AS WELL ACQUAINTED WITH DEATH AS SIGNA WAS, SHE’D MET VERY few
murderers in her lifetime. There was Percy, of course. And she supposed herself, though she tried not to stew on that. Still, she didn’t need more experience to understand that Elijah Hawthorne was no murderer.
“What possible motive do they think he had?” Signa demanded as the puzzle pieces scattered in her mind’s eye. “He wanted to be done with Grey’s!”
“Lord Wakefield had already made a sizable payment to secure his future in the business.” Byron looked as though he’d aged twenty years overnight as he peeled off his gloves and tossed them onto the table. “They’re theorizing that Grey’s was bordering on financial ruin due to Elijah’s neglect and that he needed the money but didn’t want to give up full ownership.”
His forehead was perspiring, and Warwick was quick to fetch him a glass of water and a stool as Byron took a seat and propped up his bad knee. “That’s preposterous!” As fair skinned as she was, Blythe’s face and neck were flushed with rage. Byron nodded at her, then did a double take
when he noticed his niece’s state of dress.
“What in God’s name are you… Oh, never mind. Despite what the truth may be, it was Elijah who gave Lord Wakefield the drink. The fool admitted it himself.”
Blythe’s indignant huff was enough to suggest she thought her father was ridiculous for admitting to such a thing. Signa agreed, especially given the circumstances. She knew from experience how awful it was to have people believe you were the reason for someone’s death. But to have people
believe you killed a duke? It would soon be in every paper throughout the country, ruining the Hawthornes’ reputation and that of Grey’s with it.
“If he was trying to save Grey’s from financial ruin,” Signa said, “then why would he kill a duke and soil its reputation? Where’s the logic in that?” Byron’s eyes narrowed, and Signa tried not to show her offense at his surprise. Byron was by far the most traditional member of the Hawthorne family; in her months at Thorn Grove, she’d come to learn that when Elijah had initially taken over the family business, Byron was filled with such jealousy that, rather than working alongside Elijah, he went into the service to make himself scarce. According to Elijah, Byron had ascended high into the rankings before an injury sent him home with a bad knee. He had little choice but to partake in the family business soon after, though military
training had made him more rigid than ever.
Byron operated under the belief that there was a proper order to all things—that women had their place and men had theirs. Signa was a little surprised he was even entertaining this conversation. Perhaps the past few months had had some positive influence on him after all.
“You’re right.” Byron set down his water glass. “It’s not logical at all. Unfortunately, after the past year, no one is expecting Elijah to think rationally.”
“He no longer indulges,” Blythe argued. “Not even a little.”
The thin skin around Byron’s eyes creased in genuine apology. “Once you earn a reputation for yourself, it’s difficult to change the way others perceive you. I’m afraid your father is facing a long and arduous uphill climb.”
“But you believe him,” Blythe pressed, “don’t you?” Signa’s belly churned when Byron looked away. She was glad that Blythe couldn’t see the shadows that darkened his expression. “It’s not for me to decide,” he said.
Signa thought of all the people who had shown up for the party the night prior. She thought of their painted-on grins and their pretty words, congratulating Elijah one moment only to condemn him the next. How quickly everyone had turned on him. How quickly they would turn on anyone. For too many years she’d been willing to fight tooth and nail for a place in society, and she hated herself for it. Hated how hard she had tried to mold and shape herself into something worse than any poison she’d ever
tasted.
“Surely my father got the drink from the true killer,” Blythe suggested.
Byron’s seat gave a low creak as he leaned back, shut his eyes, and began to massage his temples. “He claims he got it off a serving tray and doesn’t remember who from.”
Signa went to take a sip of her tea only to find she’d already drunk it all. Her mind had been too busy processing this new information to notice, for it made little sense. No one else at the party had been sick, so how was it that someone had managed to poison a single drink on a serving tray and ensure it landed on its right mark. Unless, perhaps…
“Do you think it possible that Lord Wakefield wasn’t the intended victim?” she asked, thinking of Percy and how the tea he’d poisoned had been meant for his birth mother, Marjorie.
Blythe went rigid. “You think the poison was for my father?”
“It’s a possibility.” Signa drummed her fingers on the table as she worked through the idea. “It could have been meant for anyone, really. If it had been meant for Elijah, the person behind this was unaware that he’s no longer drinking.”
“We can theorize all day.” Byron seemed ready to fall asleep in his seat, should they let him. “All that matters right now is that the authorities believe Elijah is the murderer. And if they don’t find a more obvious culprit by the time of his trial…”
He didn’t need to say the rest; the truth of it already hung heavy around them. The punishment for murder was execution. If they didn’t find the true culprit, Elijah would be hanged.
Blythe hadn’t taken a bite of food since Byron walked in, yet she still clutched her fork so tightly that her knuckles were bone white.
“We cannot leave this up to a constable,” Signa said. With Fate involved, that option would only end in loss. However, it wasn’t as though she could say that aloud, and Byron hadn’t changed enough to stop himself from fixing Signa with an incredulous stare.
“I know there’s something strange about you, Miss Farrow,” he began, not unkindly. Or at least not unkindly for him. “I know that, with this strangeness, you have helped my family once already. But you are no Hawthorne, and this is not something any young lady should get herself involved with. No one would fault you if you were to return to Foxglove
early.”
Signa hadn’t realized those words would feel like a bludgeon until they struck.
