She must have flushed even deeper, for Blythe narrowed her eyes for a long moment before her face lit with delight. “Oh my God, you were dreaming about a man, weren’t you? Who was it? You must tell me!”
Death’s low, rumbling laughter sounded in the back of Signa’s mind. Go on, he taunted, tell her.
“It was no one—”
“Don’t give me that.” Blythe scoffed. “Did you meet someone at the ball? Given that you did not so much as blink in his presence, it surely wasn’t the prince.”
As much as she would have loved to say she’d met someone, Signa was so flustered that it was a struggle to even recall her own name, let alone that of anyone else at the soiree. Knowing Blythe, handing over a name would be like granting her permission to stalk the poor man and figure out every last detail about him, his family, his deepest secrets, and his worthiness of Signa. And so, without giving it too much thought, she said the first name that came to her mind.
“It was of Everett Wakefield.”
Blythe’s mouth slammed shut. She folded her hands pleasantly in her lap, doing a poor job of appearing at ease. “Well he’s… I mean, I suppose he is eligible. But goodness, Signa, the timing. I wondered if you still might be interested in him after everything. It seemed your attention diverted from him over the past months, though I didn’t want to pry. God only knows he could use some company, with everything he’s going through—though have you seen the way Charlotte looks at him? I wonder what she might think if the two of you were to make a match.”
“I suppose I’ll have to ask.” As the towering spires and iron gates of Thorn Grove came into view, Signa breathed a sigh of relief so heavy it fogged the window. The sooner she could get out of the carriage, the better.
Death, after all, was waiting for her.
FOURTEEN
BLYTHE DIDN’T BOTHER TO KNOCK WHEN SHE ARRIVED AT SIGNA’S room early that next morning, flushed and breathless as her body bowed to the weight of the floral arrangement she carried. It was nearly half as large as she was, with wisteria that draped over beautiful greenery.
“Dare I ask what feminine wiles you worked to earn the prince’s affection so quickly?” Blythe set the arrangement on Signa’s tea table, trying not to trip over the flowers that skirted the floor.
It was barely sunrise, though Signa was already wide awake, seated at the desk in her sitting room and poring over the list of names of those who had received an invitation to Thorn Grove the night of Lord Wakefield’s murder. Several of them seemed to have been crossed out while she’d been sleeping, and it took her a solid ten minutes of staring at the parchment before she realized that this update could have been done only by Death. The realization had her scouring the table until she found a letter he’d left for her folded into the list of names. Wildflowers were pressed into the page, and Signa’s heart practically burst at the sight of it.
Fate may have been able to stop them from speaking, but he couldn’t stop this. She’d just unfolded the letter, which detailed all the things they’d do once this was over and all the places they’d see, when Blythe burst through the door, leaving Signa to shove the letter down her bodice as she pushed up from her chair. Crossing the room, she inspected the flowers with a frown.
“They’re beautiful,” Blythe said between stretches, trying to soothe her back from the weight of the arrangement. “Given the way you spoke to him and how you daydream of Lord Wakefield now, I had thought they were for me until I saw your name on the letter. I’ve no idea how you managed to tame such a beastly man, but I’m impressed.”
Signa bent to see that Blythe was right—in the middle of the arrangement was a gilded envelope addressed to her. She pried it from the flowers, knocking a few petals to the table in her haste.
“I thought you didn’t care for the prince,” Blythe pushed, her eyes narrowing as she drew several steps closer to examine the envelope.
“For someone who also did not care for him, you certainly seem interested in what he sent,” Signa bit back. She didn’t mean to come across as antagonistic as she did, but Blythe’s prying ate at her nerves, and whatever this letter said, she preferred that Blythe not see it.
“Is it so wrong to be curious?” Blythe swept the fallen petals away. “Rest assured, I despise the man enough that he should have sent me flowers as an apology for burdening me with his existence. They’re quite lovely.”
They were, unfortunately. They appeared expensive, too, which meant that anyone who saw them delivered would immediately understand the prince’s intent. Signa could only imagine the ways in which Byron’s mind was already scheming.
“Aren’t you going to read the letter?” Blythe tipped onto her toes, trying once more to look over Signa’s shoulder. “If you’ve won the prince’s favor then you must respond!”
Signa bit back her groan as she tore the envelope open, angling her body away from Blythe, who further encroached by the second. Signa didn’t want to know what Fate had to say, but she didn’t doubt that he would realize what she’d done if she simply threw the letter into the hearth. And blast it if she wasn’t a little curious herself.
With fretting fingers, Signa pried the slip of parchment within it free. There was but a simple sentence written in elegant script:
Give me the chance, and I shall show you that I am not the villain here, Miss Farrow.
Signa felt faint.
“What does it say?” Blythe asked as Signa tucked the note against her chest and out of sight.
“Nothing. It’s only a note to thank me for dancing with him.”
There was a tart pucker to Blythe’s lips. “I danced with him, too. Let me see that—”
Signa dodged out of the way when Blythe made to grab the letter, then recalled what Elijah had done with his slip of paper back in the prison cell and crumbled it. When Blythe extended her palm expectantly, Signa popped the paper into her mouth.
Only, it was much thicker than the small slip of paper she’d brought Elijah, and she choked.
Blythe’s mouth hung ajar. “What on earth are you thinking?” With or without the letter preventing her from speaking, Signa couldn’t respond.
Fortunately, there was no need, as she was rescued by a knock upon the door and Elaine hurrying inside a moment later.
“Miss Farrow!” cried the maid. “You must ready yourself at once!”
“What is it, Elaine?” It was Blythe who asked, allowing Signa a moment to spit out the wad of parchment and scrub her tongue clean. She hurried to rip the damp paper and toss its remains into her wastebasket when no one was looking. “Has something happened?”
“He’s here, miss.” Elaine’s voice quaked with anticipation, and Signa’s blood froze as she prayed that the woman meant Elijah. Perhaps Fate’s letter meant that he’d decided to help them after all. But then Elaine continued, “Everett Wakefield is here to see you. Mr. Hawthorne is with him in the parlor.”
Blythe made a noise of appreciation in the back of her throat. “First the prince and now the duke. Someone had an eventful evening.”
Signa slumped back in her chair. “Lord Wakefield is here to see me? But I’m not receiving today.” The words sounded absurd even to her own ears, for surely he wouldn’t be calling on her without good reason given all that was going on, especially not at such an early hour. Still, curiosity had Signa back on her feet, knocking Blythe gently on the shoulder when she noticed her smug grin. “Very well. We mustn’t keep him waiting.”
Elaine hurried to help Signa out of her dressing gown and into a beautiful cream housedress with a high neckline and long sleeves adorned with lace around the wrists. Signa quickly pulled on her gloves herself, cognizant of how Elaine fussed, ensuring that every strand of hair was in place. It felt ridiculous for anyone to be concerned with her appearance when Everett’s father had recently died, but she didn’t argue.
“It seems like you made quite the impression on the prince,” Elaine said. “You should see all the arrangements he’s sent for you.”