Chapter Twelve
Winifred fled the library in a rush, not caring that the slap of her slippers echoed through the hall.
It had taken less than a day for Marcus to reveal his true nature.
Felicity had been right all along. She dashed tears from her eyes.
Becoming upset would accomplish nothing.
Regardless of any emotional pain, her situation was still a tremendous improvement over Toronto.
Here, she had a position of privilege, a title, and plenty of time to study the wealth of books at her disposal.
Not to mention, he had consented to her request for a companion.
She slowed her pace. That was right; she would still have Felicity. She could suppress her unwanted attraction to Marcus and even continue to act as his assistant if it meant saving Felicity from their uncle.
With her mood significantly improved, she turned the corner and spotted her mother standing outside her room.
For a moment, she considered turning around and returning to the library, but then Mrs. Belltree met her gaze and Winifred knew any chance she had of spending the rest of the day reading had vanished.
“There you are,” her mother said with a scowl. “I have been looking for you for hours.”
Winifred clasped her hands at her waist. “Good morning, Mother.”
Mrs. Belltree tutted. “Did you learn nothing from your governess?” She gestured at Winifred’s floral patterned cotton day dress. “You have guests, my dear.” She sighed. “Your uncle has arrived and wishes to speak to you.”
Winifred squeezed her hands together so tightly that her fingertips prickled.
Her uncle had come to retrieve Felicity.
That was the only reasonable explanation for why he would have traveled such a distance when he had not attended the wedding.
He couldn’t know Winifred was about to wrest his niece from his clutches. “Perhaps I should change—”
Her mother shook her head. “You have dawdled long enough.” She linked her arm with Winifred’s and drew her down the hall.
“Do not fret. I am certain he only intends to offer congratulations.”
That was unlikely. Ethan Sorrow was about as sentimental as an ancient teacher at the school Winifred had attended in Toronto. Lady Joy, as the pupils had ironically called her, had been prone to swatting the heads of her students with a long ruler whenever they’d answered a question wrong.
At least Winifred did not have to worry about receiving similar treatment from her uncle.
She hoped.
Her mother led her down the stairs to the drawing room, where three people were waiting.
The first was Felicity, who was wearing the brown twill dress she hated, along with black kidskin gloves and leather boots.
It was an outfit she reserved for traveling.
She kept her gaze firmly on her lap as Winifred entered, likely because Vincent lounged on the settee beside her with an arm thrown over the back.
There were clumps of dirt stuck to the soles of his boots and flecks of the same on the carpet at his feet.
The last person in the room was the three cousins’ uncle, Mr. Ethan Sorrow.
He was dressed in a black-on-black suit, as if he’d just returned from a funeral, and his thin, silver-gray hair was slicked back over his skull.
He sat stiff-backed on a plush parlor chair and acknowledged Winifred’s entry into the room with a slight incline of his head.
“Thank you, Margaret,” Uncle Ethan said, addressing Winifred’s mother. “It has been too long.” He leaned forward. “It is such a shame you moved so far out of reach.”
“Ethan,” Mrs. Belltree said, her voice cold. “Do you intend to stay long?”
He scoffed. “Pleasant as always, sister. I am so very glad we’ve kept on good terms. In answer to your question, no. I have no desire to sleep beneath the same roof as a turncoat.”
Then he waved his hand in clear dismissal.
Mrs. Belltree shot a worried glance at Winifred before dipping into a curtsey and leaving her daughter poised in front of her family, feeling as if she were perched on the edge of a cliff, staring down at the frothy ocean washing over sharp rocks.
“Do not stand there like a child waiting to be chastised,” Uncle Ethan said. “Sit.”
She winced but did as he’d bidden by taking the chair opposite him. She spared another glance at Felicity, but her cousin’s attention remained fixed on her lap. That meant the topic of this conversation was likely not going to be pleasant.
Uncle Ethan snapped his fingers. The doors creaked open, and three maids bustled inside without a word, placing a tea set and a plate of fragrant-smelling scones on the table between Winifred and her uncle. It happened with such speed that Winifred suspected they’d been waiting at the door.
