How had she arrived here without knowing? The light suggested that it was dusk, so she’d been unconscious for some time. Had she been drugged? The last thing she remembered was being in the carriage with Lisette…drinking tea.
Sweet heavens, had her tea been poisoned?
Panic thrummed as the shadows deepened with startling swiftness. In the darkness that spread through the room like pitch, frantic theories raced through Bea’s head. Was Frank Varnum in London? Had he somehow managed to drug her—oh, Dear God, what had happened to Lisette? The notion of yet another innocent being hurt because of her made her renew her frantic struggles.
The rope only dug deeper. She was trapped.
In those dark moments, her thoughts went from escape to Wick.
By now, he’d probably read her letter and, knowing him, he’d gone after her. He was likely on his way to Staffordshire by now, with no idea that she was here, trussed up in some dark warehouse, awaiting an even darker end.
Moisture sprung to her eyes as she realized that she would die in the same solitary state in which she’d lived. With sudden clarity, she saw how stupid she’d been to leave Wick, how she’d been lying to herself. She’d convinced herself that she had to go back to Camden Manor for his sake, for the sake of her tenants…when she’d really done it for herself.
Because she was scared. Terrified of the depth of her love for him, the man who’d scaled not only the wall of her estate but the one she’d built around her heart. She was so afraid of losing him—of losing the greatest happiness of her life—that she’d caused it to happen through her own foolish actions.
I love you, Wickham Murray.
Desperate resolve filled her to say those words to him in person. She’d waited her entire life for him, and she wasn’t giving up on her dreams. Not when he’d shown her they could be real.
Voices came from outside. Footsteps up a stairwell. The sound of a lock clicking, squealing hinges. Bea tensed as a figure walked toward her, his bulky form limned by the lantern he was holding. When he was close enough, she recognized him—the port-wine stain on his jaw, the protruding brow and leering features.
Ralph Palmer reached out and yanked off her gag.
She let out a scream—the sound abruptly cut off when he backhanded her. The metallic taste of pain flooded her mouth, her vision blurring.
“Try that again, and I’ll won’t go easy on you the next time,” Palmer said. “Ain’t no point in screaming. No one’s ’ere to ’elp.”
“Why are you doing this?” She took a serrated breath, raised her head to look at him. “Because I threw you off my property?”
His laugh was nasty. “You’re a domineering bitch, but that ain’t the reason.”
“Then what is?”
The door opened again, a blonde woman with a lantern advancing, the dimness obscuring her features. Palmer went to meet her halfway, the two of them kissing with blatant sexuality before the woman broke away and came to stand in front of Bea.
It took Bea a moment to get past her shock. “Lisette?”
“Oui, you stupid whore, it is me.”
“I…I don’t understand,” Bea stammered. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because you killed my father, you hideous bitch.”
“Your father? Who…” Understanding slammed into Bea. “You’re Grigg’sdaughter?”
“The one and only. Born to the woman he loved, not the ugly hag he had to marry.”
Lisette abandoned her French accent, sounding like a different woman entirely. She looked and acted like one too. It was as if she’d shed her skin, showing her true reptilian side.
Catching Bea’s gaze on her hair, she said with a wide smile, “Like mycoiffure? This is a wig for now, but once I dispense with you, I look forward to returning to my natural roots. Ralph prefers me as a blonde, don’t you, lover?”
“I’ll take you anyway I can ’ave you, dove,” Ralph said with a slavish smile.
“And you’ll have me soon,” Lisette cooed. “Right after I deal with the murderess.”
“I didn’t kill your father,” Bea said desperately.
“Oh, but you did.” Her former maid gave a little shake of the head. “You poked your haughty nose where it did not belong, and that led to my father’s disgrace and death. But that’s the aristocracy for you, as Papa liked to say. Always lording it over the hard-working middle class.”
