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Georgiana slid her hand across the table in a calming gesture. “Sylvia, don’t do this to yourself. Everything is fine. You have nothing to fear now. My aunt adores you. Really. And even if Mr. Davies did say something to her, I’m not sure she would much care.”
“Your husband would, though,” Sylvia murmured, then immediately wished she could take back the words. Georgiana’s mouth tightened, and her complexion paled, as was usually the case when anyone mentioned the viscount. “I’m sorry. Forget I said anything.”
But Georgiana had already pulled back her chair and was moving to stand. “No, you’re right,” she said, flicking Sylvia a cool glance. “We should both be more careful.” Without another word, she turned and glided out of the room, leaving Sylvia to her misery.
She stirred her lukewarm tea in a spot of sunshine. Sylvia had once told Georgiana what the jail had been like. Filthy, cold, and so dark. How the smell of stale, moldy air and unwashed bodies had been so thick it seemed to choke her. How the damp had sunk into her bones so deeply that it was months before she could move with any kind of lightness.
And to think she had been lucky. Sylvia had been there for only a couple of days before her brother, Lionel, came and took her home to Hawthorne Cottage. To a house that was safe and clean, even if she did have to endure her father’s silent disappointment and Lionel’s outright disgust.
Everyone warned Father not to send you to university, that it would only fill your head with more nonsense. Then he let you go off to London and look how you’ve repaid him. He is a laughingstock now. Webothare.
But it had been hard to sympathize with her brother. The other women she had been arrested with had no one to post their bail, would have been unceremoniously turned out of the boardinghouses where they rented rooms, and likely lost their jobs. They had all been brought in on charges of solicitation, when really Sylvia had been trying to convince them to attend a meeting on the rights of working women. At the station she had been interrogated by a detective who claimed a police informant insisted she was part of an anarchist collective conspiring with known prostitutes to target their clients. It was a ridiculous claim, one she suspected had been orchestrated by Bernard’s father, a haughty, status-hungry man who had made his disapproval of her no secret. Sylvia had spent hours trying to convince the detective that what she primarily wanted was voting rights for women—allwomen—not to bring down the entire government. But he refused to listen until Lionel had appeared and thrown around a few names—and banknotes. Sylvia had also insisted that Lionel post bail for the other women, a debt he still held against her, but she had never once tried to find out what happened to any of them afterward. She had been far too scared.
A coward.
But even though she had been able to leave the jail, her ordeal had only begun. Once the newspapers got ahold of the story, those who knew of her work forThe Defenderdistorted the truth further and further until Sylvia was portrayed as some kind of anarchist mastermind recruiting people from the lower classes to do her bidding and join her revolution. By the next week, the papers had moved on to a new scandal, but the damage to her reputation had been swift and permanent.
She had been too humiliated to fight back, to even attempt to defend herself. She had been fired from her typist job, her editor atThe Defenderclaimed that she could no longer publish anything under her byline, she was turned out of the boardinghouse where she rented a room, and all the friends she had made in London deserted her. Even the ones who had been staunch supporters of reform were not willing to risk their own reputations by associating with her.
I’m sure none of it is true, but of course you understand.
Of course, she said again and again as each door was firmly shut in her face.
She set down her teaspoon as that old familiar shame washed over her. She let it soak through every limb. Cover every inch of skin until she practically burned. It was no less than she deserved. No less than she had asked for.
But if she failed to meet the demands of her blackmailer, she knew things could get much, much worse.
***
Rafe trudged toward his room. After a long morning spent prowling through guest rooms like a common burglar, he had absolutely nothing to show for it except a nasty crick in his neck from craning over and under any visible crevice. Tully would need to fix one of his poultices, a practice he had learned from his Irish grandmother. A woman he proudly referred to as “a batty old witch.” The smell was positively eye-watering, but they worked wonders on aching muscles.
At that very same moment, Lady Arlington was coming down the hall in the opposite direction, looking uncharacteristically troubled. When she spotted him, the furrow in her brow immediately disappeared. One had to admire her commitment to upholding her public image.
“Good morning, my lady,” he said with a polite nod.
She returned the greeting, but just as he moved to continue on his way, she held up her hand. “Do you have a moment, sir?”
“For you, I have more than a moment.”
But she did not return his roguish smile. “It’s Miss Sparrow. I understand you met in the library last night.”
So, she had confided in the viscountess. That aligned with his theory that their connection was long-standing.
“I know she can be rather spirited in her beliefs and that she voiced some unconventional opinions to you,” Lady Arlington said, obviously choosing her words with great care. “But I trust you won’t say anything to my aunt about your encounter. Despite her colorful past, she has some firm ideas about what constitutes proper behavior.”
Rafe’s eyebrows rose. “No, my lady,” he swore. “The thought never once occurred to me.”
It was the truth. But he could understand her caution. Rafe had been so focused on his own guilt over upsetting Miss Sparrow that he hadn’t stopped to consider the risk she had taken in revealing such opinions to him, a veritable stranger.
Her features relaxed. “I’m happy to hear it. But, Mr. Davies, you seem to have forgotten how to behave around unmarried ladies. The proper form is toremoveyourself from the room.”
Rafe glanced down bashfully. “I confess I was reluctant to divest myself of Miss Sparrow’s company.” When he looked up, the viscountess was giving him what appeared to be a reluctant look of approval.
“I understand, but do take care from now on. I am honor bound to protect her reputation, and I don’t take my responsibilities lightly.”
“Nor should you.” The viscountess tilted her head and moved to leave, but now it was Rafe’s turn. “My lady, last night Miss Sparrow said something troubling. She suggested someone had…hurt her once. And I admit the thought has stayed with me ever since.”
Lady Arlington’s eyes softened. “She told you that?”
