“It’s half ten,” Francesca said. “We could run. We could catch a midnight train in Torquay or Exeter, and be back to London before dawn.”
“You know that’s impossible, Frank.” Alexandra emphatically shook her head. “Tell me now, though I know the answer, are you desperate to become the next Duchess of Redmayne?”
“You would ask that of me? When you very well know I am not.”
Alexandra stiffened her spine, gathering her strength. “Then I shall meet him at the foot of the stairs tonight. Redmayne seems to me an honorable man. The idea of his strength and skill used in my defense is more than a little appealing, should assassins beset us in the future.”
“Does that mean you’ll tell him everything?” Cecelia’s features twisted with doubt. “It appears that he and Ramsay are on good terms and the Scotsman might just be grim and ruthless enough to enjoy a good hanging … or three.”
“I would never dream of it,” Alexandra vowed. “But until the three of us figure out what to do next, the duchess stipend will buy us as much time as we need. It would be of some comfort to rely upon Redmayne to protect me both physically and financially.”
Francesca shoved her mask of raven feathers and rubies aside to spear her with a dumbfounded stare. “But … but … you’ll have to trade your body, your life, for that protection. It’s not worth it, Alexander. We’ll find another way.”
“Is it not the way of woman to lie beneath her husband in exchange for his protection and sustenance? How would I be different than any other wife for thousands of years?”
“Alexander, we all know why you’re different. Why this is a greater sacrifice than anyone could expect you to make.” Cecelia placed a staying hand on her arm. “We’ve already promised to help with what money we have. To marry would be madness. You don’t know what he’ll expect of you. What it’ll be like to—”
“I know more than any of us what it’ll be like. What to expect in the marriage bed.” Alexandra silenced her friends with a direct gaze, fiercely keeping the fear from stealing her conviction. “It can’t be any worse than what has already happened.”
“You can’t be sure of that,” Cecelia whispered, a singular dread tinging her words.
“Nevertheless, I won’t allow Frank to take his hand.” Alexander pulled away from them, needing a breath. “Francesca, you found the proof you needed to exonerate his family from the crimes against yours. If I marry Redmayne, then you remain free to seek your justice.”
A shadow of doubt darkened Francesca’s features before she visibly shoved it away. “No. We’ll find another way. If we have to suss out this blackmailer and put him in the ground like we did de Marchand, we’ll do it rather than sacrificing you on the altar of—”
“It’s crushing me, Frank.” Alexander rushed her friend, gripping her tightly as a wave of emotion threatened to wash her away into the void. “The guilt, the shame, the memories, the fear. I lose inches from my height because of this weight on my shoulders. I lose bits of my soul each time I’m contacted. Each time I pay with my father’s money. I can’t bear it anymore.”
Tears sullied the inside of her mask, and she ripped it free. “When I received that razor in the post, I could have ended my own life with it. Did you know that? The only thing that stopped me was that once I was gone, there was no one to protect you. I can barely leave the house for fear someone’s watching me. Or that my family or my freedom will be taken from me. Not to mention the danger to the two of you. I do not dread Piers Gedrick Atherton’s bed so much as I do swinging beside you and Cecelia on a rope. Do I make myself clear?”
Cecelia and Francesca both held her, bearing her weight.
“Besides the razor, what other evidence of our involvement could anyone possibly have?” Cecelia asked reasonably.
“The carpet? What’s left of the body? Who knows what sort of correspondence de Marchand made about me. Or us. What if he kept a diary, chronicling what he wanted to do to girls? Or made stock of what we pilfered from him? Who knows what kind of evidence damns us? We were so young, there’s no way we could have considered all the ways in which we could have been caught. I lie awake at night and think of every possibility, and if I lose any more sleep over this, I’ll go well and truly mad.”
She pulled her head back from Francesca’s shoulders, doing what she could to compose herself. “And so … to spare me this, I’ll submit to whatever indignity Redmayne can devise upon my person.”
Her friends said nothing in the dark for a very long time.
Cecelia shook her head, worrying at her lip.
Francesca’s shallow breaths heaved against hers as her sharp mind aggressively sought another way.
“Besides,” Alexandra amended. “I think … I think I want children.”
“You think?” Francesca released her.
“I do. I do want children. I always have. And we all know there’s only one way to go about getting them.” The idea lent her watery smile a genuine tilt. “As it turns out, Redmayne has a need for an heir and a spare. Our ends, at least, are not at odds with each other. Whereas yours, Francesca…” She let the end of the sentence die away.
Francesca’s expression was a paradox of elation and misgiving. “What sort of friend would I be if I allowed you to do this?”
Alexandra took Francesca’s scarlet-clad hands in her silver ones, enjoying the rasp of silk against silk. “The best sort. The sort who trusts me when I say I need this.”
“The sort who would bury him in his own gardens if he hurts you,” Cecelia offered.
“Yes, and this time”—Francesca’s voice hardened to cold marble—“there would be no witnesses.”
CHAPTER NINE
“My lords and ladies, it is my extreme pleasure to present to you the future Duchess of Redmayne.”
Piers stood at the top of the grand ballroom staircase. Or rather, staircases, as two of them split from the platform of the opulent second-floor tier to deposit descenders on opposite sides of the ballroom, leaving the revelers in the middle undisturbed.
He extended his hand toward the crimson carpets of that staircase, at the bottom of which the Countess of Mont Claire and Lady Alexandra Lane gripped each other’s hands like sailors about to walk the plank.
They’d come to an agreement, but neither of them readily moved.
Piers allowed the glittering guests to assume the pause was for dramatic effect. Hundreds of the haute ton stood below him, miraculously silent as they held their collective breath. It was as though, with his declaration, he’d frozen time.
A gasp ripped through the room.
Someone had begun her climb. Someone would take his hand, and with it, his freedom.
Piers couldn’t bring himself to look. His heartbeat spiked, the sound akin to the night drums of the Liberia Jabo in his ears. It drowned out the murmurs of the crowd as ladies bent their heads behind their fans of silk and lace to discuss their snide astonishment.
And still he did not look.
Fuck. He forced a swallow past a cravat suddenly cinched as tight as a noose. He should have accepted her proposal there in the dark.