Chapter 18
The front door of the Mayfair townhouse slammed shut behind Edmund, the sound echoing off the marble floors like a gunshot.
He did not wait for MacAulay to take his coat.
He stripped the cheap brown wool from his shoulders, tossed it blindly onto a console table, and stalked directly toward the drawing room.
Julian and Arabella were sitting near the fireplace. Julian was holding a teacup, looking entirely too comfortable in one of Edmund’s velvet coats, while Arabella was reading aloud from a small volume of poetry.
They both stopped the moment Edmund crossed the threshold.
“I was going to do it,” Edmund said. His voice was ragged, completely devoid of the careful, modulated tone he had practiced for weeks. He paced across the Persian rug, unable to stop moving. “I stood in her aunt’s drawing room, and I was going to tell her everything today.”
Julian set his teacup down with a sharp clink. “Edmund, what happened? You look like you just walked through a firing squad.”
“I cannot do this anymore,” Edmund continued, ignoring the question, his hands curling into fists at his sides.
“I cannot stand in front of Corinna Ashwell and continue to be someone else. It is suffocating. Every time she looks at me, she sees a man who does not exist, and I am the one forcing her to do it.”
Arabella closed her book, marking the page carefully with a silk ribbon. She did not look surprised. She looked at him with that same unnerving, quiet clarity she had possessed since they were children.
“You were going to confess,” Arabella stated, her voice perfectly even. “What stopped you?”
“Cecily Vane,” Edmund spat the name like a curse. “She was sitting in the parlor, holding court with Vivienne as if they were lifelong confidantes. Cecily looked right at me, Julian. She smiled, and the entire room turned to ice. Corinna saw it. Corinna looked at me, and then she told me to leave.”
Julian dragged a hand through his dark hair, a heavy sigh escaping his lips. “So Cecily is already making her moves on the board.”
“She is paralyzing the board,” Edmund shot back, stopping his pacing to glare at the fireplace. “But it does not matter. The deception itself is the poison. I cannot lie to Corinna anymore.”
Arabella stood up, smoothing her skirts. She walked slowly across the room, stopping just a few feet from where Edmund stood. She looked up at him, her brown eyes steady and unblinking.
“You are in love with her,” Arabella said.
It was not a question. It was a simple, devastating statement of fact.
Edmund stared at his sister. He opened his mouth to deny it, to dress his panic up as honor or duty or some other noble, empty word. He wanted to say it was about the family name, or the contract, or the sheer logistics of the lie collapsing.
But the words died in his throat. He looked at Arabella, and he said absolutely nothing.
The silence stretched through the drawing room, heavy and absolute. It was the loudest answer he could have possibly given.
Arabella offered a sad smile, her shoulders dropping. “Oh, Edmund.”
Before Julian could offer whatever terribly charming, inadequate comfort he was formulating, the doors of the drawing room swung open.
MacAulay stood in the threshold, his silver hair perfectly combed, his posture rigid.
“The Dowager Countess of Ravenswood,” the butler announced, his booming voice shattering the tense intimacy of the room.
Edmund froze. Julian scrambled to his feet, instinctively straightening the lapels of a coat that did not belong to him.
Lady Margaret stepped into the drawing room. She was supposed to be in the country for another month. Yet here she was, standing in the doorway, dressed in a traveling gown of mourning black, her fine-boned face pale but entirely composed.
“Mother,” Arabella gasped, rushing forward to take her hands. “You have returned so early. We did not expect you for weeks.”
“I found that the country air was entirely too quiet,” Lady Margaret said, her voice quiet but ringing with absolute resolution.
She kissed Arabella’s cheek before looking toward Edmund and Julian.
“I feel considerably stronger than I expected to feel. And I have decided that I will not hide in the countryside forever. Grief is a private matter, but life must eventually be lived in public.”
Edmund swallowed hard, forcing his feet to move forward. “It is good to have you home, Mother. But you should rest. The journey must have been long.”
“I will rest shortly,” Lady Margaret agreed, stripping off her black leather gloves. “But I wanted you both to know my intentions immediately. Lady Sophronia Quill is hosting a rather significant ball this week. I intend to attend it, and I will be taking Arabella as my companion.”
Arabella’s eyes widened slightly, but she nodded quickly. “Of course, Mother. If you feel you are ready.”
“I am ready,” Lady Margaret stated firmly. She looked at Edmund, her eyes holding a deep, abiding trust that made him feel physically ill. “Your father would not want us to shrink away from our duties. We are the Ashfords. We must face the ton together.”
With that quiet, immovable resolution, she turned and made her way toward the main staircase to retire to her rooms.
Edmund watched her go, staring at the empty doorway long after the rustle of her skirts had faded.
He felt the full, crushing weight of what she did not know bearing down on his spine.
She was preparing to walk into the largest social event of the Season, entirely blind to the fact that her son was currently perpetrating the greatest fraud Mayfair had seen in a decade.
“Well,” Julian murmured, breaking the silence. “That complicates the schedule.”
“Everything is a complication,” Edmund muttered, turning back toward the fire.
A sharp knock sounded at the front door. A moment later, MacAulay reappeared, carrying a small silver tray.
“A letter was just delivered by hand, my lord,” MacAulay said, extending the tray toward Julian.
Julian reached for it, but Edmund moved faster. He snatched the thick, cream-colored envelope from the silver platter. There was no name on the front, no direction, or wax seal bearing a recognizable crest. It was completely blank.
“Thank you, MacAulay. That will be all,” Edmund said tightly.
He waited until the butler’s footsteps faded down the hall before tearing the envelope open. He pulled out a single sheet of parchment. The script was neat, elegant, and entirely unfamiliar.
Edmund read the words. His blood turned to ice water.
