29
Later, Iris promised herself as they hurried downstairs, she would hold those words close and pore over them to her heart’s content.
And there would be a later, she was certain of it, in a future that was suddenly looking more hopeful than it ever had before.
For now, they had something pressing to conclude: namely, the final nail in Lord Durand’s proverbial coffin of deceit.
The hallways were nearly empty by the time they made it to the ground floor, the last of the guests being directed to the courtyard at the back of the house. It must be time for Lord Durand’s speech. Her lips curled in a tight smile. Their timing could not be better.
It was an easy thing for her and Oliver to blend in with the crowd, that sea of expensively dressed people all vying for places in the stone courtyard.
There were one or two curious looks as they slipped through the milling people, no doubt due to the bags slung over their shoulders, heavy with books and papers, that bumped into the guests they passed.
Or mayhap it was because of the air of anger that hung about her like a shroud.
She should school her features to something more calm, more affable.
People often did not feel comfortable witnessing excessive emotions.
But in this moment she had no wish to hide them. She wanted to feed them, allow them to flourish, like a well-tended hothouse plant, so she might not lose the courage it would take to give Lord Durand his much-deserved comeuppance.
Finally they made it to the front of the crowd. A dais had been erected, bathed in the light of the lanterns strung above it. And there, on the far side, a table containing the hybrid specimens she had seen upon her visit to the place, those offspring of her mother’s hard work.
She must have made a noise at the sight of them, for Oliver’s hand was suddenly on her shoulder, giving it a comforting squeeze. She looked up at him, letting his steady, certain gaze bolster her.
“I can do this,” she said, proud that her voice warbled only slightly.
He smiled. “I know you can, love.”
There was a slight disturbance just off to the side of them, and the crowd parted to allow a tall, rail-thin gentleman through.
Iris stared as he climbed the stairs, memories coming back to her of him visiting her home when Iris had been young, patting her head and giving her a bag of sweets.
What was his name? Clifton? No, Clifford, Sir Frederick Clifford.
Iris felt the stirrings of betrayal for this man she could hardly remember, who had been friends with her mother and now was supporting the very man who had stolen her life’s work.
“Good evening, good evening,” he said, booming voice at odds with his sickly appearance.
He smiled widely, waving at someone in the crowd before signaling everyone to quiet.
“This is quite the event, isn’t it? We must thank Lord Durand for gathering together such a number of our illustrious members of the botanical community.
And for such an impressive feat as well.
But I digress. Lord Durand, the stage is yours. ”
About Iris, clapping and murmurs of approval erupted.
But the sudden din did not have her panicking.
No, now it gave clarity to her determination, those sounds that should have been gifted to her mother in her lifetime but were instead being lauded on her nemesis.
And then Lord Durand himself was striding toward the platform, a look of such arrogance on his face that she was nearly blinded with rage.
Before she could reconsider, she leaped forward, marching for the stairs to the dais.
Out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of Oliver stepping into Lord Durand’s path, preventing the man from moving forward.
But she hardly registered it for how focused she was on ascending the steps, making her way across the raised dais, taking her place near the table of specimens.
A focus that could not withstand actually being out in front of all those hard, judging eyes once she turned to look out over the sea of elegant guests.
Her determination faltered, and she felt her uncertainty return, that beast that always dragged her down, shrinking her into something small and unobtrusive so no one would notice her.
Until she looked Oliver’s way. He stood with arms outstretched, Lord Durand peering around him with a confused expression.
Oliver’s gaze, however, was certain and steady on her.
He saw her for who she was, and believed in her wholeheartedly.
It gave her strength, that look, and made her realize she was not the same person she had been.
Or rather, she was now who she was supposed to have been all along.
Feeling a new and welcome steel run down her spine, she straightened her shoulders and faced the crowd.
“Beckett, what the hell do you think you’re about?” Durand demanded. He peered around Oliver. “And what is Mrs. Shaw doing there?”
Oliver did not bother answering, keeping his body between Lord Durand and the dais.
All the while his whole attention was on Iris.
He saw the moment her certainty faltered, the very second her confidence slipped, to be replaced by a bone-deep fear.
Her face paled beneath her stage makeup, her eyes going wide and unfocused, her body beginning to curl in on itself.
Look at me , he begged silently. I’m here for you. You aren’t alone.
