Her dress consisted of multi-layers of satin, all trailing downwards from her waist to the floor. It was burgundy, with wide sleeves that ended with velvet and lace at the wrists.
Tossing her cape to Logan, he noted that it was accessorized with a hood. Made of a heavy velvet with a satin lining, there was nothing awry with it either.
Logan’s clipped tone conveyed his impatience. “What have I missed?”
“What have we missed?” Colin rubbed his chin. “I fail to find anything out of order.”
He glanced at his brother, who simply shrugged.
“First,” Victoria pointed to her hair, pinned up with a peacock clip. “This clip is sharp and your wives are prepared to stab anyone who threatens them.”
“Death by peacock,” Logan drawled.
Victoria narrowed her eyes. “You remain unimpressed. All right.” She walked over to the desk and reached for her fan. Standing beside Logan, she yanked the handle and held it to his throat. It was sharp.
“Each of our fans is embellished with a nail file. Your wife is prepared to use it to defend herself.”
Logan cleared his throat as Victoria released him before returning the sharp file to her fan handle. She pointed to the small group of flowers at her waist. “Our Tussie-Mussies are equipped with a rather long pin that can puncture the flesh.”
Logan’s eyes widened as Victoria continued in a quick staccato. “The folds of our skirts are hiding small but sharp scissors, our capes hide a few knives in the seams, and there is a dagger beneath each of our reticules. The fringe conceals them. Would you like me to continue?”
“I’ll be damned,” Colin laughed.
Logan exhaled a ragged breath. “Arabella—”
“Is prepared to defend herself,” Victoria assured him. “Eve and I have prepared your wife.”
There was no doubt in Logan’s mind that Eve was responsible for preparing the clothing. It was her business, after all. Unconventional as it may be, she owned her own seamstress business and it prospered under her watchful eye.
But, Logan’s instinct advised that Victoria was responsible for orchestrating this plan, for the weapons used, and preparing Arabella to stab someone if need be.
“Thank you,” he took Victoria’s hand, his tone deeper and more heartfelt than he intended. Clearing his throat, he squeezed her hand.
She nodded. “You are most welcome.”
“Did you know?” Colin asked his brother.
Tristan grinned. “No. Nevertheless, Victoria is spectacular. I have learned never to underestimate my wife.”
“Wise man,” Arabella quipped from the doorway.
Logan turned and the sight of his wife stole his very breath. He struggled to inhale, studying her with a pang of … would he ever get used to these feelings that overpowered him every time he saw her?
Unabashed adoration.
Pride that she is his wife.
Astonishment at her beauty, wit and warmth. At her ability to illuminate the dreariest of days with her smile.
Tonight she was resplendent, garbed in an amethyst-colored gown with matching reticule.
“I gather Victoria had enough time to inform you of our preparations?” Eve asked, her petite form weaving her way through the crowd to Colin.
“Yes,” her husband answered. “You are so clever. And beautiful.”
“I’m wearing your favorite color, green.” She spoke in a hushed whisper.
Colin’s voice could barely be heard. “I noticed.”
Arabella approached Logan. “Are you prepared for this evening?”
He took her hands in his. “Almost.” His gaze roamed their small group. “Thank you all for what you are doing for us”
“Why don’t we allow Logan and Arabella a moment?” Colin suggested.
The crowd seemed eager to depart, leaving husband and wife alone in the study.
“You are beautiful,” Logan caressed his wife’s cheek.
“I am also lethal now,” Arabella teased him with a wink. “Who is better suited for you?”
Logan splayed his hands around her waist. “No one. Just you. Always you.”
“I love you,” his wife whispered before claiming his lips with hers, her tongue seeking his.
The jolt of intimacy caused a tremor to shudder up his spine. This woman. This courageous, kind, wonderful woman loved him like he never thought possible.
Deepening their kiss, Logan’s hand trailed to the nape of her neck, where her silken flesh felt like silk beneath his fingertips.
His wife was too good to be true.
“I love you,” he was breathless, his tone raspy when he pulled away from her. “I will protect you.”
“We shall protect each other, my love,” Arabella laced her hands with his. “We are in this together. You and I. No matter what. We are a team. And I am strong. That woman who held a shard of glass to your throat on her first night at Winterthorne … that was me. I can protect myself. I will protect us and what we share. Never underestimate your wife, remember?”
“I will always remember,” he kissed her hair, the scent of lavender and vanilla, her scent, calming his taut nerves. “Though I know that you are brave and possess strength in abundance, please be vigilant tonight. For me. Be on guard at all times.”
Arabella leaned her cheek against his neck. “I promise to take care. You must make the same promise to me.”
Logan nodded. He would handle tonight with painstaking caution. He would guard his wife, ensuring that Arabella would return home with him, healthy and happy.
If it took everything in him, he would make sure Bella remained safe.
He loved this woman.
Would give his life for her without hesitation.
In the face of such danger and malevolence, their vows had taken on a new meaning.
Now and always …
Though Logan knew not how long he would remain on this earth, he would protect his wife until his dying breath.
Arabella would survive Sybil and her foes.
No sacrifice was too great.
No peril insurmountable.