Beside her, Blythe threw her fork onto the table with a clatter. “To
Foxglove?” she demanded. “Why on earth would she go there?”
“Because that is her home, Blythe. To be frank, the last thing we need is to give anyone another reason to scrutinize our family, and Signa is a beacon of unfavorable attention.”
There was no time for Signa to form her own thoughts before Blythe sat up straighter, fuming. “How do you think it would look if she left us now? People would think we frightened her off!”
As much as Signa could both hear and acknowledge the argument surrounding her, she could hardly pay it any mind. Her heart had lurched from her chest to her throat, hammering so fiercely that she worried she might be sick.
Foxglove.
For months that manor had been looming over her. When she’d turned twenty and inherited her parents’ fortune, Elijah had given her all the help she might need to pursue getting the manor set up for her arrival. He’d given her recommendations, contact information for a newspaper that would put out ads for staff, and had even offered to purchase her a ticket for the train. Eventually, though, as ledgers of his notes and advice began to pile up with dust in her sitting room, Elijah stopped discussing Foxglove altogether. Ages ago he’d told Signa that she could remain at Thorn Grove for as long as she liked, and it seemed he’d meant it.
Signa knew she’d be expected to leave eventually, but the thought of returning to Foxglove felt like stepping into a past that Signa had long since left behind. Here at Thorn Grove, she finally had a family. And as Blythe slid her hand into Signa’s beneath the table and squeezed tight, all Signa could think about was how much she wanted to keep that family close.
“She’s not leaving.” It was Blythe who decided, unfaltering beneath Byron’s glower.
Both girls ignored the way he pinched the bridge of his nose. “If she stays, she’ll need to help us.” His eyes were severe as they flicked to Signa, searching her face. He frowned, not seeming to favor what he saw. “Can you do that, Miss Farrow?”
Signa had to fight to find her voice as she asked, “What would I need to do?”
“You and Blythe will do what all ladies your age are meant to.” Signa’s skin prickled at his words. Still, when Byron leaned in, so did she. “Focus on bolstering the name of this family. Or, at the very least, maintaining our reputation. God knows Elijah could use the help. If you’re going to stay, we cannot have you sulking about inside. You must be out and about, proving that you are confident in this family’s innocence. It will only fan the flames if people believe that we have holed ourselves up out of fear.”
To her surprise, Signa had no argument. When she had first walked into the room, she’d thought about how silly it had seemed to have breakfast and to go on pretending that everything was normal. But perhaps putting on a good face and maintaining a charade that all was well would ease the gossip. Not to mention that if it meant remaining at Thorn Grove with Blythe and Elijah, Signa was willing to do anything.
Byron pried himself from his chair, ready to make his exit, when the dining room’s double doors swung open and a raven-haired maid Signa had seen only in passing hurried in with a letter set upon a silver tray. She curtsied—something Signa was still getting used to—then extended the tray to Signa, who took one look at the golden envelope and tasted acid.
She knew without looking who it was from, for the shade itself was too similar to Fate’s burnished eyes to be coincidence. Blythe’s curiosity prickled at Signa’s skin as she took the envelope from the tray.
“Open it,” Blythe urged, leaning in to catch a glimpse of the written words. Byron was observing them, too, and since there was no way out of it, Signa tore open the envelope. Inside there was no letter but an invitation written in gilded script.
To the ineffable Miss Signa Farrow,
She already wanted to burn Fate alive for his ridiculous greeting alone.
Your presence has been requested to join His Majesty Prince Aris Dryden of Verena at Wisteria Gardens
this Saturday evening at six o’clock
for a grand ball to celebrate his arrival to Celadon.
Signa barely managed to refrain from crumbling the invitation in her hands. A prince! How ridiculous this man was to think he could waltz in with such a grand facade. She had every intention of tearing the parchment apart until Blythe—reading over her shoulder with gleaming eyes—plucked the invitation from her fingers.
“Signa.” Her cousin’s voice was breathy with wonder, and Signa realized that whatever game Fate was playing, she’d already lost. “We must go! If we can impress a prince, perhaps he might help us clear my father’s name.”
The truth seared a hole in Signa’s tongue, though it wasn’t as though she could admit to knowing that this man was no prince.
“Blythe is right.” Byron plucked the invitation from his niece’s hands. Such a bad habit must have run in the family. “This is the perfect opportunity. At the very least, you must attend and demonstrate to everyone your confidence in this family. You may not be a Hawthorne by blood, but perhaps that’s to our benefit. Others may be more likely to believe you.”
Signa tried not to scrunch up her nose. She would do it, of course, even if the last thing she wanted was to throw herself back into society’s clutches during the season. She made it a point not to look too closely at Byron or Blythe, staring instead at the hands she folded against her lap.
As quiet as the night, Blythe whispered, “My father is innocent. I know he is. Please say that you’ll help him.”
Signa steeled herself, shoulders back, and gathered every ounce of courage within her. If she had to play Fate’s game, then so be it. She was a reaper—a shadow of the night with a lethal touch. She would protect her family. Her home. And when she was through with him, Signa would ensure that Fate regretted the day he’d ever challenged her.
“Of course I will,” Signa promised, staring firmly into her cousin’s eyes. “I’ll go to the party or woo the prince, or whatever it takes. We will save your father, Blythe. Of that, I’m certain.”
