Chapter 20 #2
Lord Cranford moved one chair to his left, and I took my seat between the two men.
“Where should I sit?” Sybella asked with crossed arms.
On the other side of the auditorium, I wanted to say.
“Well—” Edmond looked around the box. Only one seat remained. “You are welcome to sit next to me, Miss Pratt.”
She flitted to the far-right chair and patted his arm. “You don’t have to act so coy about asking me, Mr. Hawke. I won’t bite.”
I felt a headache coming on, and I rubbed the bridge of my nose before muttering, “How much longer could they possibly tune those instruments?”
“Would you care for a drink while we wait, Miss Weston?” the baron asked.
“Or perhaps something to eat?” Edmond said.
“A cordial?”
“A pastry?”
I sank back in my seat.
“I’d love a pastry,” Sybella interjected. “Oh—Hel, remember when we were children, and you ate so many pastries that you were sick all over your Persian rug?” She laughed loudly, the shrill sound blending with the musicians tuning their horns in the orchestra. “It even got in your hair!”
I stared at Sybella and imagined wielding the greatsword against her. Was it fair for such a magnificent weapon to lie untouched? But Mrs. Sweete caught my eye and gave a subtle shake of her head. I sighed. Justice would have to wait.
The overture began with a flourish, and all of us—the sleeping Sedgwicks excluded—turned our attention to the stage.
I stared straight ahead, determined not to give Sybella the satisfaction of seeing me ruffled.
But the effort proved difficult when I became acutely aware of the subtle movement on my right.
Edmond placed his left hand on his thigh, less than an inch away from where my own hand rested on my lap.
I threw a side-eyed glance his way, trying to figure out if he had done so purposefully, but he kept his focus on the stage.
Suddenly, he flexed his hand as if stretching it, and his gloved fingers brushed up against mine.
I stiffened, the subtle contact sending a shiver through me.
“Miss Weston, did you see the program?” Lord Cranford whispered, leaning toward me. I immediately yanked my hand away from Edmond’s, not wanting the baron to perceive anything untoward.
“Thank you,” I whispered back, taking the program.
When I went to move my hand back to my lap, I realized with horror that Edmond had moved his entire arm so it now occupied my side of the chair.
If I leaned back in my seat, my entire right side would come in contact with him.
Either he was trying to initiate contact, or, more likely, his unreliable sense of manners had gotten the better of him once again.
I bit the inside of my cheek. I couldn’t very well tell Edmond to move his arm, not without drawing attention to it. But if Lord Cranford so much as glanced over at me, he would see Edmond’s suspicious familiarity in an instant.
The baron kept his eyes forward as he whispered, “Have you considered my offer, Miss Weston? I don’t intend to rush you, but it has been a few days, and I admit to being somewhat anxious for your response.”
Oh no. Oh no, no, no.
I gripped the free armrest of my chair, feeling dizzy.
I tried to recall a passage from The Art of War, something that would get me out of this impossible scenario.
The only line that came to mind was, “The skillful fighter puts himself into a position which makes defeat impossible.” I had done the opposite; I was flanked on either front, completely surrounded, with no easy chance at escape.
I wasn’t ready to choose the baron over Edmond, and I had let myself be cornered because of it.
My thoughts were too muddled, the air too thick—
“Mrs. Sweete,” I said, standing abruptly, “you look flushed. Let me accompany you out.”
“What? No, I’m fine,” Mrs. Sweete said.
“You look very near to fainting.” I gave her shoulder a nudge. “Let’s step outside.”
Lord Cranford pushed himself to his feet with his cane. “Allow me to accompany you both out.”
“No!” My tone was too eager. “I mean—thank you, Lord Cranford, but it’s nothing that requires your intervention. Mrs. Sweete experiences random bursts of heat. She is, you know… of a certain age.”
My chaperone’s eyes went wide. “Miss Weston!”
I grabbed her arm and pushed her toward the curtain, tossing the baron an apologetic smile over my shoulder. “Older women are always in denial about this particular aspect of womanhood.”
“I’m only thirty-six!” Mrs. Sweete gasped.
The baron choked out a cough. “Ah—yes, of course. Well, if I can be of any assistance…”
“Nothing a bit of cool air won’t fix!”
Sybella stood as well. “I also need to freshen up.”
“Of course you do,” I muttered as the three of us left the box.
