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.
I regret I must leave you, but I know that you will lead a long, happy, and meaningful life. That is my wish for you, Reese—that you’ll stop running from your demons. That you’ll find the peace I could not.
Your loving and remorseful brother,
Edmund
Reese’s stomach clenched and his hands trembled as he read the letter again, trying to come to grips with the words Edmund had written. He hadn’t died in a hunting accident.
Jesus, Reese should have known. The details of the day Edmund died had been sketchy at best, but the staff said his brother had ridden out that morning alone. Given that he’d been an experienced hunter and excellent marksman, an accident was highly unlikely.
But maybe Reese hadn’t really wanted to know the truth. He hated to think of how much Edmund must have suffered in his final days—and, moreover, of how much suffering he must have caused Violet. He hated that his brother had been so alone and ashamed and closed-minded that he hadn’t believed there was any way out of his predicament. That he hadn’t felt that he had any choice but to take his own life.
Reese dropped his head in his hands and cried—for Edmund, for Violet, and the babe that his brother would never meet.
Raw sobs racked his body, but for once, he didn’t bother trying to hold them back. He let the pain crash over and flow through him till some of its power diminished and all that was left was sadness.
And an unexpected, newfound sense of purpose.
Because Edmund had been wrong. His brother, for all his intellect, had failed to see the truth of his situation. He hadn’t realized that he did have another choice. That there was always another choice. And Reese knew exactly what he needed to do.
He returned to his bedchamber and rang for Gordon. When the valet appeared in the doorway, Reese gestured to the armchair across from his own. “Will you join me for a moment?”
Gordon frowned, but sat. “Is everything all right, my lord?”
“Not really.” Reese heaved a sigh and steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “I’d like you to tell me everything you know about Miss Violet Darby, who, I understand, once worked here.”
“Violet?” The valet’s spine snapped straight, as though he was instantly on guard. “Why would you want to know about her?”
“I’ve recently learned that she’s with child and might be in need of assistance. I’m hoping you can give me her address because … I want to help.”
Next Friday morning at breakfast, Mary casually opened the London Hearsay, and Sophie’s heart began to trip. She hadn’t seen the final version of the column Lily wrote and delivered to the paper, nor had she seen Fiona’s sketch.
But she did know that both women had intended to make a statement in this week’s edition.
She resisted the urge to snatch the paper from her sister’s hands, and, instead, asked, “What’s the topic of today’s Debutante Revenge?”
Mary raised a fair brow. “Oh, I’d quite forgotten that a new column appears in the paper today. I was looking for the fashion pages.”
Sophie refrained from rolling her eyes—barely. She knew that Mary enjoyed the column as much as anyone. Her sister simply refused to admit it.
“Give the column to Sophie, then, so she can read it to us,” Mama instructed, briskly stirring cream into her tea. “Her engagement ball tomorrow night is a particularly momentous event; perhaps this week’s edition will have some pertinent advice.”
Sophie cast Mama a skeptical glance as Mary sullenly handed over the paper. She opened it to the column expecting one of Fiona’s gorgeously romantic drawings.
But the image was strikingly different. The sketch, much larger than usual, took up half of the newspaper page. In it, three barefoot women wearing half masks and long, flowing gowns danced around a bubbling cauldron. The first woman held an artist’s palette in one hand and paintbrush in the other, pointing it like a rapier. The second wielded a large feather quill near her shoulder as though it were a dueling pistol and she was about to pace off. The third outstretched her palm to reveal a seed that had sprouted into a lovely flowering vine.
Dear Lord. Fiona had skillfully hidden their identities, and yet, Sophie had never felt so exposed.
“Goodness.” She looked up at her mother’s and sister’s expectant faces. “Today’s sketch is quite different from the usual fare,” she said, hoping she sounded nonchalant.
“Just read the column,” Mary said, slightly annoyed. “Mama and I shall look at the illustration later.”
“Very well.” Sophie cleared her throat and began.