No matter what, Arabella would survive. Of that, Logan was certain as together they faced the unknown danger that lurked within the shadows, threatening their future happiness.
“I love you,” he repeated. “Now and always.”
Until my last breath, he added silently.
His new oath. His promise, to himself.
Arabella will live.
Nothing else mattered.
The opulent vestibule of the Opera House was crowded, voices echoing against the marble like an orchestra reaching a crescendo. As Arabella and Logan proceeded with their group, she halted mid-step, certain that she had never before witnessed such splendor.
The grandeur of the shimmering gold ornaments and ornate cut glass chandeliers with glowing gas lamps illuminated the many guests clad in vibrant colors and sparkling jewels, the sizes and shapes of the stones varying in degrees of affluence.
Now Arabella understood Logan’s need to give her a large, oval-shaped amethyst betrothal ring surrounded by an ornate gold embellishment set with numerous small, round diamonds. Dangling from her ears and neck were the matching earrings and necklace that completed the magnificent set.
Much like Winterthorne and its many owners, the jewels held a history … they had once belonged to a Russian princess. Perfect symmetry, for that is what Arabella felt like, at this precise moment – a princess. Or at least what she imagined being one would feel like.
Some might find it odd that Arabella would be warmed by a sense of harmony, in spite of the threat she faced tonight. But not Bella. Because in spite of their plight, Logan treated her like she set the moon and hung the stars. Like she alone was the most important person on this earth. Because, for Logan, Arabella was.
And he wasn’t afraid to show it.
She turned to her husband, his pride and adoration etched in his proud features. Gleaming in eyes the col
or of sleek onyx. “This is breathtaking.”
“So are you,” he winked at her. “Still, remain vigilant. If you notice anyone or anything out of place—”
“You shall be the first I tell,” Bella smiled as they followed their party to their seats. Victoria had reserved a box near the stage, the prime location for them to study the crowd and to sit front and center, for all to see.
Though not officially open for the season, tonight marked a special performance. A famous composer introducing society to his latest work in progress. The opera devotees would be in attendance, thus it was of vital importance that Logan and Arabella appear. Though Sybil wasn’t a prominent soprano, she was infamous and many would recognize her, or her twin.
From what Logan told Arabella, her sister had remained in the chorus or in the wings. Never quite reaching the stardom she sought. She spent nights with men of a higher station in the hopes that they would propel her career, her place in society, but her schemes never materialized.
People began to stare at Arabella almost immediately, causing a jolt of apprehension to shoot up her spine, sending her every hair on end. She clutched her fan, the handle of the file cool and solid within her grasp.
It helped slow her rapid heartbeat, the weapon, her means to defend herself. As did Logan’s solid hand, placed firmly on her skirts above her thigh. No one in the crowd below would notice his palm, his silent show of support, but Bella felt it and that was enough to calm her.
Logan turned towards Colin. “Many who are staring already know who Arabella is,” he muttered low enough that only Arabella could hear. “They know she isn’t Sybil.”
“So, why do they continue to stare?” Colin asked, his whisper ragged, clearly unnerved.
The crowd carried cards. Cream-colored cards. Not a program. Stacks of the square-shaped cards traveled through the rows like foamy waves crashing against the shore in a rush. With each group who received and read the card, their eyes immediately turned upwards to Bella.
Victoria sat behind Arabella and tapped her on the shoulder. When Arabella turned, Tori smiled sweetly. “Pretend we are conducting a witty conversation about fashion, or jewels, or how pretentious that lot is. Just look at me and forget them.”
Though Victoria took great pains to conceal it, her tone was laced with apprehension.
What was happening?
What went wrong with their plan?
“I don’t understand,” Bella whispered, plastering a smile on her face. “What are they reading?”
Her friend laughed, as if Arabella had just narrated the most amusing of jokes. “Remain calm. We will sort this out.”
A man dressed in unknown livery entered their box, handing one of the cards to each member of their party.
Arabella clutched hers in her gloved hand, black ink staining the pristine, white fabric of her gloves. The ink was wet, hand written in an elaborate script. The headline, centered in large, curly letters, read Tales of the Ton.
“Is this the name of the gossip rag to which you referred?” Bella asked Victoria.
Victoria gasped. “No. Oh, no.”
While her eyes remained fixed upon the writing, the decorative words on the card swirled about Arabella’s brain.
A soprano’s sister has been wicked, thieving while none was the wiser.
Shall we guess what sin she will commit next, once the noose gets tighter?
Someone has blood on their hands but whose?
Like springtime daisies ending the winter pall; there will be more to follow, for I know all…
Arabella’s hands trembled. “Who would make such an accusation?”
Another memory, not a flash but rather a muted scene, one cloaked in darkness filled Arabella’s mind. The aroma of dirt intermingled with a metallic scent of blood wafting in the air, filling her nostrils as if fresh, like the ink on the page.
Closing her eyes, Bella’s heart raced as she lost herself in the black depths of oblivion and her sister’s voice.
“I have already pretended to be you, have I not?” Sybil laughed. “Poor dear. You haven’t a clue.”
“Must you bare your soul? What if she hears you?” It was a male’s tenor. One Arabella had never heard before.
