Chapter Fourteen
Rose went directly into the house and downstairs to the servants’ quarters to ask for Mary’s whereabouts.
One of the scullery maids told her Mary was in the linen room.
Rose paused outside the door, her hand on the brass handle, knowing that once she asked these questions, there would be no taking them back.
Mary stood at the worktable, folding linens with precise, mechanical movements. But Rose saw the tension in her shoulders and the way her fingers clenched just a little too tightly around the fabric when she saw that it was Rose.
“My lady.” She dipped into a stiff curtsy, eyes flickering downward.
“I’m sorry to interrupt your work.” Rose took a step closer, studying Mary’s face. “But I need to ask you something about my mother.”
Mary’s hands stilled for just a moment before resuming their folding. “Of course, my lady.”
Rose drew a breath, thinking of Baron White’s cold eyes across the dinner table last night, the way he’d looked at her like she was already his. If she was going to escape that fate, she needed the truth. All of it.
“The night she died. You were here, were you not?”
The linen slipped from Mary’s hands entirely. She bent quickly to retrieve it, but Rose caught the sharp intake of breath, the way Mary’s lips moved in what looked like a silent prayer.
“I—yes, my lady. But I didn’t see anything.”
Rose could remember when Mary had first come to work for them. A thin, frightened girl with hollow cheeks who used to shrink into corners. Even now, grown into a capable woman, that old fear clung to her like smoke.
“What do you remember about that night?” Rose asked gently.
Mary’s knuckles went white around the fabric. “The constable came. We were told to stay away from the east wing.” She spoke too quickly, words tumbling together. “That’s all.”
“Mary.” Rose stepped closer. “Please. I think you saw something that night.”
“I didn’t.” But Mary couldn’t meet her eyes.
Rose felt her chest tighten. She touched the small locket at her throat. It was her mother’s locket. Her father had given it to her when she turned sixteen. Back when she still had hope of a happy life.
“I don’t believe that,” Rose said.
Mary’s hands began to shake. The linen trembled in her grip.
“I can’t.” The words came out strangled.
“Why not?”
For a long moment, Mary said nothing. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely a whisper. “Because I need this position, my lady. I have my sister to think of.”
Rose frowned. “Your sister?”
“Annie. She’s eleven, born with a twisted foot. Can’t work, can’t care for herself.” Mary’s voice cracked. “If I lose my wages, if Lord Wentworth dismisses me, we’ll starve. And he would dismiss me, my lady. He’d make sure I never found work anywhere. Or worse.”
The desperation in Mary’s voice made Rose’s throat ache. But she thought of Baron White again, of the marriage contract her father was so eager to sign, and pressed on.
“Mary, if you know something about my mother’s death, you must tell me.”
“Don’t.” Mary backed toward the wall, shaking her head violently. “Don’t ask me this. You don’t know what kind of men you’re dealing with.”
Ice ran down Rose’s spine. “You mean my father?”
Mary’s lips parted, but no sound came. Then, so quietly Rose almost missed it: “And Hargrave.”
The room went cold. Rose gripped the edge of the worktable, her knees suddenly weak. Now she was getting somewhere. Get her to talk about Hargrave, a voice whispered in her ear. “What did he do?”
Mary pressed herself against the wall, eyes wide with terror. “I saw what happened to Lizzie. She said too much, and they took care of her.” Her voice broke. “Please, my lady. Let this be. What good does dragging it up do now?”
Rose stared at her, pieces clicking into place with horrible clarity.
Lizzie had known the truth and they killed her because of it.
All so obvious now. How could she not have put this together before?
Because she had blinders on, that’s why.
She hadn’t been brave enough to see the truth, even though it had been right in front of her this entire time.
“If what I suspect is true,” Rose said carefully, “if my father and Hargrave were involved in my mother’s death, then exposing them would protect you. And me.”
Mary let out a bitter laugh. “You think the law cares about protecting servant girls? About protecting you?” She shook her head. “Rich men make the rules, my lady. The rest of us just try to survive them.”
The words settled into Rose’s chest like stones. Even if she proved her father’s guilt, even if she escaped Baron White’s bed, what justice would there really be? Men like her father always found a way to land on their feet.
But the alternative was accepting Baron White’s hands on her body for the rest of her life. Living with the knowledge that her father had killed the person she’d loved most in the world.
“My mother wouldn’t have wanted me to just survive,” Rose said, more to herself than to Mary. “She would have wanted me to fight.”
Mary’s face crumpled. For a moment, she looked like that frightened thirteen-year-old again. “I wish I could help you, my lady. I truly do. But Annie is my family.” She clutched the linens to her chest like armor. “I’m all she has.”
Without another word, she grabbed the remaining linens and fled, leaving Rose alone with the weight of what she now knew and the terrible choice ahead of her.
Rich men make the rules. We just survive them.
But survival, Rose was beginning to understand, came in many forms. And she was no longer sure she could live with the safest one.
*
Rose knocked once on her father’s study door and waited.
“Who is it?” came the clipped reply.
She opened the heavy door and stepped inside without waiting for permission. The familiar scents of leather, pipe smoke, and brandy clung to the room. Lord Wentworth sat behind his imposing mahogany desk, swirling amber liquid in a crystal glass, eyes flicking to hers with visible irritation.
“What is it now, Rose? I’m expecting company.”
“I need a moment of your time.” She kept her voice steady.
