by Anna Bennett
He gave a curt nod. “Please.”
“It concerns a maid that worked here at Warshire Manor—up until a few months ago. Her name is Miss Violet Darby, and she’s with child. She should deliver the baby in another month or so.”
“I don’t recall meeting her. She must have left before I returned.” Reese frowned. “Is she ill?”
“No. She’s doing quite well, physically, but I thought you should know that the father…” Sophie hesitated, unable to make her mouth form the words.
Reese searched her face, confused. “Is he one of my staff? If he’s harmed her in any way, or if he’s refusing to do right by her or the child, I swear he’ll answer to me.”
“It’s not one of the staff,” she said soberly. “The babe’s father is … Edmund.”
Chapter 29
“Edmund?” Reese repeated, incredulous. There was no way on God’s green earth that his brother—his honorable, principled, upstanding brother—had fathered a child out of wedlock. “Impossible. There must be some misunderstanding.”
Sophie placed a hand on his forearm. “I’m afraid not, Reese. It’s the truth.”
He raked his fingers through his hair, beyond agitated. The serenity of the garden where they stood was no match for the anger that simmered in his chest. “This woman,” he spat, “Miss Darby, was it?—has no right to spread salacious rumors about my brother. She’s sullying his name, knowing full well he’s unable to defend himself.”
Sophie swallowed. “I realize this must come as shock, but Violet is a trusted friend. I don’t believe she’d lie about something like this. In fact, she was reluctant to say who the father was until…”
“Until what?” he prodded.
“Until she realized I had a connection to you.”
“What a coincidence.” He didn’t bother to mask his sarcasm. “It sounds like your friend saw an opportunity and is trying to take full advantage.”
Sophie’s pretty eyes clouded with confusion—and hurt. “What are you suggesting?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” he snapped. “Miss Darby is trying to profit off of my brother’s untimely demise. She intends to blackmail me.”
“No,” Sophie said, clearly horrified. “She’s never asked for anything. That is, I know her family doesn’t have much and would be grateful for assistance, but she’s not the sort of person who’d falsely accuse another for financial gain.”
“Then why are you here, telling me this right now?” he challenged.
Her chin trembled, but she quickly composed herself. “I thought you’d want to know.”
Damn it, none of this made any sense. Edmund had not been the type of man who’d dally with a woman in his employ. He’d been a gentleman of the highest order—upstanding, moral, and true. And now, Miss Darby was attempting to smear his good name by making an allegation that was impossible to disprove.
Reese looked away from Sophie—and the undisguised disappointment in her eyes. “Your friend has made a miscalculation,” he said, his voice harsh and cold to his own ears.
“Violet thought that Edmund cared for her,” Sophie said, insistent. “But when she told him she was with child, he fired her.”
“My brother would never do that,” he said. He’d known Edmund better than anyone. He’d been the rule follower—the one who’d studied Latin all summer instead of going fishing, the one who’d ensured his sotted friends made it home after a wild night of carousing, the one who’d never cheated at cards. Edmund would never take advantage of a pretty young maid. He couldn’t have.
Because if he had, everything Reese thought he knew about the world was wrong. Completely upside-down. Edmund had been the constant, his compass, the guiding presence in his life.
Shit. Reese felt like he was backsliding. All the strides he’d made over the last couple of weeks, with Sophie’s help, were being swallowed up by anger. And now it seemed that the huge boulder he’d been pushing up the hill was on the verge of rolling backward, threatening to crush him under its immense weight.
“I will not allow Miss Darby to malign my brother or extort money from me,” he said coldly. “Feel free to pass that message along to her.”
“Reese,” Sophie whispered hoarsely. “I didn’t mean for the evening to go like this. I’m sorry that the news about Edmund upset you, but Violet doesn’t deserve your anger … nor do I.”
Guilt, sharp and fierce, stabbed him like a bayonet, and some of his fury bled out. He stalked to the reflecting pool and stared into the water. Darkness stared back. “You’re right.”