By some miracle she heard the words of his heart, her wild gaze searching for and finding him. He watched as her fear melted away. Her eyes bored into his, the strength in them making his heart swell with pride. And then she turned to face the crowd.
“Oh, I see,” Durand said. He chuckled. “Mrs. Shaw wishes to make a speech as well, and she has gotten your help to do it. The sly minx. Though it is not in my plans, I suppose I can make an exception. She has come out of her reclusiveness and traveled all this way, after all.”
Iris reached into the bag slung over her shoulder and pulled out the journals, with their moss-green covers and gilt vines, holding them high over her head.
A murmur started up, the guests confused but not alarmed in any way.
Durand, on the other hand, could not fail to comprehend that something was not right, proven by the strangled sound that escaped his lips.
“You are all here to celebrate Lord Durand’s great accomplishment ,” Iris said in a carrying voice, the slight warble in it only giving it strength.
“You believe this man”—she motioned to Durand—“was successful in crossing Bellis perennis with Jacobaea vulgaris . And in a way he has been. But only because he stole Joanne Fenwick’s papers and journals after her death, taking advantage of her life’s work. ”
The confused murmur of the crowd grew, the mass of them beginning to shift as they pressed closer to the front, the better to see what was happening on the raised dais.
Iris, however, gained strength from it as she continued, her voice becoming more even, more certain.
“Mrs. Fenwick spent the final decade of her life researching the very same hybrids you see here. Her work was stolen shortly after her death, and a fire set to cover the theft. These journals, discovered just now with the rest of her work in Lord Durand’s private suite, is proof of that theft. He is lying to you all.”
“Glenny!” a man bellowed from the crowd. “What are you talking about?”
“I am not Glenny—er, Mrs. Glennis Shaw,” Iris replied before, with shaking fingers, she reached up and pulled off the wig, exposing her closely pinned curls. “My name is Iris Rumford. I am Joanne Fenwick’s daughter.”
The sound from the crowd became a low roar, the mass of bodies undulating in a kind of feral excitement as the full scope of what they were hearing became clear.
But none was so agitated as Durand, who was finally understanding the irreversible devastation that was being done to his reputation.
He lunged at Oliver in an attempt to get past him, a bellow of rage tearing from his lips.
But Oliver would be damned if he’d let this worm get to Iris.
He braced his feet, spreading his arms wider.
Which only enraged Durand further. The man screeched, hands balling in Oliver’s coat front.
“What the hell do you think you’re about, Beckett?”
“I’m finally doing the right thing,” he bit out.
“You bastard,” Durand snarled. “You’re through. Do you hear me? Your family will starve because of you. Your sister will have to prostitute herself just to survive—”
The words were cut off on a garble of sound as Oliver landed his fist in the man’s face. Durand stumbled back, his hip colliding with a planter, hand cradling his jaw. He stared incredulously at Oliver.
“You punched me,” he said, as if he could not quite believe it himself.
“Oh, that was not a punch,” Oliver drawled. “If I had punched you, truly punched you, you would not wake for the next week. But I did not want you to miss what’s to come.”
He smiled at the man, more a baring of teeth than anything. Durand, eyes wide in alarm, retreated several steps before screaming, “Someone take this man into custody. He has attacked a member of the aristocracy.”
But whatever help the earl had thought to receive was not there. Instead, he was met with the furious glares of a dozen men.
“You stole from Joanne?” one demanded.
“I always knew you were a pile of manure,” another snarled, “but this is low even for you.”
The rest joined in, their outrage growing in volume as they closed ranks about him.
But Oliver no longer gave a damn what might happen to the man.
No, there was just one person on his mind: Iris.
He turned, eyes searching for her closely pinned blond curls.
And he saw them—a moment before she collapsed out of view.
He broke through the crowd, leaped onto the dais, and ran to Iris’s side. She was sitting in the middle of the platform, her shoulders bent and head bowed. His heart stuttered at the sight of her.
“Iris,” he breathed, hands cradling her cheeks, raising her face—only to find her smiling through tears.
“I did it, Oliver,” she said, the words broken, barely intelligible over the noise from the crowd. “My mother’s soul can finally be at rest.”
“You did it, love,” Oliver murmured as, finally overcome with the emotions raging through her, she collapsed sobbing in his arms.