”
“Rather what? We are all married women here—or soon to be.” Venetia’s smile was pure venom. “Surely the duchess need not be ashamed of her marriage bed? Unless there is something … unusual about it?”
Heat rose to Marianne’s cheeks, but her voice remained steady. “My wedding night was precisely as a bride might hope—private, tender, and between husband and wife. As it should be.”
“How tediously conventional. And here I thought His Grace preferred more … adventurous amusements.”
The implication was unmistakable. Venetia was circling close to ruinous territory.
Across the room, a chair scraped sharply—Adrian’s, no doubt—but Marianne lifted a hand, forbidding him to interfere.
“I wouldn’t know about his past preferences,” Marianne said calmly.
“I only know that my husband is attentive, considerate, and entirely satisfying. Though I can understand your curiosity, Lady Venetia—particularly with your own wedding approaching. I do hope His Grace enjoys robust health despite his advanced years?”
Gasps rippled through the room. To question an elderly man’s potency, even obliquely, was audacious in the extreme.
Venetia’s face flushed darkly. “How dare—”
“Ladies, please!” Mrs Thompson, the elderly matron who had watched in silence until now, rose with unexpected authority. “This is meant as amusement, not warfare. Perhaps we might return to more seemly questions?”
“Of course,” Venetia said through clenched teeth. “How foolish of me to forget that some are too delicate for honest discourse.”
The game continued, but the air had changed. Lines were drawn, sides quietly taken. Marianne caught more than one guest studying Venetia with new wariness, as if seeing her cruelty laid bare.
Three hands later, disaster struck from another quarter.
“I’ve won!” Lydia Carlisle cried from Catherine’s table. “Now, Lady Catherine, my question for you—why did you really leave England? And please don’t insult us with tales of health cures in Italy.”
Catherine went pale. Marianne half-rose, but Harrison caught her arm.
“If you intervene, it confirms there’s something to hide,” he murmured, surprising her with his astuteness.
Catherine drew a breath, her spine straightening. “I left because I could not bear to watch my brother in pain and know I had caused it.”
“Caused it?” Lydia leaned forward, eyes alight. “How could you cause the great Duke pain?”
“By existing,” Catherine said simply. “By being the reason he stepped before a carriage. By being the cause of his scars, his suffering, his change from the brother I knew to the man he is.”
Silence fell, heavy and complete. Even the footmen seemed to still.
“But that isn’t the whole of it, is it?” Venetia rose, gliding toward Catherine with predatory grace. “There were rumours … about laudanum, and locked doors, and—”
“About a seventeen-year-old girl driven to despair by guilt,” Catherine said, cutting her off, her voice unexpectedly strong. “Yes, I tried to take my own life—once—out of grief and confusion. And yes, I spent five years in exile because of it. But do you know what I learned, Lady Venetia?”
“Do enlighten us.”
“I learned that those who prey upon the pain of others are the truly damaged ones,” Catherine said, standing now, her poise unshaken.
“That those who hoard secrets and wield them as weapons are far more broken than those who’ve suffered openly.
And I learned that true friends”—she looked to Marianne—“do not need to dig for truths. They accept what is offered and respect what is withheld.”
“How touching,” Venetia sneered. “A lady of such delicate sensibilities instructing us all on the nature of friendship.”
That was too much. Adrian was across the room before anyone could blink, his hand closing around Venetia’s wrist as she reached for Catherine.
“Enough,” he said, his voice deadly quiet.
“Unhand me!” Venetia tried to wrench free. “How dare you—”
“How dare I?” Adrian’s laugh was low and dangerous. “You invite us here under the pretence of celebration, separate us deliberately, attempt to humiliate my wife, and now assault my sister? And you ask how I dare?”
“Adrian,” Marianne moved quickly to his side, seeing the violence building in his eyes. “She’s not worth it.”
“No.” He did not release Venetia immediately, but his grip slackened fractionally. “She’s not. She never was.”
Venetia’s face contorted with fury. “You’ll regret this. All of you. I have proof of what you did in India—letters, documents—”
“Forgeries,” Adrian said with cold calm. “Very poor ones.”
“What?” Venetia sputtered.
“Did you suppose I would not have my own people investigate when you started sniffing around? Every document you purchased, every ‘witness’ you bribed—I know about all of it.” He released her wrist, stepping back with visible disgust. “You’ve been buying lies from con men who saw an easy mark.”
“You lie—”