As soon as we stepped into the empty hallway, Mrs. Sweete spun on me and whispered, “Why would you say all that? In front of Lord Cranford of all people?”
“It was an emergency,” I whispered back.
“It’s rude to whisper in front of others,” Sybella said, crossing her arms.
I turned to her. “And it’s rude to spread rumors. You tried to run my name through the mud, and now you’re trying to make me look bad in front of the men.”
“You do that well enough on your own, Hel.”
I ignored the baseless jab. “Will you finally tell me how I wronged you? Or are you set on making me miserable?”
Mrs. Sweete placed a steadying hand on my arm, a reminder to keep my voice down.
Sybella sniffed. “Typical Hel. You think everything’s about you.”
“I don’t think everything is about me. But I think you think it is.”
A strange smile crept across Sybella’s face. “Perhaps you feel that way because I have something you thought belonged to you.”
“My camellia dress?”
“Aren’t we beyond that?” Sybella pulled out her fan and lazily cooled herself. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but it’s time I tell you the truth about a certain someone and myself.”
Mrs. Sweete caught my eye and pointed at Sybella’s hand. I followed her gaze and stilled. On Sybella’s finger sat a gold ring inset with a square, red gem. Exactly like the one Mr. Marceaux had given me. I wouldn’t be surprised if it had the same inscription. Vous et nul autre.
How ironic. To think the man carried several engraved rings at once. I couldn’t believe he’d ever been a candidate to begin with.
I raised an eyebrow at Sybella. “You’re talking about Mr. Marceaux, aren’t you?”
Sybella snapped her fan closed with a grin. “It’s obvious you’re besotted with him. You practically threw yourself at him during the baron’s ball. But, I’m sorry to say he’s not interested in you. He wants me.” She giggled to herself. “He’s in love with me, Hel. Can you believe it?”
“Not particularly, no.”
She held her hand over her heart. “He’s absolutely smitten. A few days ago, some awful man said something indecent about me, and my dearest Henri fought him on my behalf. He won, of course. The only mark on him was a bruised eye. Have you ever had a man fight for you, Hel? It’s terribly romantic.”
I was speechless. Not only at Mr. Marceaux’s blatant lie about his bruise, but because of Sybella’s delusion. No wonder she looked so pleased with herself. She thought I was in love with Mr. Marceaux and that she had stolen him from me. If only she knew the truth of what had happened that day.
“How does it feel,” she said, her expression darkening, “to have the man you love stolen by another woman? To know I could dispose of him any time I want, just as you did.”
“What in the devil’s name are you talking about, Sybella?”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about!”
I looked her square in the eye. “I swear I don’t.”
“Miss Weston is telling the truth,” Mrs. Sweete offered.
Sybella paid no heed to my chaperone. Her simmering glare was trained only on me. “I’m talking about Daniel Knight.”
I blinked. “Who?”
“Last season, I was this close to getting a marriage proposal from Mr. Knight—that is, until you toyed with his feelings and stole him from me, only to throw him away as soon as you did.” Her chest rose and fell as she glared at me. “I loved him, Helena! And I’ll never forgive you for it.”
I stared at Sybella, stunned by her outburst. She had feigned her emotions more times than I could count. But this time was different. There was genuine hurt in her eyes, and a strange tightness pulled at my chest because of it.
Daniel Knight. I repeated the name in my head until the memory surfaced.
When it did, my chest constricted even tighter.
Mr. Knight—his first name must have been Daniel.
He was one of the eight proposals I’d received last season.
When I declined his offer, he reportedly had joined the navy and, soon after, married the daughter of a governor from the West Indies. I had hardly thought of him since.
Clearly Sybella had.
Everything made so much more sense now. Mr. Knight was the reason why things hardened between me and Sybella halfway through last season. He was the reason she declared war on me, why she thought she had successfully gotten revenge by stealing Mr. Marceaux.
I let out a long sigh. “Sybella, I never tried to take Mr. Knight from you. I promise.”
“I don’t believe you. But it doesn’t matter. We’re even now.” She lifted her chin at me. “And I hope it hurts.”
Mrs. Sweete and I exchanged glances. If Sybella felt her revenge was complete, then so be it. Perhaps she’d finally stop harassing me.
I held up my hands in surrender. “You win. Mr. Marceaux is all yours.”
