Chapter 27 #2
“I have more proof.” I pulled out the handkerchief from my pocket, unfolded it, then held its contents up so everyone could see.
“What is that?” Mrs. Pratt demanded.
“A posy ring.” I positioned the golden band so its square, red gemstone caught the candlelight. “There is an inscription on the inside that reads: Vous et nul autre.”
“You and no other,” Edmond translated.
I twisted the ring between my fingers. “It’s signed with the initials H.M. Henri Marceaux. He gifted this to Sybella after their… encounter.”
Sybella’s eyes widened. “That’s not mine!”
“Are you sure?” I passed the ring to Mrs. Pratt, who accepted it with hesitation. “Because you wore it to the opera last Wednesday.”
“I remember seeing it on her finger that night,” Edmond offered.
“As do I,” said the baron.
“And I,” said Mrs. Sweete.
Sybella’s mother paled, and she examined the ring closer. Her nostrils flared, and she clenched her fist around the gold band.
“What is this?” she asked her daughter.
“It’s nothing, Mother!” A stray lock had fallen from Sybella’s hair and now hung in front of her eyes. “That is not my ring! I swear to you, Mother!”
She was right, of course. It wasn’t her ring.
It was mine, the one Mr. Marceaux had given me before he attacked me.
But after I saw Sybella wear a duplicate of the ring, I realized the scoundrel had commissioned multiples to give to his conquests.
It was a disgusting trick, one I intended to use against him.
“Everyone knows the truth now,” I told Sybella, repeating the words she had said to me just weeks before. “There’s no more need to lie.”
“I’m not lying!” Sybella shrieked.
Edmond took his place at my side. “It’s over, Miss Pratt.”
“STOP IT!” Sybella’s entire frame shook, and her hair clung to her damp forehead. “That is not my ring! It can’t be!”
“How can you be sure?” I goaded.
Something within Sybella snapped. “Because I threw mine into the river!”
The room fell silent. Sybella clamped her hand to her mouth, realizing what she had unwittingly confessed.
Mrs. Pratt reached for her daughter’s arm, but Sybella pulled away, her breath ragged as she stammered, “I—I didn’t mean that. I just—Hel tricked me!”
“All warfare is based on deception,” I said.
“The truth comes out at last.” Edmond turned to Mrs. Pratt, whose face was as red as the roses littering her house. “I trust you will respect my decision to end this ridiculous engagement once and for all. I’d rather see this matter resolved with dignity, not blackmail.”
“As would I,” I said.
“But blackmail is exactly what you’re doing!” Sybella hissed. “You’re threatening me to get what you want!”
“We are not going to tell anyone what happened in the orangery, Sybella.” I stepped closer to her.
“That’s why we didn’t invite your father to this parlay—because he would force your hand.
All we have done is bring your actions to light, and I hope that you and your mother can make the wiser choice. ”
“Besides, if three people saw you in the orangery that night,” Mrs. Sweete added, “chances are others did too. Mr. Marceaux is not known for his discretion, especially after having a few drinks at the club. It may be he has already spilled your secret, Miss Pratt.”
Sybella’s gaze grew distant, though her every muscle was taut. Her mother, however, was trembling.
The baron cleared his throat. “If you’ll excuse me, I believe my part in this matter is concluded. I would very much like to return to my earlier discussion with a friend from Oxford about the Oryctes nasicornis.”
“The European rhinoceros beetle?” Mrs. Sweete asked.
The baron’s eyes lit up. “Exactly the one.”
Despite the tension swelling in the room, something shimmered between them, and a faint flush creeped up Mrs. Sweete’s cheeks.
Oh my, I thought. How had I not noticed it before?
Lord Cranford’s gaze lingered on Mrs. Sweete before he cleared his throat and bowed brusquely to Sybella’s mother. “Good evening to you, Mrs. Pratt—as good an evening as it can be, that is.”
Mrs. Pratt somehow managed to mutter a farewell as the baron shut the door behind him. As soon as the knob clicked closed, she spun to her daughter, her trembling replaced now with anger.
“Why didn’t you tell me you had been seduced by Mr. Marceaux, you foolish child?”
To her credit, Sybella did not so much as wince. “I am not a foolish child. Nor am I some naive girl beguiled by Mr. Marceaux. I knew exactly what I was doing that night! I had it all planned out.”
Mrs. Pratt gasped.
Sybella faced me, her eyes wild. “You know what, Hel? I will call off the engagement.”
“Sybella!” her mother chided.
“You know as well as I do, Mother, that we’ve lost Mr. Hawke.
But…” Sybella leaned in closer to me, “...I can make sure you won’t get a happy ending either, Hel.
You see, there’s something I know that you don’t.
” A terrifying grin crept on her lips. “Mr. Hawke is not a gentleman. He’s a fake.
His real name is Edmond Fletcher. He’s just a commoner—the son of a drunk—pretending to be a gentleman.
In fact, he’s worse than that. He’s a bastard. ”
Mrs. Pratt looked as if she might faint.
Edmond shrugged. “She’s right.”
“See? He admits it!” Sybella stalked toward Edmond with crazed eyes. “I’ll tell everyone the truth about you. You’ll regret humiliating me. I’ll make sure of it.”
Edmond leaned against the wall with an amused expression. “When you tell everyone about my past, don’t forget the most scandalous secret of all.”
