“It is not like that, My Lady,” Imogen had protested, her cheeks burning. “I am not leaving by choice?—”
“Ah,” the Marchioness cooed, leaning forward in anticipation of gossip to spread. “I see…”
“It is not like that! I served the household with the utmost?—”
“I have impressionable young daughters to protect, Miss Lewis. I cannot have their reputations tarnished by association with a woman who carries such intimate praise from a bachelor Duke. It is not personal… you may see yourself out.”
By the third interview, Imogen’s confidence was a frayed thread. Yet she forced herself to keep her shoulders back and her chin high as she walked into the home of Mrs. Sterling, a wealthy merchant’s wife. Imogen had learned that Mr. and Mrs. Sterling were eager to climb the social ladder. To Imogen’s advantage, Mrs. Sterling was immediately dazzled by the ducal seal. However, after a brief hushed conversation with her husband in the hallway, she returned with a face like flint. Imogen could not for the life of her determine what had shifted her impression so, nor that of her husband.
“I don’t understand,” Imogen muttered to herself as she walked back to the inn through the biting wind, pulling her thin shawl tighter around her shoulders. “A reference from His Grace should be as good as gold… Why do they look at me as if I’m carrying the bloody plague?”
She stared at the elegant script on the paper in her hand. Ambrose had meant it as a gift, one that she requested as a shield to protect her future. But in the cruel, gossiping world of theton, his high praise had somehow become a brand. The morehe lauded her character, the more they suspected her virtue had been compromised. Especially without other references.
It does not make any sense. How am I so unsuccessful?
The answer arrived an hour later in the serpentine form of darkness herself, Lady Presholm.
The older woman swept into the room Imogen occupied at the inn with her nose wrinkled in disgust at the smell of stale ale and damp wool. “What a charming little rat-hole you’ve found for yourself, Imogen. I’d send some of your old bed linens, but fear we’ve turned them into rags already.”
“Lady Presholm,” Imogen said, standing tall despite her exhaustion. “What on Earth are you doing here?”
“I came to see the fruits of my labor,” Julia purred, settling onto the room’s only sturdy chair and peeling off her pristine white gloves, one finger at a time and laying the pair on her lap. “I imagine the job hunt hasn’t been going well?” She asked, looking up with a raised eyebrow.
“You didn’t…”
“It’s a small world, theton. A few well-placed words at a tea table about a difficult girl of unstable parentage can do wonders for one’s employment prospects. Spreads quicker than fire, when done right…”
Imogen’s blood ran cold, and she curled her hands into tight fists at her sides. “You… you’ve been telling people not to hire me.”
“Not quite so pointedly?—”
“Why? I left. I gave up everything to protect the boys and the family name, further distancing myself from your new home. We have no ties to each other! Why are you so intent on destroying my life?”
The Countess’ face transformed, the mask of society beauty falling away to reveal a raw, jagged hatred.
“Because you shouldn’t exist at all!” she hissed, her voice trembling with vitriol. “Every time I look at you, I see my husband’s betrayal.”
“I did not ask to be born!”
“All I can see… is that common, golden-haired creature he preferred over his own wife. You are a walking, breathing reminder of every lie he told me!”
“I am not my mother,” Imogen cried out. “I never knew her! I never asked for any of this! Why can’t you just let me be a miserable creature in peace?”
“You are her shadow!” Julia screamed, stepping toward her. “You think you’re so pure, so noble, sacrificing yourself for theDuke? I see through it all, I always have. You’re just a bastard brat who got lucky. And you couldn’t even hold onto that.”
“It is for their well-being that I left!”
“And they are lucky for that! You don’t deserve a life, Imogen. You deserve to rot in the gutter where you belong. I will make sure no door in this city ever opens for you. I will hunt you until there is nothing left but the shame of your birth.” The Countess’ eyes were wild, fueled by years of bitterness and a redirected rage that Imogen could not fight.
“Get out,” Imogen whispered, her strength failing as she flopped down on the bed. “Just… get out, Julia.”
“With pleasure,” her stepmother sneered, adjusting her silk wrap. “Enjoy the silence, Imogen. It’s all you’ll ever have.”
When the door slammed shut, Imogen collapsed entirely onto the bed, wrecked. She yanked down the bed sheets and slipped in, pulling them up to her chin. Imogen was truly trapped in a cage then, more than she ever had been before. And Julia had just locked it and thrown away the key.
I am doomed.
The door hadn’t been closed for five minutes before it flew open again. This time, there was no silk or perfume, but only the sharp, metallic tang of lye and the heavy thud of the Scottish maid’s boots.
