Chapter Thirty-three
Unbeknownst to the two men within the study, Sylvie had been hovering outside the door.
She’d never eavesdropped before, nor had she intended to, but as she turned from the door, realising her father already had company…
her husband’s name caught her ear. The deep, measured voice speaking of Angus and the former Marquess soon became unmistakable. Lord Southerby.
Dithering for a moment, her ingrained good manners tried to persuade her away, yet her burning curiosity won over.
She leaned closer to the slightly ajar door.
The catch had always been troublesome and never caught properly unless given a firm shove, something Papa and his visitors seldom remembered.
The guilt of listening was quickly drowned by the shock of what she was hearing, and as soon as she heard movement within, she made a hasty retreat.
* * *
Shushing Betsy as their carriage whisked them back towards Westland House, Sylvie’s mind tumbled over all she had heard.
She’d sought out her father’s counsel, hoping for some insight to ease her mind, and instead, stumbled into a maelstrom of murder and intrigue. The sum of which made her feel sick.
To think that she had presented the man she loved with such a cruel reminder — displaying that damnable painting, twittered on about how much alike he was to his father, the very man he lived in fear of becoming.
No wonder he had turned as white as a ghost, as that was what he had faced — the ghost that had haunted him for years.
How could she ever repair the damage she had caused? Unless…? The cogs in her brain were starting to click and turn. Should she? Was it foolhardy to think that she could?
“Humph,” she muttered under her breath as the carriage rolled to a stop.
Be it foolhardy or not, try she must, as to try and fail was better than failing to try.
She had nothing more to lose now… if her plan went awry, so be it.
But if she succeeded… both she and Angus had everything to gain.
And really, what kind of woman would she be if she did not risk everything for the man she loved?
Hurrying into the house with Betsy hot on her heels, Sylvie flew up the stairs. Once safely ensconced in her rooms, she recounted all that she had overheard.
As her tale came to an end, Betsy’s face was a study of surprise and horror. “A sickness of the brain,” she gasped, “like the madness of King George!”
“Really, Betsy,” snapped Sylvie impatiently, “is that all you took from what I just told you?”
“Well, forgive me, but the fact that your husband is slowly going mad… with a sickness of the brain and a murderous nature… is hardly something to gloss over! We should go to Wales, and at once! Yes, yes… as far away as possible, before history repeats itself.”
“Betsy, you silly mare, my husband is not going mad. He’s just worried he might.”
“Aye, and who could blame him? Like father, like son! Blood of blood. The Westland Curse passed down through the ages. You yourself saw the likeness! Oh no, my lady, no, no, I do not like this at all.”
“Enough with your superstitious nonsense. You know as well as I that Lord Westland is a kind and generous man. Has your beau, Eddie, not told you as much?”
“Tsk, Eddie is not my beau. But I’ll admit that he has a great fondness for his Lordship and says he knows no better man.”
“Well then,” said Sylvie, bright-eyed with resolve, “can I count on your help or not?”
Betsy looked dubious but gave a little nod. “You know you can… but I just don’t see how.”
Patiently, Sylvie explained her plan. By the end of it, Betsy’s face had contorted into a horrified expression again.
“The Comte!” she squeaked. “The Comte de Roche! Your husband’s sworn enemy? You cannot be serious?”
“Deadly. And I think sworn enemy is a touch dramatic… even for you.”
“Seriously! The same Comte who held Miss Eleonore captive for years?”
“Pff, he did not hold her captive… he was her guardian.”
“Well, that is not what Mr Fletcher said!”
“Hm, snorted Sylvie. “And what do you know of what Fletcher said?”
“Oh, come now! You know we downstairs folk know more about the truth of what goes on upstairs than you lofty lot upstairs will ever know.”
“Tsk, pig’s arse you do. And I’ll have you know that I, for one, do not trust half of Fletcher’s tale. There is just something not quite right about it, and Eleonore told me herself that the Comte was nothing but kindness, and she has a great fondness for him.”
“Then why was she so hell-bent on running away with Fletcher, hmm? In fear of the Comte, is why!”
Sylvie merely rolled her eyes in derision. Her mind was already made up.