“What are you talking about?” Sybella seethed.
Edmond smiled. “That I was once your servant.”
“Servant?” Mrs. Pratt blinked. “What do you mean servant?”
I stepped up to Edmond’s side, giving him whatever strength my presence could award him. But I would not intervene; this was his battle.
“You heard me,” Edmond said. “I was your servant. A gardener, in fact. Trained by Jenkins himself.” He looked down at the weathered palms of his hands, as if he could still see the soil stained on his skin. “My mother,” he said quietly, “is Ann Fletcher.”
“Ann Fletcher?” Mrs. Pratt frowned. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
Edmond’s gaze darkened. “She was your maid.”
“What maid?” Sybella spat.
“Mrs. Pratt dismissed her at your tea party ten years ago, after an incident with the strawberry punch. Thanks to the lies you spread about her afterward, my mother wasn’t able to find decent work for years. We went hungry almost every night.”
Sybella staggered backward, realization dawning. “Y-you were the garden boy. The one with the green eyes.”
“I was,” Edmond said, standing tall. “And if Miss Pratt reveals that information in order to spite me, then everyone will know you tried to marry your daughter off to your old gardener—a servant you didn’t even recognize.”
“I wonder how her marriage prospects shall be then,” I mused.
“Even Lord Lichtenstein would be loath to take her,” Mrs. Sweete added.
Sybella looked as if she’d been reduced to a statue, pale as Greek marble and still as a sepulcher.
A strange calm had settled over Mrs. Pratt, however.
She placed a trembling hand on her daughter’s arm and said, “I will talk to your father. We will concoct a reason why Mr. Hawke is not suitable for you, but we cannot ever tell him the truth. He won’t be happy, but we must walk away and never reveal what was spoken here today.
The engagement has not yet been announced officially.
There have only been whispers. We can play it off as a silly misunderstanding, and no one will be the wiser.
And—and you can marry Mr. Marceaux before rumors spread. ”
“But he doesn’t want to marry me!” Sybella blurted.
“Shh, darling,” Mrs. Pratt said, pulling her daughter into her arms. “We will offer him a double dowry. Even a prince wouldn’t say no to that.”
“No,” I interjected. “Sybella should not marry Mr. Marceaux.”
“Of course she should!” Mrs. Pratt said, anger sharpening her words. “You were the one who forced this when you exposed them!”
I shared a glance with Edmond, and he nodded.
“I have experienced Mr. Marceaux’s cruelty firsthand,” I said. “He attacked me, Sybella. The man is a jackal. He takes what he wants, then discards the remains. No woman should be tethered to him. Not even you.”
“First you tell me not to marry Mr. Hawke, and now you’re telling me not to marry Mr. Marceaux?” Sybella released a horrible laugh. “Well then, Hel, what should I do?”
“Although I am under no obligation to offer you solutions, I do have one.” I shrugged. “You could marry Mr. Bradford.”
Sybella snorted. “That dull lump of a man? Are you being serious?”
“He loves you—heaven knows why—and has loved you for years.”
Mrs. Sweete nodded. “I’ve heard that he has already decorated his house with your favorite colors, in the hopes that you’ll call on him.”
“But he’s a nobody!” Sybella shook her head in disbelief. “He has no title, no fortune. He’s beneath me!”
Edmond stiffened beside me.
“He’s a kind man who would be willing to face scandal for you,” I said sharply. “If anyone is beneath him, it’s you.”
Sybella looked like a bull about to rampage. In fact, she looked just like her father.
“Sybella is right,” Mrs. Pratt said. “Mr. Bradford does not have even a tenth of Mr. Marceaux’s income. He’s a fourth son!”
Sybella jutted her chin up. “I refuse to let Hel marry the richest man in England while I get the scraps.” She faced her mother. “I want Mr. Marceaux instead.”
“Didn’t you hear me?” I pleaded. “Mr. Marceaux is a horrible man.”
“He’s rich, he’s handsome, and he’s a friend to the crown.” Sybella glared at Edmond. “And most importantly, he is a true gentleman by blood, unlike some.”
The fiery blaze in her eyes made it clear that nothing I could say would convince her to stay away from Mr. Marceaux. Yet, watching her willingly choose him over Mr. Bradford made my heart break for her future.
“I’m sorry it had to end this way, Sybella. And I—” I inhaled sharply “—I’m truly sorry for taking Mr. Knight from you. I was selfish and should have known better. For what it’s worth, I hope, with all my heart, that you’ll find happiness with Mr. Marceaux.”
Sybella glared at me over her shoulder. “You don’t mean any of that.”
“She does,” Mrs. Sweete said softly. “I can tell.”
Sybella sneered. “You haven’t won, Hel. Not really. I’m going to marry a French nobleman. You’ve only got a dressed-up servant.”
I sighed, a tiresome sorrow nestled deep inside me. “I’m not competing against you, Sybella. At least, not anymore.”
Sybella’s red-rimmed eyes narrowed, then she turned and stomped out of the parlor. Mrs. Pratt lingered just long enough to mutter, “We have an agreement, don’t we? The three of us? Silence in exchange for silence?”
“We do,” Edmond and I said at the same time.
Mrs. Pratt scoffed. “To think I’ve lowered myself to making deals with servants.” She curtsied stiffly, then hurried after her daughter.
And with that, the war was over. For good this time.