There was the question, again. The same one that Fate had asked her the night prior.
“I have not.” Signa slathered a mountain of butter onto her lemon scone and tried to ignore the bitterness festering within her. While the words were her truth, Signa couldn’t help but feel that she was lying. She’d come to view Blythe as a sister, and day by day the need to share what she was and everything she was capable of was becoming impossible to ignore. But how exactly did you tell someone who had no experience with the paranormal that not only was Death a sentient being who had helped Signa hunt down Blythe’s murderer—who just so happened to be the brother that Blythe still believed was alive—but also that the man responsible for accusing her father was Death’s brother, Fate?
If that wasn’t convoluted enough, there was also the fact that Signa and Death were intimate, and that she had the powers of a reaper. It would be a lot for anyone to take in, surely, and was a conversation Signa wasn’t convinced even could be broached.
And so, rather than say anything more, she filled her plate with ham and eggs and slathered more butter onto another lemon scone. When everything went to hell, at least she could always count on scones.
“Whoever he is, he certainly has some nerve,” Blythe pressed, sipping her tea with a ferocity Signa had not known possible. “Or perhaps an ulterior motive. I intend to find him and see which it is.”
The very thought had Signa so distracted that she burned her tongue on the tea, forgetting to blow on it. “Do not forget that you are a Hawthorne,” she said carefully, stirring in a third spoonful of sugar. “Your family is bound to have enemies, be it for reasons of jealousy or bitterness. Perhaps your father refused someone’s entry into the club. Perhaps it has nothing to do with Elijah at all, but with Lord Wakefield. If someone wants his title, Everett could be the next victim. We can’t dive into this situation without thinking it through.”
Blythe leaned back in her seat, stabbing her fork into a chunk of ham. “Then what do you propose we do? I cannot be expected to sit idly by.”
Signa hated that such a question made her skin buzz and some tiny part of her spark to life. Uncovering Blythe’s murderer was not something Signa wished to ever relive, but for the Hawthornes, she wouldn’t hesitate. Still, it was unnerving how quickly her mind latched on to the idea of a new puzzle dangling before her. Already she found herself trying to sort out the scattered pieces.
“I think that, for now, we wait and see what happens with Elijah.”
It was not an answer that Blythe appreciated, though some small part of her must have realized it was their best option.
“I must warn you that my patience is limited, cousin,” Blythe said.
“And I must warn you that, were you to venture out into the world right now, looking as you do and behaving as boorishly as you are, you would only further the belief that there’s something strange about the Hawthornes.” Signa smiled when Blythe cut her a look, though the jest was short-lived as a heavy clunk-clunk-clunking echoed outside the dining room doors. So familiar was the sound that Signa and Blythe shared a look before bolting to their feet as the double doors opened and Byron Hawthorne stepped inside.
His shoulders were bowed, and his gaunt cheeks and neck were shadowed with dark stubble. Signa looked behind him, to where Warwick stood alone, and clutched the back of her chair to support herself.
Blythe noticed Warwick at the same time, and the smile melted from her face. “Where is my father?”
“I did everything I could.” Byron fisted his cane tight and looked his niece in the eye. “I’m sorry, Blythe, but I’m afraid that Elijah is being detained for the murder of Lord Wakefield.”
FIVE
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.