Chapter 31
Chapter
Thirty-One
T he following morning, Evangeline sat in the carriage and fought off the boredom that threatened to send her into a deep slumber—just like her maid, who sat across from her. Clare had not stirred in over an hour, and as little as Evangeline had slept the night before, she doubted she would find rest now. Not with her thoughts tumbling as they were.
“We’ll be at the ducal estate by sundown, my lady,” Mr. Smith said, seated across from her.
A change from earlier—he’d insisted on joining her inside the carriage before they departed the inn. At the time, it had seemed odd, but not enough to refuse him. “When will you return to London, Mr. Smith? Or are you to remain at the estate for the forthcoming weeks?”
“I will return immediately upon our arrival.” He glanced toward Clare, then leaned forward and unexpectedly poked her maid’s arm. “She’s out cold.”
He laughed, but the sound held no humor. If anything, it made her stomach twist. “Please do not poke my maid,” Evangeline said, reaching across to clasp Clare’s limp hand. “Clare? Wake up. Are you well, dearest?”
“She’ll not wake,” Mr. Smith said calmly. “Not with all the laudanum I slipped into her tea this morning. She’ll sleep for hours.”
“Pardon?” Evangeline jerked back, her spine going rigid. She met his eyes directly and saw nothing but blankness behind his eyes. “What do you mean you slipped laudanum into her tea? Why would you do such a thing?”
“Because she was in my way,” he said simply. “And I wanted to have a frank conversation with you without her interference.”
Evangeline tried to make sense of his words, but her mind faltered. Whatever was he talking about? “You’re able to speak freely in front of my maid. There are few secrets between us.”
“No.” His lips twisted into a smile. “I did not want her to bother me while we spoke.”
There was something about his mouth…a familiarity she couldn’t ignore. Without a second thought, she reached for the carriage door, suddenly certain of where she’d seen that smirk before—beneath a mask. Pretending to be someone else.
Evangeline managed to get the latch loose, but before she could throw it open, his arm locked around her waist and threw her back against the squabs. She cried out as pain shot through her spine. He leaned over her, one finger jabbing awfully close to her face.
“Do not try that again, Lady Evangeline. You do not wish to make me any angrier than I already am.”
She swallowed her fear and nodded, willing to say whatever was necessary to keep herself and Clare safe. “What do you want, sir?”
“Nothing you can bring back. But that doesn’t mean I can’t make others hurt as much as I and my family have suffered.”
“Who are you?” she asked, needing to know. She had to know.
“Gabriel Rossi,” he said evenly. “Miss Luisa Rossi’s eldest brother. A man who lost his sister—and all because of Lord St. George. A man who now intends to take what that bastard holds most dear, just as he took what I loved most.”
A chill swept down her spine and her thoughts scrambled.
“Miss Rossi was your sister?” Her heart hammered and a loud ringing sounded in her ears. “I’m very sorry for your loss, Mr. Rossi. I know that could not have been easy.”
He glowered at her, disgust clear on his face. “I do not want your pity, Lady Evangeline. I want your life. Nothing more, nothing less. And I shall make it painless—unlike my sister, who was shot, bled out without anyone to help her. To hold her hand as she lay dying.” He leaned forward again. “Lord St. George does not love you. You’re merely a replacement. A dressing to heal the wound he feels at the loss of my sister and his precious beloved. A woman he failed to protect, as he’d promised he would.”
His words were like a knife through her chest, but Evangeline forced herself to remain calm. She had to keep her wits about her. However was she to get herself out of this? “This is madness, Mr. Rossi. I have not done anything to your family. I do not deserve this… Surely, if your sister knew how you were treating me, she would be ashamed…”
“Do not speak of Luisa!” he bellowed, so loud the carriage walls echoed with it. He grabbed her arms and wrenched her back once more, slamming her into the cushions. “You sit here, alive—a real-life replica of my sister—and you dare try to guilt me into changing course? I’ve long since stopped caring about what is right and wrong. And I shall kill you, Lady Evangeline, if only to ensure St. George does not get what he wants. That bastard always lands on his feet. Not this time. This time, I shall cut him off at the knees.”
Evangeline’s mind spun. Think, Evangeline. Think. What can you do? “Mr. Rossi,” she said, her voice trembling. “You are surrounded by my staff. You won’t get away with this madness.”
“I do not care if I get away with it or not,” he said, voice void of emotion. “That is the point you’re missing, my dear.”
He let go of her and slumped back against the seat, exhaling hard. His face was damp with sweat, his expression carved from grief and rage.
At that moment, Evangeline felt any hope begin to slip through her fingers. This man was unhinged, cursed by grief and the inability to let go of someone he loved.
She knew St. George struggled with the death of his betrothed still, and so she could only imagine how much worse it would be for her family. But did that mean Ezra could not move forward? Could not love again?
“Luisa would not want you to do this, Mr. Rossi. This is wrong, and you know it.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw, but he did not look at her, merely stared out the window, as if lost in the past. “If only I could ask Luisa, Lady Evangeline. What her thoughts would be. But I cannot, can I? Because she’s dead. Cold in the ground. Never to feel the sunshine on her face again. And all thanks to that bastard St. George.”
Dear God. What am I going to do?
Mr. Rossi reached into his coat and pulled out a flintlock. Evangeline froze, her pulse pounding so loudly she could hardly think straight. He didn’t raise the weapon—merely laid it across his lap, as casually as a man might rest a glove.
But the threat was clear.
“You see,” he said, voice low and calm, “he should never have come back to London. He should never have found you. And he certainly never should have tried to replace her.”
“I’m not her,” Evangeline whispered, her throat raw with fear. “You know that. You see that.”
His gaze flicked to her face. “Yes,” he said quietly. “That’s the problem.”
The carriage hit a rut in the road, jostling them both, and Evangeline’s eyes darted to the door. She glanced to Clare, still deeply asleep, her lips slightly parted, unaware of the danger only feet away. She could not leave her friend.
“You’re going to write a note,” Rossi said. “You’re going to tell your family you wish to be alone. That you’re safe. That you need time.”
She didn’t move.
“Now.” He picked up the flintlock and pointed it at Clare.
Evangeline’s blood turned to ice.
“I will not ask twice, Lady Evangeline.”
With shaking hands, she reached for her writing box, her mind racing, desperate for something—anything—to delay him. Mr. Rossi smirked, satisfied, and leaned back as if the matter were settled. But Evangeline vowed in that moment, she would not die in this carriage. And she would not let Clare suffer in her place.
She would not die for a ghost.
She began to write.