Dear Debutantes,
When a gentleman accuses you of being a witch, he is unwittingly acknowledging the considerable power that you possess.
Sadly, some men will feel threatened by that power and attempt to undermine you with dubious claims about your character. Some may try to sabotage your efforts to gain knowledge. Some may forbid you to discuss and share your ideas.
Do not be intimidated.
A man who disparages you does so because of his own insecurities and because—oh, how shall I put this delicately, dear readers?—because he may not measure up in other regards.
It gives me no pleasure to say this. Indeed, I think it safe to say that it gives no one pleasure. However, you should know that a gentleman’s derogatory comments have much less to do with your faults than they do with his own—pray, forgive me again, dear readers!—rather sensitive shortcomings.
But all hope is not lost. There are plenty of confident, strong, and capable men who will encourage you in your pursuits and celebrate your triumphs. Seek a partner who will not be threatened by your power, but instead, be in awe of it … and of you.
In the meantime, embrace your power. Cast your spells. Follow your dreams.
And never, ever apologize for who you are.
Sophie’s cheeks were burning by the time she read the last sentence. She looked up from the paper to see Mama’s eyes had grown wide as saucers. Mary stared blankly. “Nothing very instructive in there,” she said, biting into her toast. “Why on earth are you blushing, Sophie?”
“I’m not certain,” she lied.
“Perhaps it’s best if you don’t show us the accompanying drawing,” Mama said, before taking a fortifying sip of tea. “Now then. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you girls how important tomorrow night’s ball shall be. Come Sunday morning, everyone will be talking about Lord Singleton’s ball—and his betrothal to Sophie. We must not give the gossips any reason to ridicule us.”
Sophie reached over and patted her mother’s thin, pale hand. “Forgive me for saying so, Mama, but the gossips are likely to find fault in something we do. Even if our manners are flawless, they will misconstrue a word or gesture and invent a faux pas in their imaginations.”
“Perhaps,” Mama said, frown lines creasing her forehead. “But I’d prefer that we not make it too easy for them. I, for one, will ensure that your father is well rested and in good form.”
Sophie nodded gratefully, for she knew the task of keeping Papa relatively sober would require a great deal of time and effort, including hiding some spirits and watering down the rest.
“Mary,” Mama continued, her tone uncharacteristically stern, “you shall wear your prettiest gown, pretend to enjoy yourself, and dance at least three sets.”
Mary gasped as though their mother’s request was on par with one of Hercules’ labors. “But Mama,” she said, “what if no gentleman asks me to dance?”
“If you keep your distance from the potted palms and manage to smile once or twice, you’ll have your choice of dance partners. I’m sure of it.”
When Mary gave a pathetic cough and opened her mouth to protest, Mama cut her off at the pass. “You haven’t been ill in a long time, Mary. Your sister is marrying Lord Singleton so that your father will not go to debtors’ prison and so that you and I do not become destitute. Considering the sacrifice Sophie’s making for us, I don’t think it’s too much to ask that you fill your dance card at the ball.”
Sophie and Mary sat there, momentarily stunned. Never before had Sophie heard her mother speak to her sister so sharply. And she’d never heard Mama explicitly acknowledge what the marriage would cost Sophie.
She supposed that hearing her sister finally being held to account should have been satisfying, but instead the conversation left Sophie feeling unbearably sad and bereft.
She couldn’t help thinking about Reese and the life that might have been theirs. Couldn’t help remembering how safe and happy she’d felt in his arms.
Her eyes stung as she glanced at the folded newspaper on the table, open to Fiona’s clever depiction of their intrepid trio. She’d drawn Sophie with her hip cocked and a wicked, self-assured gleam in her eyes. Unapologetically bold, confident, and powerful, the woman on the paper staring back at her could have been the goddess of nature, and the mistress of all that grew and bloomed.
Sophie was humbled to think that her friend had imagined her that way.
But the truth was that Sophie barely recognized the woman in the drawing—and with every day that passed, she became more of a stranger.