Cecelia chewed the inside of her lip. For someone so good with formulae and figures, Cecelia felt woefully lost in a labyrinth of shadows, sex, and deception. “I’m not comfortable with causing anyone’s demise, especially a man who’s only trying to do his job.”
“Did you forget he threatened to see you hanged for something for which you are not guilty?” Francesca surprisingly threw her lot in with Genny.
“Of course not, but surely there’s another way.”
“Are you all willing to resort to violence?” Genny asked.
“No,” Cecelia stated firmly.
At the same time Francesca answered with a vehement, “Yes.”
And Alexandra chimed in, “Only if strictly necessary.”
Genny addressed Cecelia, as it was her unfortunate decision to make. “If we can’t dump his body in the Thames, then we must consider other options.”
Cecelia had a feeling the woman was only half joking. “What about proving my innocence in the disappearances of these girls? He’d have no reason to bother me, then.”
“Perhaps, eventually.” Genny made a dismissive gesture and checked her reflection in the mirror on the wall. “But his indictment of you is immediate, Cecelia. There’s no time to conduct your own inquest. I’m tellin’ you. You must find that part of Ramsay that he would show no one. That secret that would destroy him. You dangle it in front of him, then you lock it away. If you keep him at an impasse, you’re safe.”
“Like Henrietta was safe?” Cecelia locked her fists into her skirts, clutching them in frustration. “Isn’t doing precisely that sort of thing what got her killed?”
Genny sighed, slumping into a straight-backed chair. “I know Henrietta left you that letter, honey, but the truth of the matter is she was found dead in this very bed and I was the one who found her. She looked peaceful…” Genny released a troubled sigh and pressed her fingertips to her forehead, massaging at what appeared to be a gathering headache. “The old bird was a bit paranoid these past few years, and I’m startin’ to wonder if her death wasn’t exactly what it appeared to be. A woman succumbing to nothing more insidious than time.”
“What are you saying? Henrietta couldn’t have been much older than fifty.” Cecelia was stymied by Genny’s change of tune. Just yesterday they’d discussed the probability of murder. That perhaps Ramsay or his ilk had had something to do with the demise of her infamous predecessor.
“I’m saying that your immediate problem is Ramsay. He’s a powerful man in all ways, physical, financial, and legal. But you are a woman. And a woman’s power is in her sex and her secrets. And here at Henrietta’s School for Cultured Young Ladies, we collect secrets like jewels.”
Cecelia puffed out her cheeks, feeling very overwhelmed. “I wouldn’t even know how to go about discovering his secrets. We’ve only interacted yesterday, and I can’t say I behaved in a manner that would instill anyone’s confidence in my intellectual prowess in that regard.”
But then, he had been open with her. Well, perhaps open was the wrong word. Forthcoming, if not confidence sharing. They’d had a more intimate conversation than she’d ever imagined they would.
“Luckily, you have an entire stable of women who make a living of manipulating men.” Genny smiled deviously. “Every man is a puzzle of need, little doll. Find the missing piece and snap it into place, and he will do whatever you want. He’ll tell you whatever you ask. He’ll be yours to command.”
Cecelia’s first inclination was to laugh, but in the woeful manner that staved off threating sadness and the accompanying tears. She couldn’t imagine even wanting the power Genny alluded to, let alone wielding it.
The men in her life had made her feel nothing but helpless, worthless, or some strange amalgamation of both. The Vicar Teague, classmates at university, scholars, bankers, and solicitors. They either condescended to her or over her or ignored her outright. Most men made her feel more deficient than desirable. More fatuous than formidable. She was ever too much or not enough.
Too plump, tall, educated, shy, or independent. Or not pious, respectable, noble, or young enough.
Her only power had been in her wealth, and even that came with its social limitations, especially now because of the origin of said moneys and the secrets willed to her along with it. Secrets she never asked for. Secrets she might be forced to use as weapons in a fight for survival.
“Ramsay’s part of your extended family, Alex,” she pleaded. “Is there anything you can think of that could help? Any way we could get him to leave this, leave me, alone without taking such drastic measures?”
Alexandra’s freckled nose wrinkled. “I confess Ramsay has always been such a mystery to both Redmayne and me. A rather grumpy, obdurate mystery.”
“Henrietta had some of us perform a bit of reconnaissance on him in the past,” Genny supplied. “Not that it will be of any help to us now.”
Cecelia tried to picture a company of reconnaissance-gathering revelers and had to fight a giggle. “Why not?”
“He’s just so tremendously boring.” Genny slumped down and rolled her eyes. “He wakes at dawn, goes to work behind his lofty bench. Ruins people’s lives. Goes home at the end of the day, or to his club where he often leaves red-faced and sweating. Then he eats alone and retires at a disgustingly early hour.” She made a noise of antipathy. “I’d pity him if I didn’t hate him.”
“Then what makes you so certain that Ramsay has any secrets?” Cecelia fretted. “He could be as virtuous and steadfast as he claims.”
“I know he does,” Genny said. “We just have to find the evidence.”
“How do you know?”
Genny’s lovely eyes darkened to a char black, her features pinching with distaste and loathing, finally etching her forty years into her skin. “Because men like him always have secrets. Before he was a barrister or a justice, he was a Scotsman and a soldier. He has blood on his hands and shameful marks on his soul, I’d wager my life on it.” She leaned forward, her features hard with purpose. “We just have to get you closer to find out what they are.”
Did Ramsay have blood on his hands? Square and rough and mercilessly strong as they were, it didn’t stretch the imagination.
And yet they’d been incomprehensibly gentle as they’d stroked her jaw, cupped her face, grazed her lips.
Could it be that his piety was really penitence? Perhaps he’d done something so wrong once that he’d devoted his life to fixing it.
Or to cultivating a persona to hide sins he still committed under the cover of darkness.
Was she brave enough to find out the truth? Maybe, but not through dishonest means.
She opened her mouth to say so when a ripple of electric power vibrated through the air. Every hair on Cecelia’s body stood on end as a strange silence engulfed her. Then a curious rumble threw her off balance as a white light blinded her. A force as powerful as a kick from a horse’s hindquarters knocked her into the other Rogues with a thunderous sound no less than apocalyptic.
They clung together, dropping to the ground as glass bulbs shattered from the sconces on the walls, emitting electric-blue sparks. The chandelier swung violently on its chain above them, and for a terrifying second Cecelia was certain it would fall, fragmenting over them all.