Her voice came out low, steady, and frighteningly calm. “I will prepare.”
“See that you do without any further argument.” Howard dismissed her with a flick of his hand.
As Gwen left the room, she heard Cordelia whispering apologies through tears, but she did not pause. She did not trust herself to.
In the corridor, she pressed a trembling hand against the wall, steadying her breath.
She would not be here in three weeks.
She would not be here in two.
She would run. She would take her mother. She would find freedom if it cost her everything.
And if Victor’s money was her only chance, then she would go to him again.
Tonight.
No matter the cost.
CHAPTER 10
Gwen knew she looked frightful.
No amount of cool water or powder could erase the shadows beneath her eyes. Still, when the clock neared the appointed hour, and the house had sunk into that particular silence that followed Howard’s orders, she expertly tiptoed through the servants’ passage with her cloak pulled tightly around her and then slipped outside.
The night felt sharper than before. Each stone beneath her slippers seemed to announce her approach. By the time she reached the garden gate at Greystone House, her pulse had climbed so high she could hear it in her ears.
The gate opened almost without sound. Victor stood behind it, the same dark outline, the same measured composure, as if he had been carved from the night itself and only borrowed movement now and then.
“Lady Gwendoline,” he greeted.
“Your Grace.”
He studied her face with a directness that made her wish for the blindfold again. “You are pale.”
“I am always pale,” she replied. “It is my most enduring feature.”
“Your most enduring feature is your refusal to answer questions,” he said quietly. “Come inside.”
She followed him through the dim corridor, grateful that the lamps had been turned low. The hush of the house had begun to feel almost familiar.
He did not lead her to his study this time, nor to the small circle of candles in the garden. Instead, he guided her toward a larger room where a soft spill of light and the faint echo of sound reached them before the threshold.
The music room was handsome, though not ostentatious. A pianoforte stood near the windows, its polished case catching the candlelight. A harp stood in a dignified corner, as if offended by neglect. The air carried the faint scent of wax and something floral, as if his mother had passed through earlier.
Gwen stopped just inside the doorway. “You did not tell me we should meet here.”
“I did not know I would wish it until now,” he admitted. “You look as if your head has been used as an anvil all day. Violence suggests itself as one cause. I prefer music.”
“I do not play so well as to cure headaches,” she said.
“Fortunately—for both of us, it seems—I do,” he answered.
She could not quite tell if he was teasing her or not.
Before she could demand clarification, he went to the pianoforte, opened the lid, and sat down. His hands, so precise on ledgers and contracts, settled on the keys with an ease that startled her.
He played a soft, meandering tune, no particular song at first, only a pattern of notes that felt like a dream.