I find myself wondering if the Earl of Ravenswood has been seen in public lately. I also find myself curious as to whether his brooding, quiet companion bears an unusual resemblance to a certain portrait that hung in the Royal Academy’s last exhibition.
If the companion wishes this fascinating observation to remain entirely private, he will cease his attentions toward Miss Corinna Ashwell at once.
Edmund stopped breathing. He read the neat script a second time, his eyes tracking over the vicious, calculated threat.
The Royal Academy portrait. He remembered it clearly, a painting of a young English heir, commissioned by his father years ago, before he had been sent away to France.
Someone had recognized his face. Someone knew exactly who he was, and they were using Corinna as the leverage.
“Edmund?” Arabella asked, her voice trembling slightly as she watched the color drain from his face. “What is it?”
Edmund did not answer. He turned around, marched directly to the fireplace, and threw the parchment onto the burning coals.
“Hey!” Julian protested, stepping forward. “What are you doing?”
Edmund watched the edges of the thick paper curl, blacken, and burst into bright orange flames. He did not look away until the elegant, threatening script was entirely reduced to gray ash.
“We have been discovered,” Edmund said, his voice flat and dead.
Julian stopped in his tracks. Arabella let out a horrified gasp.
“What do you mean?” Julian demanded, moving to stand beside Edmund, staring down at the burning embers. “Who was it from?”
“There was no name,” Edmund replied, gripping the marble mantelpiece so tightly his knuckles ached. “The writer asked if the earl has been seen in public, and noted my resemblance to an old Royal Academy portrait.”
Julian let out a harsh breath. He leaned back on his heels, a cynical smile twisting his lips. He reached for the only defense he had ever known: a joke.
“Well, I suppose this means my brief, glorious reign as an English peer is coming to an end,” Julian said, offering a dry, humorless laugh. “I hope they serve decent wine in the debtors’ prison. Perhaps I can paint murals on the cell walls to pay for my keep.”
Edmund turned his head slowly, fixing Julian with a stare of absolute, freezing fury.
“I do not find that funny, Julian,” Edmund snarled, his voice vibrating with barely contained annoyance.
Julian’s false smile vanished instantly. He swallowed hard, looking down at the rug.
Arabella rose quietly, smoothing her skirts. “I will leave you both to speak plainly,” she said, pressing a light hand to Edmund’s arm before crossing to the door. She paused once, glancing back at Julian, before slipping out and pulling it shut behind her.
“The letter contained a condition,” Edmund continued, forcing the words through his locked jaw. “It stated that if I wish the secret to remain private, I must cease my attentions toward Corinna Ashwell immediately.”
“It doesn’t matter who wrote it,” Edmund said, turning his back on the fire. “The threat is real. The masquerade is over. But the confession must come from me. Privately. Before this breaks wide open and the ton tears her family apart.”
Julian nodded slowly, the gravity of the situation finally anchoring him completely. “When?”
“I need a few more days,” Edmund said, running a shaking hand over his face. “I have to find a way to get Corinna alone, away from her sister, away from Cecily. I have to explain it to her myself before the entire city reads about it in the morning papers.”
Julian looked at him, his dark eyes heavy and exhausted. “I agree.”
He paused, taking a slow, steadying breath.
“I also want it to end, Edmund,” he said quietly. The words were not a performance. They were stripped bare, raw and honest. “And not only because of the letter.”
Edmund narrowed his eyes, the protective older brother instantly rising to the surface, temporarily eclipsing his own disaster. “What are you talking about?”
Julian squared his shoulders, refusing to look away. “I am falling for Arabella. I have been for some time. And I cannot keep standing in this room, wearing your clothes, pretending to be something I am not.”
The drawing room went deadly silent.
Edmund stared at his best friend. He looked at the ink stains on Julian’s knuckles, the careless, charming tilt of his jaw, the history of gambling halls, tavern brawls, and fleeing through the back alleys of Naples.
He looked at the man he had pulled from the gutter, and then he pictured him with his gentle sister.
The room shifted beneath Edmund’s feet.
“Arabella is not like the women you have known in Paris, Julian,” Edmund said. His voice was dangerously low.
He did not say the word rake. He did not need to. The implication hung in the air between them. He was telling Julian that he was not worthy of her. That his past disqualified him from her future.
Julian went very still.
The defiant, honest light in his dark eyes extinguished instantly. His shoulders dropped, the rejection landing with physical force. He stood there for a long, agonizing moment, absorbing the brutal assessment from the man who knew all his darkest secrets.
“I see,” Julian whispered.
He took a step back, putting distance between himself and Edmund.
“After everything we have been through,” Julian said, his voice entirely devoid of its usual warmth. “After Naples. After the debt. After all of it… I thought you knew me better than that.”
Julian did not wait for a response. He did not raise his voice, nor did he offer a sarcastic parting remark. He simply turned on his heel and walked out of the drawing room. The door clicked softly shut behind him.
Edmund stood completely alone in the massive, opulent drawing room.
The fire crackled quietly in the grate. He looked down at the hearth, where the ashes of the anonymous letter lay scattered among the hot coals, gray and weightless.
He had built this entire masquerade to protect himself, to protect his family. And now, he stood amidst the wreckage of it all. His mother was upstairs, preparing to walk into a society trap. His best friend had been entirely betrayed by his cruel judgment.
And Corinna, the woman who had challenged him, who had seen straight through the performance to the man beneath, was sitting across the city, believing he was nothing more than a coward who had walked away when Cecily Vane snapped her fingers.
He felt entirely lost. The absolute inability to handle the colossal mess he had created pressed against his chest, making it difficult to breathe.
He looked at the ashes one last time.
I have to make it work, Edmund thought, a fierce resolution finally breaking through the panic. I have to find Corinna. I have to explain it to her. Before the truth shatters them all.