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Her lips tried to form a wry smile. They merely trembled, not having the strength. It seemed even the memory of how to smile had left her. “These things have a way of sticking to one’s reputation, even after the truth is discovered. People will still remember the scandal, and it will be all they think of when they see me. I shouldn’t have any chance, here. At least in France, I might one day marry and find happiness.”
She’d said it, but she didn’t believe it. She would survive, but happiness was a chimera that she would never again capture. Julius…Her heart broke all over again.
“I want to believe that you speak the truth, Victoria, but the evidence is against you…” He held up his hands.
“What evidence?” she exclaimed. His brows drew together again, and she lowered her voice. “It’s my word against that of everyone else,” she said, resigned. “There is no proving my case before a jury that has already hanged me. It is done.” She turned. “I shall pack my things. Thank you for your generosity.”
She trudged up the stairs to her rooms, unseeing, uncaring. She was leaving the only home she’d ever known, and not as Julius’s wife. If she fell and broke her neck this minute, it would be just as well. A blessing, probably.
Halfway up the stairs, she looked up to see Amelia watching her from the top with cold eyes. No doubt she was thinking the same thing. “I shall be leaving within the week,” she told her dully. “Father is sending me to France to live with our cousins. At least until I can make my own way.” She moved onward to pass, but then paused. “I want you to know that I did not do what I have been accused of, Amelia. I would never do such a thing. And I love—loved—Julius with all my heart and soul. If you ever should chance to see him again, I beg you to tell him I am not the whore he thinks me, and that I shall love him always.”
She began walking, but Amelia caught her arm and spun her around.
“How dare you!” hissed her sister. Her face was red, and she trembled from head to toe. “How dare you play the martyr to me? I saw it with my own eyes, Victoria! I saw you, heard you!”
“What are you talking about?” she said, perplexed. “Saw what, exactly?” She watched, bewildered, as Amelia raised her hand and slapped her so hard that she rocked back and had to brace herself against the banister to avoid falling down the stairs. She reeled from the shock of the blow. Her sister hadn’t struck her since they were children!
“I saw you!” cried Amelia, tears streaming down her face. “Heaven help me, I saw you kneeling before him and I heard his gasps of pleasure, his disgusting grunts! And then I ran because I could take no more.”
Victoria slumped against the banister, all the strength draining from her in light of this stunning revelation. She’d wondered who had told Amelia the vicious lie. Now she knew. No one had done it. She’d made that part of the story up to cover herself.
“Never in my darkest nightmares would I have thought you capable of such a betrayal!” railed Amelia. “My own sister, my own blood! But there you were, whoring away on your knees like a cheap harlot!”
“You really think that of me,” Victoria whispered, staring at her sibling as if she were a stranger. She was. “Amelia, I swear to you that whatever you think you saw was not so.”
“Then you tell me what it is you think I saw!” spat her sister.
Standing, Victoria answered as steadily as she could. “What you saw was the aftermath of my accidentally dumping half a pot of scalding hot tea on your suitor.”
A scornful bark of laughter followed her quiet statement. “You were on your knees in front of him, sister. You can’t lie your way out of this. I know what I saw.”
“I was on my knees because I was picking up the pieces of the bloody teapot!” Victoria snapped back, anger flooding her.
“He had his hand on your head,” countered her sister.
“I’d knocked him off balance! He was only steadying himself. I cut my hand on the damned teapot because of it!” she yelled, holding out her hand so Amelia could see the scar across her palm.
Amelia’s eyes dropped, following the thin pink line. “I don’t believe you.”
Victoria pinned her with a gimlet stare and advanced until she was directly in front of her face. “If you don’t believe me then why don’t you ask the servants? They came in to clean the room while we were still there. They’ll tell you all about it.” Her voice rose in volume. “And why don’t you ask Hannah about the blood all over my dress, while you’re at it? Or ask François if there was a large tea stain down Withington’s front when he showed him out!”
Every word she shouted caused her sister to flinch back and blink.
“At least I now know the origin of the lie that has forever ruined my happiness,” Victoria continued relentlessly, too angry for tears. Rage was the only emotion she could feel. “Congratulations are in order, I suppose,” she said, dripping sarcasm. “You’ve finally succeeded in ridding yourself of me. Thanks to Papa’s generosity toward his undeserving whore of a disowned daughter, you may now rule from your ivory tower unchallenged. I hope you enjoy your solitude.”
Shoving past, Victoria ran to her room and slammed the door with all her might, throwing the bolt.
For a week, Julius had behaved as if he’d never met her. He’d ignored the frowns and stares of the mamas as they’d steered their daughters away. He knew what they thought, and he didn’t care. He would be leaving soon for Holker Hall. It was far removed from London, far enough to live there alone, happily continuing in his research as a bachelor until he bloody well rotted.
Amelia had come to him, sobbing like someone had died and claiming to have caught Victoria in the act with Withington. He had tried to reason it out with her, to suggest that she’d seen something other than what she thought she’d witnessed. Anything but what she had told him.
But in the end he’d accepted her story.
He’d taken the time to get to know Amelia, and he knew without a doubt that she was incapable of such a violent emotional display without genuine cause. She’d clearly seen something graphic between them. Still, he’d taken the precaution of corroborating her story—and to his disappointment had learned that Withington was indeed visiting Victoria that afternoon and that he had indeed departed shortly thereafter in hurried disarray.
It was like Martha all over again.
He now suspected that Victoria had met Withington long before meeting him. A