She reached for the teapot and poured four cups, then handed three to her guests. When Vincent accepted his, his nostrils flared, and he gave her a nasty grin. Before she could remark on it, Felicity whispered a barely audible, “Don’t.”
Winifred was not one to ignore a warning from her cousin. She plastered a pleasant smile on her face and looked at her uncle. “Did you come to offer well wishes?”
He picked up a scone. “Your union to the earl was a mistake.”
She hurriedly set down her cup before she spilled. “P-Pardon?”
He took a large bite and chewed slowly. All the while, Winifred felt ready to leap out of her chair. First, he had ordered her servants about as if he was the owner of the house, and now he insulted her marriage. The only thing that kept her silent was Felicity’s whispered warning.
“Your father should have contacted me before arranging the match,” Uncle Ethan said. “As he did not, I must assume my sister, your mother, has neglected her responsibilities.” He picked up his teacup. “Tell me what you know of our ancestors.”
Winifred brought her hand to her breast, where the family crest was burned into her skin. “My grandfather, Bernard Sorrow, was married to—”
Uncle Ethan sliced his hand through the air. “Not your pedigree. Their mission.”
A shiver went down Winifred’s spine. He could only be referring to the tales that had amused her as a girl until her uncle had convinced his siblings to force a pair of knobby-kneed girls to undergo an ancient rite of initiation that had left them both physically and mentally scarred.
After that traumatic night, Winifred had vowed to put their families’ absurd history behind her.
But she remembered enough from her early lessons to answer.
“T-They were hunters,” she said. “They tracked down individuals who were suspected to be—”
“Monsters,” Vincent said, spitting the word as if it were a curse. “They hunted and killed monsters. And you married one.”
Winifred’s jaw dropped open. She hurriedly closed it. They could not possibly be referring to Marcus. Despite his recent show of temper, he’d shown her only kindness.
“I see your ignorance regarding your ancestors is worse than I thought,” Uncle Ethan said. “Excuse your cousin. What he means is that our family has been in a… feud with the Devilles for several years.” He sighed. “Now you have joined them. This puts me in a difficult position.”
She squeezed her hands in her lap. “What do you mean? What feud?”
Uncle Ethan picked up a second scone and bit into it. Winifred did not dare move or speak. Even Felicity was as pale as a sheet.
At last, Uncle Ethan swallowed. Then he brushed crumbs from his lap, picked up his gold-handled cane from the floor, and stood.
“With your union to the earl, you have allied yourself with his family instead of your own. Therefore, your name has been erased from our family ledger.” His expression softened.
“I am sorry. There was no other choice. As for you”—he looked at Felicity—“it is best you remember that until you come of age, you are my responsibility. You are forbidden from associating from Winifred.” He glanced at Vincent. “Both of you.”
Vincent scowled but did not refute the statement.
“No,” Winifred whispered as she took in her cousin’s trembling shoulders.
Even if Felicity ran away from Uncle Ethan’s home, he had the right to drag her back until she turned one-and-twenty.
Winifred had agreed to marry Marcus to escape from her parents and achieve the independence she craved, but it had also been with the understanding she could save Felicity from their uncle.
She hadn’t even told her cousin that Marcus had agreed to let her live with them.
Now she couldn’t even write to her cousin. It was beyond cruel.
She stood. “Please, Uncle—”
“That is enough,” Uncle Ethan said, speaking over her. Then he rose and quickly left the room, with Felicity following behind. The only person who remained was Vincent.
“This is not over,” he whispered. “You are mine. I won’t give up so easily.”
With that ominous warning, he exited, leaving Winifred to hold back her tears and curse herself for not fighting harder. She wasn’t a young girl anymore; she was a countess. Uncle Ethan shouldn’t have had power over her.
But when she tried to move, to run after Felicity, her legs refused to budge. It was as if she’d been transported back to the night Uncle Ethan had approached her with the red-hot branding iron. Felicity had screamed her name, but Winifred hadn’t been able to do anything except tremble and stare.
Now, as then, fear kept her rooted in place.