But that was the cruelty of it—how many truly knew her? These people who smiled and gossiped and judged had never looked beyond the surface of any woman, preferring the narrative of female desperation to the uncomfortable truth of male predation. She wanted to tell him that “obvious” meant nothing in the court of public opinion, that truth bent easily beneath the weight of a good story, but her throat had closed around any words she might offer.
His thumb traced small circles against her wrist, finding the pulse point where her heart hammered for anyone who cared to feel it. The simple touch anchored her, reminding her that she was not alone in this box, in this battle. Whatever society chose to believe, Rees knew the truth. He had proclaimed it publicly, had stood by her, had loved her despite everything.
The opera continued its tragic tale of doomed love and mistaken identity—how fitting, she thought with bitter humor—while she maintained her perfect posture, her serene expression, the mask that had become second nature during these weeks of tentative social rehabilitation. Let them whisper. Let them stare. She would not give them the satisfaction of seeing her break.
By the time they returned home, the midnight cold had settled into her bones despite the fur-lined cloak Rees had wrapped around her shoulders. She moved through her evening toilette mechanically, dismissing her maid with a gesture, needing solitude to let her careful composure finally crack. But even alone, the tears would not come—only a hollow ache that seemed to expand with each breath.
The bed sheets felt cold against her skin as she lay staring at the canopy above, listening to Rees’s movements in his dressing room. When he finally joined her, his warmth along her side should have been comforting, but her mind raced through implications and possibilities, searching for some way to combat lies that had already taken root in society’s imagination.
“We need proof.”
The words emerged from her with sudden clarity, and she turned to face him in the dim light of the dying fire. His eyes reflected the orange glow, making them seem almost molten as they studied her face.
“Victoria—”
“No, listen.” She pushed herself up on one elbow, energy suddenly coursing through her where exhaustion had been. “Real proof that Damian orchestrated the garden incident. These forged letters—they prove he is willing to manufacture evidence, do they not? If we can show he did this recently, people will have to question whether he has been lying all along.”
Rees shifted to mirror her position, his expression sharpening from concern to consideration. “You are right. If we can prove these current letters are forgeries and connect them to him directly, it casts doubt on his entire narrative.”
“We need to go back to the beginning.” Her mind raced ahead, following threads of logic like paths through a maze. “There must be evidence we missed, something that proves his involvement in the original incident.”
She sat up fully, sudden revelation making her gasp. “The note! The false note claiming Lady Sarah needed help in the garden. I kept it—it is still in my reticule from that night.”
“You kept it?” Rees sat up as well, the sheets pooling around his waist. “After all this time?”
“I could not bear to look at anything from that night, so I simply put the entire reticule away. It should still be in my wardrobe, pushed to the back with the dress I wore—the dress he tore.”
They rose together, not bothering with robes, padding across the cold floor to her wardrobe. By lamplight, she pushed aside newer gowns until she found it—a small beaded reticule in emerald green, innocent-looking despite the memories it carried. Her fingers trembled slightly as she opened the delicate clasp, reaching inside to find the folded paper that had lured her to her doom.
Rees held the lamp closer as she unfolded it carefully. The paper was expensive, cream-colored with a faint watermark—the kind used for formal correspondence. But the handwriting made them both lean closer. It attempted feminine delicacy, all loops and flourishes, but there was something fundamentally wrong about it. The pressure was too heavy in places, the crosses on the T’s too aggressive, as if a masculine hand had forced itself into feminine shapes.
“This is not a woman’s writing,” Rees said slowly, tracing a finger above the letters without touching the precious evidence. “It is someone attempting to appear feminine and failing.”
“The servant who delivered it,” Victoria breathed, memory sharpening. “I barely noticed him in my concern for Sarah, but he was not one of the Lyon’s regular footmen. We need to find him.”
Rees’s hand covered hers where it held the note, his grip firm and reassuring. “Then we will find him. We will track down every piece of evidence, every witness, every thread that leads back to Sterling. He wanted war? His voice hardened with determination. “He will have it.”
Chapter 20
Lady Sarah’s drawing room caught the morning light through gauze curtains, casting everything in shades of pearl and ash. Victoria’s pulse quickened as their hostess set down her teacup, the delicate clink breaking the expectant silence. Sarah’s eyes darted between Victoria and Rees, her curiosity barely concealed—morning calls from married couples were unusual, and the urgency that had brought them here at such an early hour suggested matters more serious than social pleasantries.
“You want to know about that night,” Sarah stated, her direct honesty a reminder of why she remained one of Victoria’s few friends after the scandal. Her fingers fidgeted with the Brussels lace at her cuff, a nervous habit Victoria recognized from their finishing school days. “I have wondered, since hearing about these supposed letters, if there was more to what happened than any of us knew.”
Victoria leaned forward, her traveling dress rustling against the striped silk of Sarah’s settee. “Do you remember seeing Damian that evening? Before... before the garden?”
“Actually, yes.” Sarah’s brow furrowed in concentration, recalling memories she likely wished to forget. “It struck me as odd at the time, though I did not think much of it until later. He was speaking with one of the footmen—not one of the Lyons’ regular staff, I am certain of that.”
Rees’s attention sharpened beside Victoria, though he maintained a casually relaxed posture. “Can you describe this footman?”
“Tall, perhaps thirty. Dark hair. But what I remember most was the scar.” Sarah traced a line above her eyebrow. “Just here, quite prominent. White against his skin, as if from an old injury. I noticed because he kept touching it nervously while Sterling spoke to him.”
“Have you seen him since?” Victoria asked hopefully despite her attempt to remain composed.
Sarah’s eyes widened with sudden recollection. “Yes! At the Wexfords’ dinner party last month. He was serving in the dining room, and I remember thinking it curious—the Wexfords are particular about their servants’ appearances, yet they had hired someone with such a visible mark.”
Within the hour, Victoria and Rees stood in the narrow corridor behind the Wexfords’ townhouse, the servants’ entrance a world away from the marble steps and brass fixtures of the main entry. The housekeeper, a stern woman with steel-gray hair pulled back, had been persuaded by Rees’s calling card and a discreet monetary consideration to allow them access to the servants’ hall during the morning break.
Tom—for that was the footman’s name—sat on a narrow stool near the kitchen fire, his height making him fold awkwardly even in rest. The scar Sarah had described stood out against his weather-beaten skin, and his hands twisted nervously in his lap as Rees and Victoria approached. The other servants had melted away at a look from their housekeeper, leaving the three of them in relative privacy despite the clatter of pots from the nearby kitchen.