Sybil sighed. “My sister is unconscious and will not live through this night. That is why I owe her an explanation.”
Sybil had smoothed Arabella’s hair from her face, the mere recollection causing Bella to flinch. She remembered that, at the time, she had silently instructed herself not to breathe, not to move, not to do anything that would reveal she was indeed awake.
“You have served your purpose, dear sister,” Sybil jeered in the darkness. “And now I will claim the role that I have been forever destined to fill … that of a star. It comes at your expense, but that cannot be helped.”
“Are you finished, Sybil?” The man’s impatience was mounting. “Why the need to give her your bracelet?”
Sybil touched the silver charm. “So, if she does awaken, Arabella will know who is responsible for her demise. Shall we depart, Faustino?”
“So begins our journey, cara mia,” the male added. Together they giggled, their voices growing more faint until Arabella succumbed to the darkness.
Arabella turned, her eyes seeking Logan’s. “Faustino … who is Faustino?”
“The composer for this evening,” Logan grasped her hand. “Faustino Beniamino.”
Faustino Beniamino.
The composer for tonight.
Sybil’s accomplice.
“Oh God, this is an ambush,” Arabella whispered to Logan, her rapid breathing increasing.
Logan’s eyes locked with hers, “Tell me. What have you remembered?”
“Sybil never wanted to be me,” An unnatural stillness befell them as the lights dimmed.
Victoria leaned forward, whispering, “Remember what you are concealing.”
Bella could not forget.
She clutched the handle of her fan with all her might, until she was certain her knuckles had turned white beneath the fabric of her gloves.
It wouldn’t help her now.
Not against what was about to occur in this theatre…
The orchestra began playing an Italian arrangement prompting the crowd to study the stage with rapt attention. The spotlight illuminated a lone figure, clad in an ebony, hooded cape. Slowly, the figure stepped onto the stage, out of the shadows from stage left.
Her voice began, an angelic sound, like the strings of a violin. The beauty of her voice was tinged with melancholy. She sang a haunting melody, someone whose face no one could yet discern.
Chills ran through Arabella’s veins.
The voice was familiar.
“Oh, dear God,” she whispered, just before the woman on stage removed her hood.
In that instant, the entire crowd gasped.
It was Arabella’s face on that stage.
As Sybil’s soprano reached a high note, she turned, meeting Bella’s gaze while her outstretched hands dripped with a crimson substance that pooled on the wooden planks beneath her feet.
Bloody hands.
Reaching for Arabella from the stage.
The eyes of the crowd followed, the audience now staring at Bella. Such was Sybil’s intention, of that Arabella was certain as she scrutinized her sister, whose heart-shaped lips were upturned in a malicious smirk, one she opted not to conceal.
Here, in this magnificent theatre, Bella realized that her sister had staged another show. Long before ever taking to this stage.
Sybil had convinced Arabella that she was stealing her life, all the while keeping her own. She must have convinced whoever she wronged that it was Arabella and not Sybil who committed the crime.
Now, she had exposed Arabella to the entire haut ton in the most dramatic fashion.
Yes, Sybil Sutton was a star at long last. A grand actress, she was perhaps the most underrated on all continents.
Her own sister was fooled for Arabella had steppe
d right into her trap yet again.
When will she ever learn?
As soon as all eyes returned to the stage spectacle, Arabella hurried out of the box, leaning against a wall in the hallway for support.
Breathe, she silently instructed herself. Just breathe.
She inhaled one ragged breath. Followed by a second, then a third as her frantic pulse pounded against her temples. Her sister’s high-pitched voice ebbing and flowing in her ears.
Sybil had outfoxed them.
Again.
How is it that my sister could be ahead of us at every turn? The answer winded Bella, though she and Logan had already discussed it. They remained at a disadvantage due to the fact that Arabella was devoid of most of her memories.
A chill wracked Arabella’s body as another phantom of her past came into focus. This one, another conversation with her sister, had occurred in their parents’ home on a blustery day when the frigid air radiating from the windowpanes caused Bella’s bones to ache.
“Years of practice,” Sybil had once said as Arabella watched the snowflakes drift from the ominous gray clouds above, the landscape glistening with a pristine white power. Untouched by man.
“Pardon?” Arabella had asked, placing her forehead against an icy pane of glass. “Practicing what?”
“Being anyone I want. That will bring me wealth, fame, and everything I desire.” Sybil fluffed a drab pillow on the sofa, scowling. “That is what will allow me to escape this life I was born into. I will practice and I will plot.”
Bella noted that her sister’s eyes were vacant, bereft of humor, bereft of compassion. “Plot what, Sybil?”
Even at that juncture, a surge of panic shot up Arabella’s spine. “What do you plan on doing?”
“You will see. Someday.” Sybil smiled, as if all was right with the world. “Everyone will see.”
“Are you well?” Logan’s baritone sliced through the chill borne by memories and realization.
Arabella met his eyes, which were the same color as his pupils. She then noticed the vein pulsating in his neck.
Neither was a good sign.
The Wolf of Winterthorne: Scandalous Secrets, Book 4 Page 17