He stared at her, chest heaving, fury burning bright. “You truly hate me.”
“With everything I have,” she said. “You took everything from me.”
His lips curled, bitter to the last. “I was never sorry. Nor am I now.”
Then he turned the pistol on himself and pulled the trigger.
The deafening crack split the air. Rose’s knees buckled, and she stumbled backward as Wentworth crumpled to the floor. Sebastian lunged forward instinctively, catching her elbow as the acrid smell of gunpowder filled the room.
“Christ,” Hale breathed, his face gone ashen. He pressed his back against the wall, hands shaking.
From the corridor came a woman’s scream, followed by running footsteps and frantic voices. Stephens cursed viciously under his breath as he knelt beside the body, then stood with blood on his hands.
“He’s gone,” he said, fury tight in his voice. “The bastard robbed us of justice.”
Rose drew in a sharp, shuddering breath. Her composure wavered for just a moment—a single tear sliding down her cheek before she wiped it away with trembling fingers. “Good,” she whispered, but her voice cracked on the word.
Sebastian’s chest constricted as memories of his own father’s violent end crashed over him. The relief he’d expected felt hollow, tainted by the horror of witnessing another death. He wanted to pull Rose close, to shield her from all of it, but she stepped away from his steadying touch.
Hale swallowed hard, his voice rough. “Lizzie can rest now.”
“Not yet,” Rose said. Sebastian noticed her hands clenched so tightly he feared her nails would draw blood in her palms. “Not until we find Hargrave.” She lifted her chin, though her face remained deathly pale. “And we will do so, won’t we, Constable?”
“We will, my lady.” Stephens dipped his chin, still scowling at the body that had denied him his prisoner.
“And now I must care for my staff,” Rose said, her voice steadier now but chilling all the same. “They will no doubt be frightened and bewildered.”
She turned from the study without a backward glance, stepping carefully around the spreading dark stain on the carpet.
Sebastian watched her go, the woman he had come to love walking away from him without a word. The violence of the moment had shattered something between them—he could see it in the way she held herself apart. A heaviness settled in his chest. She would not want him now. Even if she loved him, he would forever be connected to her mother’s and father’s deaths.
He’d gotten what he wanted, and yet he felt nothing but an aching, empty sadness.
Chapter Eighteen
Rose stepped outof the study and into a corridor buzzing with whispers. A few remaining guests were making for the front door, valets scrambling to collect cloaks and hats. Footmen moved through the hall with quiet urgency, guiding people toward the exits with murmured apologies.
Rose kept walking.
As she passed the ballroom, she caught sight of lingering guests craning their necks, murmuring behind gloved fingers, men standing stiffly, pretending not to stare. The orchestra had long since packed up, the tables sat half-cleared, glasses still catching candlelight. A night meant for celebration had curdled into something else entirely.
At the edge of the room Daphne, Lydia, and Arabella huddled together. When Rose entered, they turned to her as one.
Arabella stepped forward first. “Rose, are you all right? We saw them taking Baron White away and then we heard a gunshot.”
Rose shook her head gently. “My father’s taken his own life. After admitting to everything we already knew, including murdering my mother.”
“Oh, Rose, I’m sorry,” Arabella said. “What can we do?”
“Nothing tonight. Thank you for your kindness, but I think it best if you return to your rooms. I will need you in the morning.”
Daphne reached for her hand, squeezing it briefly. “We’ll be here. Whatever you need.”
Lydia’s eyes were glassy. “We’ll stay as long as you want us.”
“Do you know where Mrs. Blackwell is?” Rose asked.
“I saw her head upstairs,” Daphne said. “After they arrested White. I assumed she was going to her room but who knows with that woman.”