The rage and hurt still swirled inside him, but the truth was that neither Sophie nor Violet was to blame.
He reached down in the flowerbed near the water and plucked a purple flower with daisy-like petals. His heart in his throat, he handed it to her. “Forgive me, Soph.”
With trembling fingers she took the flower by the stem and lifted it to her nose. “An aster,” she said.
“A peace offering,” he replied, forcing a smile. “I will think about all you’ve said.” Just not now. He was fighting the urge to flee even as he spoke. He couldn’t remain there and hear one more word against his brother. Not when he was already reeling from losing Sophie.
“I understand,” she said calmly. She stood in the garden against a backdrop of lush greenery, colorful blossoms, and sparkling water, but none of it could compare to her beauty, strength, and goodness. “I know you, Reese. And I believe in you. I always have.”
“I need to go,” he choked out. “Would you like to come inside to wait for the coach?”
“No. I’ll stay here for a little while and meet the coach out front.” She sighed wistfully. “I’m going to miss this place. But mostly I’m going to miss you.”
Not trusting himself to speak, Reese slipped the aster from her fingers and tucked it behind her ear, where the violet petals shimmered like amethysts in her pale blond hair. Slowly, he brushed his thumb across her lower lip, and when she opened her mouth slightly, he kissed her—slowly, madly, passionately—until he couldn’t bear it any longer.
Gasping, he broke off the kiss, turned, and strode away.
* * *
“How are plans for the ball coming along?” Fiona asked.
“Hmm?” Sophie looked up from the stack of sketches she’d been sifting through, hoping to find one suitable for next week’s column.
Lily set down her pen and glided across her sister’s studio, her green eyes narrowed shrewdly. “Your engagement ball,” she said, arching a dark brow. “In case you’ve forgotten, it’s only a week away.”
Sophie pretended to study a lovely drawing of a couple picnicking in the countryside in order to avoid looking directly at either Lily or Fiona, who were both far too perceptive. “I haven’t forgotten. Lord Singleton—er, Charles—is attending to the details. I think he wishes to surprise me.”
“How romantic,” Fiona said kindly, clearly trying to summon enthusiasm for the event and, moreover, Sophie’s impending betrothal.
“It’s very thoughtful of him,” she agreed. Turning to Lily, she said, “Tell me again—what do you plan to write about this week?”
Lily wrinkled her nose as if Sophie’s blatant attempt to change the subject carried a distinctly foul odor. “We don’t have to discuss the ball if you’d rather not,” she said smoothly. “But I hope you’ve at least given some thought as to what you’ll wear.”
“I’ll find something in my armoire, I’m sure,” Sophie said, nonchalant. Her emotions were scraped raw after her meeting with Reese last night, and despite her friends’ attempts to cheer her, she couldn’t forget the haunted look in his eyes just before he’d kissed her—and walked away. “I don’t think my gown will change the course of the evening, in any event,” Sophie mused.
Lily gasped as if the offhand comment had been blasphemy of the first order. “A pretty gown can work small miracles, Soph. Perhaps that should be the subject of this week’s column,” she said, smirking. “We could have a bit
of fun with that.”
“We certainly could,” Fiona said. “But I think perhaps we should use this week’s column to respond to some of the column’s detractors.”
“Oh no,” said Sophie. “Has there been another letter to the editor?” There had been two rather incendiary letters printed in the past week, both written by gentlemen who objected to the content of The Debutante’s Revenge.
Fiona placed a folded newspaper on the desk in front of Sophie. “I’m afraid so. In this one, a gentleman asserts that since his wife began reading the column she has become ‘considerably less docile and submissive.’”
“Heaven forfend,” Lily said dryly.
Fiona winced. “He also blames the column for her tendency to ‘whisper with her lady friends and make jokes at his expense.’”
Lily clucked her tongue blithely. “Goodness, he sounds as delicate as a flower.”
