Chapter 12 #2
“Are you?” Arabella asked, tilting her chin up. “Because from where I stand, it looks remarkably like she is handling you. She attached herself to your best friend, and you let her. You let her parade him around the room like a trophy. You let her mark her territory in front of the entire society.”
She is right, Edmund thought, a bitter taste rising in his throat. I stood there and let her do it because I was too terrified of exposing the masquerade to fight back.
“What exactly do you intend to do about her?” Arabella pressed, refusing to let him off the hook. “She is a threat. To Julian. To Corinna. To all of us. And you are standing here lecturing me about parlor etiquette while she runs circles around you.”
Edmund opened his mouth to defend himself, to offer some logical justification for his strategic retreat, but he snapped it shut.
He had nothing to say. He had been so focused on managing the immediate crisis of Julian’s wandering attention that he had completely failed to address the lethal threat Cecily represented.
“Go,” Arabella said quietly, turning her face back toward the dark window. “Go and figure out what you are going to do about her. And do not come to me with warnings about Julian until you have sorted out your own house.”
Edmund backed away, his mind reeling. He had approached her to offer protection, to act as the responsible older brother. Instead, she had exposed his failures with a clinical precision that left him entirely unmoored.
He made his way back through the drawing room, the noise of the party suddenly grating against his nerves.
He found Julian standing near the refreshment table, holding a glass of wine.
Julian was wearing a carefully pleasant expression for the benefit of a passing duke, but Edmund could see the tension in his shoulders and the tight lines bracketing his mouth.
I asked him to risk everything for me, Edmund thought, stopping a few paces away. And now I am asking him to sacrifice the one genuine connection he has found in this entire miserable city.
He walked over and stood beside Julian, their shoulders almost brushing. They did not speak for a long moment, simply watching the glittering crowd swirl around them.
“I am sorry,” Edmund said quietly, keeping his eyes fixed on the room. “I should not have spoken to you the way I did in the hallway. You are my friend. You have risked your freedom for me, and I…”
“It does not matter,” Julian interrupted, his voice completely flat. “You were right. I have been careless. I have been selfish. I have been thinking about what I want instead of what is required to keep us out of a London prison.”
“That is not what I meant,” Edmund said, turning his head. “Julian, look at me.”
Julian turned slowly. His dark eyes met Edmund’s, and the raw exhaustion written across his features was startling. There was no anger there, no burning resentment. There was only a quiet, stubborn resolve that looked suspiciously like grief.
“I meant what I said,” Edmund continued, his voice dropping. “I can see it in your face. But you have to try. For her sake. If anyone discovers the truth, if anyone sees through the act…”
Julian’s jaw tightened. His hand gripped the stem of his wine glass so hard Edmund half-expected the crystal to shatter.
“I know,” Julian said finally, his voice breaking on the words. “I know. But knowing does not make it easier. It makes it harder. It makes every moment I spend in her presence feel like a knife twisting in my chest.”
The lively music of the party seemed to fall away. In the silence that remained, Julian set down his glass, turned, and walked off without speaking.
The rest of the evening passed in a grueling blur of forced politeness. Edmund moved through the mechanical motions of the dutiful secretary, fetching drinks and holding coats, but his mind remained entirely consumed by Arabella’s quiet condemnation and Julian’s wounded silence.
Every time he glanced across the room, he found Corinna’s gray eyes fixed directly on him. She wasn’t just looking at him; she was studying him.
She suspects something, he thought, feeling a cold sweat break out along his collar as he held her stare. She is too observant to miss the tension. And when she finally unravels the lie, she will hate me for making her care about a man who did not exist.
It was nearly midnight when the party finally broke up. Edmund managed the formalities of departure with ruthless efficiency, his mind already turning toward the sanctuary of the Mayfair townhouse and the heavy crystal decanter of brandy waiting in his study.
But when they stepped through the front doors of the townhouse, the silver tray in the entrance hall was not empty.
A thick, cream-colored letter rested on the polished metal, sealed with a heavy stamp of deep red wax bearing the Ashwell family crest.
Edmund picked it up. He broke the wax seal with stiff fingers, unfolding the heavy parchment under the glow of the hall lantern.
Dear Lord Ravenswood and family,
I hope this letter finds you in good health and spirits. It has been far too long since our families were properly acquainted, and I find myself regretting the distance that time and circumstance have placed between us.
I would be honored if you and your household would consider joining us at our country estate for several days of rest and relaxation.
The countryside is particularly beautiful at this time of year, and I believe a change of scenery would benefit us all.
My wife and daughters are eager to renew their acquaintance with you, and I confess I am looking forward to the opportunity to know you better myself.
Please let me know if the dates are agreeable to you. I await your response with great anticipation.
Yours sincerely,
Sir Gerald Ashwell
Edmund read the elegant script twice, the silence of the entryway pressing heavily against his ears.
The countryside. The Ashwell estate. Days of forced, inescapable proximity with Corinna, with Vivienne, and with the entire family he was systematically deceiving under their own roof.
This could be salvation, he thought, a desperate flicker of hope rising in his chest as he stared at the parchment. Away from the prying eyes of the London ton. Away from Cecily Vane. Perhaps I can find a quiet moment in the country to tell Corinna the truth before it all collapses.
But as he traced the ink of Sir Gerald’s signature, a much colder reality settled over him.
Or it could be an absolute disaster. A trap. A place where the walls were closer and the secrets were vastly harder to keep hidden. A place where one wrong word over breakfast could destroy everything.
He folded the letter carefully, his hands unsteady as he placed it back on the silver tray.
Salvation or disaster. He did not know which awaited them at the end of the carriage ride, but as he looked down at the Ashwell crest, he knew one thing with terrifying certainty.
He had absolutely no choice. They had to go.