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.