Sophie quickly scanned the letter, raising her brows at the final jab. “He concludes by calling The Debutante’s Revenge ‘the work of a devious and deranged witch who wishes to cast her wicked spell over London’s most impressionable and fragile population.’”
“What? That’s absurd and insulting!” Lily crossed her arms, clearly incensed. “If you ask me, the author of that letter—I shan’t call him a gentleman—doesn’t deserve to be acknowledged with a response.”
“Normally, I would agree with you,” Sophie said, “but there has been a rising tide of malice directed at the column lately. Several members of the Debutante Underground have mentioned that their fathers, brothers, or husbands have recently forbid them to read it. Maybe it’s time we directly addressed the hatred.”
For several seconds, Lily paced, clearly fuming. Then she stopped abruptly, turning to her sister and Sophie. “Yes,” she said, with a sudden, chilling calm. “We will respond forcefully and unapologetically. This week’s column will produce one of two outcomes. It will either silence the opposition to our column, or…”
“Or?” Sophie asked as gooseflesh rose on her arms.
Lily rubbed her palms together. “Or it will whip them into such a frenzy that they’ll expose themselves as the small, hypocritical, unenlightened heathens they are.”
Sophie and Fiona glanced at each other and shrugged. Sophie almost felt sorry for the poor saps who were about to face the wrath of Lily’s pen—almost.
“What sort of drawing would be appropriate to accompany the column you intend to write?” Fiona asked.
Lily pressed a finger to her lips, thoughtful.
“I have an idea,” Sophie ventured, rising to her feet. When her friends looked at her expectantly, she said. “What if we were to embrace the label of witch? Why not claim it and make it our own?”
Fiona’s blue eyes turned distant and dreamy—as though she were picturing the sketch in her mind’s eye. “Yes,” she said softly. “I believe I can work with that.”
Lily joined Sophie and Fiona and took one of their hands in each of hers, forming an intimate circle. “I think it’s very fitting that we’re doing something special for our last column with Sophie.”
“As do I,” said Fiona. “Do you remember the day we first toasted to the debutante diaries? We joined hands just like this and vowed we’d write down our most intimate thoughts about our first seasons. It wasn’t that long ago … but look at how our lives have changed since then.”
Sophie remembered that day—the headiness of setting out on a bold new adventure, the naïve confidence that love would prevail in the end. For Fiona and Lily, love had prevailed.
Two out of three wasn’t bad, she supposed.
As though privy to her thoughts, Lily gazed at Sophie, her gorgeous green eyes flashing like she was … well, a witch. “Never underestimate the power of the diaries,” she said solemnly. “There may be a little magic left in them yet.”
Chapter 30
Reese bolted upright in bed, sweating and shivering at the same time. His blood pounded in his ears, and his chest heaved like he’d sprinted up twenty flights of stairs.
Christ. He dragged his hands down his face, scrubbing his eyes as if that could erase the remnants of his nightmare—one that had been different from the usual terrifying visions, but equally as haunting.
He’d seen Sophie’s beautiful face reflected in the pool at the base of the waterfall, her eyes so full of sadness that his throat ached. But then the water rippled, she vanished into the depths, and Edmund’s face appeared in her place.
Memories of his brother flashed on the pool’s surface: holding the reins as he drove his curricle, laughing each time he hit a bump on the rutted road. Making a toast at the head of the dinner table, charming everyone in the room with his wit. Embracing Reese and slapping his shoulders on the morning he’d left for the army, keeping a stiff upper lip as they said goodbye.
But then the water darkened. Edmund was riding his horse toward the woods, a hunting rifle strapped to his hip. Reese tried to call out to him, but the words wouldn’t come. Oblivious, Edmund charged into the forest, and the menacing trees wrapped their gnarled branches around him, sucking him in like a tentacled sea monster. Reese plunged his hand into the pool, reaching for his brother, desperate to pull him out.
But the ground beneath him started to shake, and the sky turned blood red.
A sinister crack, a deafening shot, rang through the air.
And Reese cried out, knowing he was too late.