Sybella narrowed her eyes at me. “Aren’t you upset?”
“I’m inconsolable. Now, shall we go back to the box?”
I turned to leave, but Sybella grabbed my arm. “You’re not mad at all, are you? You don’t even seem put out.”
“Sybella, can we please move on from this? You won. It’s over.”
“Oh my,” she said with a sardonic laugh. “I was wrong, wasn’t I? It couldn’t be—no, that’s just too good. But it is, isn’t it?” Sybella pointed her fan right at my heart, like a sword. “It was never about Mr. Marceaux for you. You like Mr. Hawke.”
A sharp pang pierced my chest. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m besotted with Mr. Marceaux, just like you said. The only reason I haven’t collapsed in tears is because we’re in public. I assure you that I will be an absolute mess tonight. In fact, I’m so enraged, I may never speak to him again.”
Mrs. Sweete kept her hmm to herself, but Sybella wasn’t fooled.
“You’re lying.” She crossed her arms. “Do you even know Mr. Hawke? Really know him? Because I do. And he’s not the man you think he is.”
“Miss Pratt,” Mrs. Sweete said, “I don’t think you are being fair to—”
“Quiet,” Sybella spat. “You’re just a chaperone. Do not think yourself high enough to correct me.”
“Do not speak to Mrs. Sweete that way,” I said firmly.
“She shouldn’t be speaking at all. She’s barely higher status than the help.” Sybella placed her hands on her hips with that awful grin of hers. “I guess our business isn’t as finished as I thought. Clearly I have more work to do.”
I clenched my skirts. I could wield the greatsword and utterly destroy Sybella right this minute. All it would take was a simple threat: I saw you in the orangery. But Mrs. Sweete placed her hand on my arm and shook her head. It was still not the right time.
Instead, I arranged my face to look apathetic. If Sybella believed that I had no feelings for Edmond, then she would have no reason to pursue him.
“Do what you want, Sybella. I don’t care about Mr. Hawke.”
She laughed. “Don’t you?”
“Not in the slightest. From the moment I first met him, I found him arrogant and ill-mannered. In fact, every encounter I’ve had with the man has ended in either quarrel or offense. I find him altogether insufferable.”
Sybella’s smile widened as she lifted her gaze behind me. “Oh, Mr. Hawke. So kind of you to check on us.”
The blood drained from my face. No. Please, please no.
I turned, and my stomach dropped. Mr. Hawke stood half-emerged from behind the curtain, his fingers clenched white against the red velvet. He didn’t move or speak, only staring at me with an expression that betrayed the rawness in his eyes.
“I’ll save your seat for you, Mr. Hawke,” Sybella said as her arm brushed against his. With a smug grin over her shoulder, she disappeared behind the curtain, leaving Edmond and me to stew in my own humiliation.
“Pardon the intrusion,” Edmond said quickly, his voice rough.
“No, Edmond, wait. I didn’t mean—”
A loud clang sounded from down the hall, followed by voices.
“—deserve to be here just like anyone else!” a man shouted. He staggered down the hallway and into view. My entire body went numb.
It was Mr. Fletcher.
He obviously hadn’t used that ticket to America. His dark, thinning hair was swept up on one side as if he had fallen asleep on it and hadn’t bothered to brush it. His shirt was untucked, and something glinted against his chest, catching the light—and my attention. A familiar gold chain.
Edmond immediately put himself between me and Mr. Fletcher.
“What are you doing here?” Edmond hissed.
Mr. Fletcher’s thin lips split into an awful grin. “Thought you could get rid of me so easy, boy? You owe me far more than a few coins. So I figured I’d follow you and show up somewhere you can’t hide me away.”
“Go back in the box, Helena,” Edmond growled.
“But—”
Edmond had already grabbed the man and was dragging him down the hall with one hand.
“Wait!” I called out, starting to follow, but Mrs. Sweete still had a firm hold on my arm, and she refused to let go.
“Be careful, Miss Weston,” she urged.
“You saw what I saw, didn’t you?”
“I did. But you must think of your safety, of your reputation—”
“What of Edmond’s reputation? Forgive me, Mrs. Sweete, but I know what I’m doing.”
Mrs. Sweete pursed her lips, clearly unconvinced. But, ever my faithful lieutenant, she nodded and followed me down the stairs and into the fray.