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He raised an imaginary glass in mock tribute. Yes, at this very moment the viscount was triumphantly celebrating, what was considered to be the match of the Season: his betrothal to the captivating Suzanne Covington. Caldwell was on the brink of realizing his most fervent dream: mating the old and respected Caldwell name with the widely sought-after Covington wealth.
A title for an empire. That heinous prospect would be untenable, were the marriage actually going to occur.
Idly rolling his cheroot, the man gave a malevolent smile, envisioning the mass pandemonium that would ensue when he issued his ultimatum and Covington made the only choice he possibly could. There were some motivators even more powerful than securing the right social position. Motivators such as blackmail.
So the betrothal’s demise was a fait accompli.
After which, the viscount’s demise—and his own revenge—were but scant moments away.
Inside the manor the music and dancing had resumed, and the French doors were once again thrown open to admit the fragrant July air. Strains of a lively Strauss waltz spilled forth, rolling across the grounds and through the iron gates.
The man went taut, the image of Baxter Caldwell instantly replaced by a more loathsome substitute. For the weak, unprincipled, lazy parasite of a viscount held not a candle to his deceitful bitch of a sister.
Vanessa.
Memories hurtled back in hard, stunning blows to his head.
Heaven alone knew how many rich men had been the recipients of that perfect smile … how many she had been willing to whore herself for in exchange for the promise of wealth.
With a quick, savage snap of the wrist, he sent the cheroot rolling to the grass, grinding it beneath his heel.
He slipped through the gates and moved toward his quarry.
The day of retribution had finally arrived.
Ariana wrung her hands in frustration. The mist had indeed grown thicker, plunging the maze into an opaque prison. Pangs of guilt intensified her worry. By now Baxter had discovered her absence and was undoubtedly furious. Not that she blamed him, given the cause of the night’s celebration. She simply had to find her way.
The fog settled lower, shrouding the night’s wonders in warm, hazy mists, eclipsing her earlier elation and clarifying the grim reality. When would she ever learn to listen to her head and not her heart?
Straining her ears, she listened for sounds of the ball, the music and laughter that had accompanied her on her walk. In reply, she heard only the chirp of an occasional cricket and the sweet call of a nightingale.
Lord only knew how far she’d wandered, Ariana conceded with a frown. The Covington estate was massive; the maze she walked within meandered endlessly. She quickened her step, stumbling on every unseen stone, hastening along the cold ground.
One hedge was the same as the next,
leading nowhere but to another facet of the puzzle. Groping her way down each open path, Ariana carefully searched for the avenue that would guide her to safety. She found none. Nor did she hear even the faintest murmur to reassure her the manor was near.
Minutes ticked by.
Panic set in.
Breaking into a blind run, she cupped her hands over her mouth, hoping that, by calling out, she would alert someone to her plight.
The shout never emerged.
With a telltale tug, the full skirt of Ariana’s gown lodged beneath her slipper, upsetting her balance and toppling her to the ground. Shards of pain shot through her right ankle as it bent awkwardly beneath her.
Biting back a cry, Ariana waited until the physical agony had subsided to a dull throb. Then, shakily, she gathered up her skirts and resolutely hoisted herself to a standing position—but collapsed just as quickly to the grass. Gingerly, she touched her ankle, wincing at its tenderness. It was badly sprained, at best. Walking was out of the question.
Gritting her teeth, Ariana silently admonished herself for hot having the good sense to tell someone of her destination. When it came to embracing nature’s splendor, she seemed unable to retain a whit of judgment, continually succumbing to some foolhardy, whimsical inner voice that dominated her reason, urged her to relent. And inevitably got her into trouble.
She considered crawling, then dismissed the idea as ludicrous. How far would she get with copious layers of petticoats in her way? Trying once again to stand, she fell to the grass with a soft whimper of pain. It was no use.
She gazed around, acutely aware of the darkness, the seclusion that enveloped her. The ball would still be at its ebullient peak; how long would it be before anyone searched for her?
With a frightened shiver, she gave in to her earlier intent. Raising her face to the ominous hedges, she cried out, “Help!”
Only the sound of her own voice echoed through the mist.