He gestured to the chair opposite his desk. “Sit, then.”
“I’d rather stand.”
His brow lifted. “Suit yourself.”
She drew a slow breath. “I’ve been thinking about Mummy.”
Fear flickered in his eyes—quick, controlled. But she caught it.
He leaned back. “What good does that do you?”
“It might do me quite a lot. If I finally learn the truth of what happened to her.”
He sighed like a man forced to explain arithmetic to a stubborn child. “What truth is left to uncover? Lord Ashford killed her. He was tried, convicted, and hanged. A tragedy, yes, but not a mystery.”
“A tragedy,” she repeated. “Is that the same as a murder?”
He studied her. “Sometimes they’re one and the same.”
“I’ve been wondering about the candlestick. Why someone as intelligent as Lord Ashford would leave the murder weapon in plain sight.”
He scoffed. “Ashford was intelligent, yes, but passion makes fools of clever men. He loved your mother. Or thought he did. He couldn’t have her, and in the end, he snapped. That’s all there is to it.”
“From what I’ve heard, they were simply friendly acquaintances.”
“Oh, Rose,” he said with a tired shake of his head. “Your mother was warm. Charming. Men misinterpreted her kindness all the time. Ashford believed her affection meant something. He became obsessive. Delusional.”
She took a step closer. “You told me once they were friends.”
“They were. But even friendships can turn sour when one party wants more. She chose me, and he never recovered from the loss.”
“You’re saying he killed her because he couldn’t have her?”
“A lovers’ quarrel gone too far. That’s the theory the Crown accepted, and frankly, so should you.”
“I remember her crying that night,” Rose said. “I remember raised voices. Yours.”
He waved that off. “She was an emotional woman. You know that. Like you.”
“No. Don’t compare us in that tone. She wasn’t unwell. She wasn’t hysterical. She was afraid. Of you.”
His fingers stilled on the brandy glass. “You were a child. You remember fragments. Not the truth.”
“I remember her love. Her steadiness. Her warmth. The way her hands trembled when you walked into a room.”
His gaze cooled. “Careful, Rose.”
She pressed forward. “You want me to believe Lord Ashford was the villain. But what if he wasn’t? What if you chose him because he was easy to blame?”
His voice lowered. “That’s a dangerous thing to suggest.”
“Dangerous for me, you mean?”
He stood slowly, stepped around the desk. Close enough for her to smell the brandy on his breath. Smuggled, no doubt.
“You’re imagining things. Like your mother. She said terrible things when she was upset. Accused me of all sorts of betrayals. She wasn’t well. I should have had her treated. I won’t make that mistake with you.”
Her stomach turned. “She didn’t need treatment. She needed safety. What was it she found out, Father? What did she threaten to expose?”
His jaw flexed. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I?” She leaned in, lowering her voice to a thread. “Why do you really want me to marry Baron White? What does he know?”
His silence was answer enough.
“I know who he is to you,” Rose continued. “He’s not a suitor. He’s leverage. You want to bind him to you—legally, socially—because he knows too much.”
Wentworth smiled. It was tight, cold. “And where did you come by these fairytales?”
“I know about the smuggling. And I know my marriage to him has nothing to do with my future and everything to do with yours.”
The mask slipped for a breath, his jaw twitching before he forced it still. “Do you think your little theories make you clever? You live in luxury because of me. Because I’ve made the difficult choices.”
She met his eyes. “And did you make a difficult choice the night Mummy died?”
He moved in close, his voice a blade. “You will shut your mouth. Or you won’t open it again.”
Her breath hitched, but she held her ground. “I am not afraid of you.” All lies. She was terrified.
“You should be.” He straightened, tone now cold and smooth. “The only thing that matters is power. I have it. And you, Rose, will do as you’re told. You’ll marry Baron White.”
“I won’t.”
“You will. Unless you’d prefer to be sent for an extended rest, like your mother should have been. Or perhaps a longer sleep—one that reunites you with her entirely.”
The room spun, but she forced herself to remain still.
“I’ll run,” she said. “I’ll disappear before I let you do this to me.”
“There’s nowhere you can run that I won’t find you.” He smiled, small, cruel. “The wedding will take place the day after the masquerade ball.”
The floor felt unsteady beneath her feet. She glanced down instinctively, and something caught her eye.
Just beside his polished boots, a floorboard warped slightly along the edge. Loose. Moveable. A hiding place? How had she not noticed it before? The rug was not where it usually was. Someone had moved it back a few inches. Not enough to notice.
Why? And who?
When her eyes lifted again, Wentworth was watching her. He had seen her see it.
Her heart thundered in her chest. She had to get out—before his rage boiled over. Before he did what she now believed he was capable of.
She lifted her chin. “I will not be your pawn. I’d rather die than marry him.”
“Is that right?”
“It is. So do what you must, Father. And I will do the same.”
She turned and fled. His voice followed her out, soft and venomous:
“I certainly shall, dear daughter. You can count on it.”
She ran all the way to her room, locking the door behind her with shaking hands. No footsteps followed. Only silence.
She collapsed to the floor, drawing her knees to her chest, and let the tears come.
She wept for her mother. For the life they never got to share. She wept for herself, for the part of her that had still hoped to be wrong.
But she wasn’t.
Her father was a smuggler. A liar.
And he might very well be a killer.
If she defied him, he wouldn’t hesitate to make her disappear too. But she must do it anyway.