Oh, how right she was. If the exterior of Wisteria was opulent, the interior was decadently lavish. Like the exterior, the walls inside Wisteria were bright and pristine, decorated with extravagant ivory wallpaper and gold flourishes. It would seem Fate had a taste for the color, for the mirrors and paintings were also plated in a matching gold.
“Oh, it’s magnificent!” Blythe craned her neck to gaze three stories up to the ceiling—which was painted a brilliant shade of red—and beheld the most intricate floral designs swirled throughout. Ahead were two grand staircases that met in the middle of the second story. They were covered in a thick red-and-gold rug, and the girls followed suit as guests climbed the stairs. They slowed their steps for Byron, and Signa used the time to take in every inch of the decor.
Strung along the walls were the wildest assortment of oil paintings, each one depicting strange and nonsensical things. One showcased a garden full of fairies that danced around overgrown mushrooms, while another portrayed two women dancing in a candlelit ballroom, their dresses igniting into flames behind them. Tucked into every corner were the most elaborately carved vases or sculptures. Most were tame, while others elicited blushes and concerned gasps, such as the statue of three people in the heat of passion, and another of a man brushing his hand along his lover’s cheek with more tenderness than Signa knew was possible to impart into a piece of stone.
Each painting conveyed a story with such richness that the art felt alive. She wasn’t convinced that, if she glanced away, they wouldn’t spring to life and continue their stories.
“His lordship is quite the collector,” said someone ahead, and Signa recognized the sharp voice as belonging to Diana Blackwater, a mousy and uncivilized girl who could often be found attached to the hip of Eliza Wakefield. She was perhaps one of the worst vultures Signa had met thus far, and Signa made sure to stay quiet, trying to keep from Diana’s view.
“A collector, indeed.” Byron’s scowl grew in severity with every piece of art they passed. “At the very least, they should have had these pieces temporarily moved. Avert your eyes, girls. You shouldn’t see such atrocities.”
Arms still linked, Blythe leaned toward her cousin and whispered, “It would seem he hasn’t the faintest idea what’s in half the books that end up on our nightstands.”
Signa pressed her lips together to keep from laughing. Though she ducked her head and pretended to follow Byron’s instructions, her eyes remained lifted to inspect every inch of the palace and its art.
As much as she hated to admit it, Wisteria was beautiful. Even so, there was a sense of oddness to the palace. A looming heaviness that permeated the air and had her wishing that Death could be at her side. Signa’s palms ached with the absence of his touch as she forced herself up every step, feeling as though she were treading water. When she squinted, a strange golden haze blanketed everything. Yet no one else said a word about it, and soon enough, they were at the top floor, in what was, regrettably, the most gorgeous ballroom she had ever seen.
Unlike the rest of the palace, the ballroom was not bright and crisp but made up of ornate panels backed with gold leaf. There was no part of the walls that went bare; all were either mirrored or featured gilded carvings of foxes climbing trees or rolling among the flowers, lit by sconces that set the room ablaze in warm, rich amber.
“What I wouldn’t give to live here.” Blythe’s words were breathy and wondrous. Everyone seemed to agree with her; the guests were all chattering and whispering, twirling around the room to take in its extravagance. While the rest of the palace was decorated with art, this exquisite room was the art.
Byron straightened beneath the amber glow and whispered to the girls, “Tonight is not the night to overindulge. Mingle, but keep your wits sharp and your tongues soft, understood?”
“Understood,” Blythe echoed dismissively. “But I daresay, Uncle, that Signa and I won’t ever manage to draw the prince’s eye with you looming over us. Surely we may walk about the room ourselves?”
Byron opened his mouth to speak, though his lips sealed as he scanned the crowd. Alerted at once, Signa tried to follow his gaze to who had drawn his attention, though there were far too many bodies to decipher which guest had caught his eye.
“Very well,” Byron huffed as he adjusted his cravat. “Be mindful about how you present yourselves. And do let me know if either of you finds this evening’s host.”
Signa could only hope that she would be the first to hunt Fate down, though it was going to be difficult, given that she needed to keep an eye on Byron, too.
Gently, she unlinked her arm from Blythe’s. “We’ll have a better chance at finding the prince if we split up. Will you manage?” The decision could very well come back to bite her, though Signa needed some space if she was going to tail Byron.
Blythe tossed her hair back with a sharp “Of course I will” and disappeared into the throng of guests. It wasn’t long until Signa jumped, feeling a hand on her shoulder.
“Miss Farrow?”
She bit down her groan, for the voice was the same grating one she’d heard while climbing the staircase.
“Miss Blackwater.” Signa attempted her most curt smile as she turned toward Diana, though it barely touched her cheeks. It was fortunate the room was so dark. “How lovely it is to see you.”
“Likewise.” There was a gleam in Diana’s eyes that made Signa feel as though she were a mouse, and Diana the hungriest feline. “I must admit that I didn’t expect you out so soon, given the scandal.”
It would seem they were getting right to the point, then. Very well. If there was one thing Signa had learned by then, it was that a person could not cower when targeted by a vulture, for such a scavenger would only continue to circle. To peck and wear its prey down until it was ripe for the feast.
Signa Farrow was many things, but she was not prey. Having no intention of letting Diana continue her pecking, Signa made herself tall and relied on a skill that every proper lady had been forced to utilize at one point in time or another, whether for the benefit of herself or a man whose ego she was expected to stroke: feigning ignorance.
“The scandal?” Signa pressed a hand to her chest. “I can only assume you’re referring to the tragedy that befell Lord Wakefield? The man was murdered in cold blood, Miss Blackwater. Heavens, I dare not reduce what happened to him as a mere scandal.” Oh, how good it felt to watch Diana’s cheeks flare crimson. “I’m glad that Mr. Hawthorne has been so willing to help with the investigation of such a tragedy.” Signa put a little sigh into her voice, quite proud of her performance. It was a shame that Blythe was not nearby to watch; it would have delighted her.
“Of course not.” Diana’s mouth was small and shrewd, and she held her lips together in a line so thin they looked almost nonexistent. “Though it does you no good to be associated with that family. You were doing so well for yourself with Everett, though I can’t imagine he’ll be interested in you now.”
Signa’s merciless smile remained unwavering. “How is Lord Wakefield?” she asked, referring to Everett. His new title was strange upon her lips, especially given the circumstances.
“Ask Eliza.” Diana fluffed out a long white fan and waved it against herself as she nodded toward the throng. “It seems that despite the circumstances, she could not refuse an invitation from the prince.”
Signa followed Diana’s gaze. Sure enough, Eliza was not at home, mourning the loss of her uncle. She hadn’t even donned traditional mourning wear but was instead dressed in a beautiful lavender gown. Still, there was a pallor to Eliza’s skin and haunted shadows beneath her eyes as Signa surveyed her conversing with a small crowd expressing condolences. She was surprised to see that one of the men nearest to Eliza was Byron.