Ravenwood did not glance at her. “Must you always test fate by tugging at threads you do not understand?”
“If the thread is already wrapped around my neck, I should very much like to know who tied it.” She huffed. Though that wasn’t exactly what the Fates did with their threads and he likely knew that. Clotho spun the thread of life, Lachesis measured the thread that determined a person’s destiny, and Atropos…well, that Fate cut the thread that effectively ended a person’s life.
“Be grateful no threads have been cut, then.” She had been right about his knowledge then… He tightened his jaw in frustration. “You are determined to make this difficult.”
“I am determined not to be treated as if I am breakable,” she returned.
They moved away from the last clusters of guests, toward a quieter side of the path that curved between various hedges and a line of trees heavy with spring leaves. The gravel softened beneath their feet. The music became distant and reduced to a faint echo behind them. Vivy breathed a little easier, but only for a heartbeat. Her foot caught on something that was not stone and much more solid. She stumbled and gasped. Ravenwood moved his hand swiftly to steady her. He held her elbow firmly in his grasp to prevent her from falling.
“What is…” she began and then froze.
A man lay sprawled near the base of the hedge, half on the path and half in the damp grass as if he had been discarded as rubble. His clothing was all dark. His hat lay nearby him as if it had tumbled away as he fell. There was a wrongness to the angle of his limbs—a limpness that made Lavinia’s stomach turn.
“Oh…” she whispered, horror rising. “He is…?”
Ravenwood was already kneeling before the man. He moved with swift efficiency and pressed one hand pressed at the man’s throat and then he lifted his other hand to the man’s chin slightly, checking his breathing. He narrowed his gaze as he stared at the bruises along the man’s jaw and the dark stain near his ribs. The Earl of Ravenwood did not look like a gentleman at leisure then. He looked like something far more dangerous—controlled, practiced, and utterly unafraid of the sight of the man’s injuries. A muscle jumped in his jaw. “Bloody hell...”
Lavinia swallowed hard. “You know him.”
Ravenwood flicked his gaze over the man’s face again, as if confirming what he already knew. His mouth tightened into a grim line.
“Who is he?” Lavinia pressed, her voice lower now, urgent.
For a moment, Ravenwood seemed to forget she was there. Then he lifted his gaze to meet hers—hazel eyes flecked with gold and green all sharp and shuttered as he tried to hide the truth from her. He looked back down and muttered a name, barely audible, but she’d heard it. Her breath caught in her throat. She recognized the name…it was one of the many on the list she’d found.
She curled her fingers into a fist at her side and whispered. “That name…”
Ravenwood rose in a smooth motion and cut off whatever she meant to say. “He is alive,” he said crisply. “But he will not remain so if we stand here debating any of this.”
Vivy’s voice wavered only slightly. “We must fetch help.”
“That is precisely what I intend to do,” Ravenwood replied.
He bent again and swept his gaze along the hedges and the path beyond, as if he expected someone to step out of the trees and finish what had been started. Then he held out his hand to her. “Come.”
Vivy stared at his hand for one rebellious heartbeat. Then she placed her fingers into his and let him pull her to her feet, because this was not the moment to argue about his high-handedness. They moved quickly toward the house, Ravenwood moved briskly. Vivy’s thoughts whirled out of control. The last thing she had expected to find was an injured man in the hedge. Ravenwood had recognized him immediately. She had a terrible feeling in her gut that this was no coincidence. Not after she heard Ravenwood mutter his name.
The garden party continued as though nothing had happened. A footman offered champagne and a lady laughed nearby. The world remained absurdly bright and cheerful when for her, it had darkened immeasurably. Ravenwood’s expression did not change, but his voice turned coldly polite as he intercepted a servant. “I require my carriage immediately.”
The footman blinked. “My lord?” He seemed a little startled by the earl’s abruptness.
“Immediately,” Ravenwood repeated.
Something in his tone snapped the man into motion and he hurried off.
Vivy hovered at Ravenwood’s side, struggling to keep her face composed. “Where are we going?”
Ravenwood did not answer.
“Lord Ravenwood,” she hissed irritated with him, “that man—who is he?”
Ravenwood turned toward her and he attempted to warn her with just a flick of his gaze. She would not bow down to his demands just because he was used to having others do so. When she didn’t seem to give in, he finally said harshly, “Not here.”
The footman returned and said breathlessly, “Your carriage is being brought around, my lord.”
“Good.” Ravenwood swept his gaze around the room once and made a swift assessment. Then he turned to the door without another word, dragging Vivy along with him. Outside, he moved with ruthless efficiency. He instructed the driver what he needed and told Vivy to remain with the carriage. Then he returned to the hedge with two men—his driver and a sturdy groom borrowed from the stables—who followed without question. It did not take them long to return and for that she was grateful.
Vivy stood away from the carriage as they lifted the injured man inside. A sound—half groan and half breath—escaped him, confirming he was alive. She had not truly doubted that otherwise Ravenwood would not have been so eager to put him in the carriage. He said he was alive, but it was good to know he’d spoken the truth.
