Although the sounds of the kitchen filtered in through the wall, soft murmuring and pots and pans clattering together, there was a faint sniffing. She searched the dark corners and found her sister sitting on a cloth-covered couch in the corner, her head in her hands. Saffron rushed across the room and grabbed her sister in a tight embrace.
“I thought I was doing the right thing,” Angelica whispered. “If I hadn’t, I never would have… Oh, Saffron. I’ve ruined everything. How do I fix this?”
A fierce protectiveness welled up in her chest, and she vowed to knock some sense into Mr. Mayweather the next time she saw him.
“I forgive you,” she said, hugging her sister closer. “It doesn’t matter what you’ve done. I will always forgive you.”
Angelica sighed. “It’s all my fault. I just wanted to be like you.”
Each word sliced at her heart. “What do you mean?”
Her sister grasped at her gown. “You and Lord Briarwood. I’ve seen the looks he gives you. I wanted what you have.” She shook her head. “I should have known it would not work. Simon is not like the viscount.”
She clutched her sister closer.
“I’ll explain everything to Aunt Rosemary. Mr. Mayweather won’t get away with this. I’m sure Lord Briarwood will help us.”
Angelica gave a hiccupping laugh. “What? No, sister. That’s not why…” She sniffed. “Well, I suppose this is Simon’s fault. He asked for my hand. I refused.”
Saffron stared at her sister, not understanding. “Why?” Mr. Mayweather wasn’t a duke, but neither did he seem to have the cruel streak that Canterbury possessed. “I thought you liked him.”
Angelica closed her eyes. “I did. I do. But he has spent each night since he arrived gambling, to earn enough of a fortune to support us. He nearly came to blows with Mr. Morgan over his winnings last night. I can’t let him continue risking everything for me.” She huffed, then opened her eyes. “I will marry His Grace, and I will make the best of it.”
“But if Basil is still alive, you might not need to marry.”
“Sister, there is noproof. You must end this obsession.” She turned a glare on Saffron. “Do not try to stop me, sister. I’ve made up my mind.”
Saffron’s throat was too choked with tears to respond. She settled for nodding, although she had no intention of allowing Angelica to sacrifice herself. If she could find proof that Basillived, Angelica would realize that she did not need to marry for money.BOOM.
The door flew open, and a scowling Leo rushed inside, dragging his cousin by the arm. Mr. Mayweather’s hair was tousled and there were bags beneath his eyes. It was as if the man had tumbled out of bed moments ago.
“Mr. Mayweather is prepared to marry your sister,” Leo said loudly. He released his cousin and shoved him forward. “I found him in the garden with a bottle of my best brandy.”
Mr. Mayweather met Saffron’s gaze and winced. “I-I tried to tell him, Miss Summersby, but he would not listen. Angelica—”
“I will be marrying the Duke of Canterbury,” Angelica said. She shot to her feet. “Please excuse me. I must tell Aunt Rosemary the good news.”
Chapter Nineteen
Saffron lit amatch and held it to the wick of a candle until it flickered to life. Then she placed it in a tarnished pewter candleholder she’d found in the kitchen and held it close to her face, inhaling the scent of beeswax.
Rosemary had been thrilled over Angelica’s decision, but Saffron was not yet willing to give up.
Somewhere in the house was a painting that was the star of the auction, and if her brother’s face was in it, that might convince her sister not to marry Canterbury.
She wavered between her lightest chemise, for greater freedom of movement in case she had to make a quick retreat, and a dark gown that would better hide her in the shadows. In the end, she slipped on the chemise, tying up the silk ribbons on the bodice into tight bows. Then she rummaged through her trunk and pulled out an old, woolen cloak, wrapping it around herself. At a glance, she might appear to be a member of the staff making their nightly rounds. In the unlikely event she was recognized, she could claim she was fetching a warm glass of milk.
Cupping one hand around the flame, she creaked open the door to her room, glancing either way up and down the hall before stepping out. The hallway was dark and her shadow cast by the candle was a ghostly specter on the wall. She palmed a letter opener from her writing desk and pulled the scratchy,woolen cloak tighter around herself. She could not be too careful. There had, after all, been a thief prowling around the estate, and an unaccompanied woman was a target to men of all social classes, rich and poor alike.
Her stockinged feet were silent on the floor as she ascended the stairs and began a methodical room by room search, skipping the occupied ones. Half of the rooms were lushly appointed, Mrs. Banting’s hand at work. The other half were filled with furniture covered in white sheets, like ghosts of the previous inhabitants.
What happened here?
She had never been inside a country house that was such a contradiction. It was as if, in his grief, the viscount had shuttered away the rooms that held memories he did not want to revisit.
She tugged open a heavy door and stepped inside. It was the last of the rooms on the wing. If the painting wasn’t hidden within, she would have to return to her bed.
A large bed dominated the space, surrounded by wooden posts and topped with a canopy. She searched for signs of life. The bedspread was smooth, no shape beneath the sheets. The dresser drawers were closed, the writing desk bare.