He’d woken in a panic, the sheets tangled around his waist and his heart thumping with the force of a blacksmith’s hammer.
Groaning, he freed himself from the bedclothes, padded to the window, and shoved open the curtains. The late-afternoon sun slanted across the garden, creating harsh shadows everywhere he looked. It was hard to believe that only the night before, he and Sophie had lain together by the waterfall, as close as two people could be.
But everything had unraveled after that.
Reese couldn’t stop thinking about his brother and what Sophie had said about him. That he’d seduced a maid and gotten her with child. The idea that his honorable, upstanding brother would have done such a thing was inconceivable.
But the sinking, sickening feeling in Reese’s gut wouldn’t go away. And it whispered to him that maybe—just maybe—he hadn’t known his brother as well as he thought he did.
He hastily pulled on trousers and a shirt, then went to the washbasin and splashed cool water on his face. Though he was tempted to ring for Gordon and request a glass of whiskey, he resisted. Instead, he walked to his dresser and picked up the brass key.
The one he’d found on his pillow on the night he’d returned home from Portugal. His valet hadn’t been able to say who had left the key on Reese’s bed or what it might unlock; neither had any of the staff.
But Reese did have an inkling—and he couldn’t ignore it any longer.
Taking a deep breath, he strode out of his bedchamber and down the hall to the master suite that still held Edmund’s things. He slowly swung the door open, bracing himself for an onslaught of memories, emotion, and pain.
He swallowed and entered, half expecting his brother to strut out of the adjoining dressing room, shoot him a sardonic grin, and ask Reese how his cravat looked. But the room was unnaturally still and the memories were … oddly comforting.
Reese stood in the center of the room for a minute or so, giving himself time to breathe and appreciate the mementos strewn about the room—his brother’s favorite beaver hat sitting on the bureau, an Egyptian vase that he’d brought back from his Grand Tour on the nightstand, a stilted but nonetheless cherished family portrait hanging on one wall.
Reese turned the key over and over till it was warm in his palm.
And then he went to the large trunk at the foot of Edmund’s bed. He lifted the lid, which was unlocked, and pushed aside a folded velvet quilt, a heavy wool greatcoat, and two gleaming pairs of Hessian boots. There, at the bottom, he spotted what he’d been looking for—a small mahogany chest with a
brass lock.
He pulled it out, closed the trunk, and sat on top of it, placing the wooden box on his lap. Edmund had used it to store his most prized possessions. Not the most valuable things, which were secured in the safe downstairs, but the most precious. He’d once opened the chest and shown Reese a few of the items inside: a handkerchief their mother had embroidered, a single cuff link that had belonged to their father, and an old snuffbox he’d won in a wager at Eton.
Before Reese could lose his nerve, he tried the key in the lock. A chill skittered up his spine as the lock clicked, then turned.
His heart racing, he pushed back the hinged lid and peered inside. As expected, the chest contained an odd assortment of keepsakes, but Reese’s eyes went directly to a folded note sitting on top—with his name written on the outside in his brother’s hand.
Panic clawed at Reese’s spine and raised the hairs on the back of his neck. Every instinct yelled for him to slam the chest shut, lock it, and throw the key in the moat surrounding the garden.
But then he thought about Sophie and the faith she had in him. He thought about the way she looked at him, so calm and trusting, like she believed he was capable of overcoming anything.
Swallowing, he set the chest aside, picked up the note, and opened it.
Dear Reese,
Forgive me for leaving without saying goodbye in person. I’ve done something reprehensible and am beyond ashamed. I can’t bring myself to transcribe my sins in pen and ink, so I will simply say this: if Miss Violet Darby should seek you out, please tell her that I’m sorry. Provide her whatever assistance she needs. And, above all, be kind to her, because—to my everlasting shame—I was not.
I leave our estate and family name in your capable hands. I wish that our finances were not in such disarray, but I know you will soon right matters. Do not doubt yourself, brother, for the strength of your character has always surpassed mine. You are braver, more resilient, and more compassionate than I have ever been.