Marianne studied the handwriting—an ostentatious script with superfluous flourishes, each letter shaped with the kind of practised precision that spoke of vanity and a desperate need to impress. The wax bore the Carlisle arms, pressed harder than necessary, leaving an angry crimson wound in the expensive paper.
“What is it?” Catherine asked from across the breakfast table, setting down her teacup at Marianne’s sudden stillness.
Adrian, who’d been reviewing estate correspondence, looked up with sharp attention. His ability to sense trouble was almost preternatural, honed by years of survival in places where missing subtle signals meant death.
Marianne broke the seal with deliberate composure, though her pulse had already quickened. The card within was gilt-edged, ostentatiously costly—the sort of stationery that might feed an entire family for a month.
Lady Venetia Carlisle requests the honour of your presence at Worthington Manor to celebrate her recent betrothal to His Grace, the Duke of Worthington. A fortnight of intimate gatherings and evening diversions has been arranged for select friends. Your attendance would bring particular pleasure.
Pray reply with all possible dispatch, as accommodations are limited to only the most valued connections.
It was a masterwork of veiled insult. ‘Recent betrothal’ emphasised its newness—more calculation than courtship. ‘Intimate gatherings’ and ‘evening diversions’ hinted at entertainments best kept in the shadows of propriety. ‘Select friends’ implied they scarcely qualified. And ‘particular pleasure’—that was a blade wrapped in silk.
“Venetia’s engaged,” Marianne said at last, her tone carefully neutral as she passed the invitation to Adrian.
His expression barely shifted as he read, yet she caught the faint tightening about his eyes, the way his fingers pressed too hard against the paper. “Worthington. She moves quickly.”
“Who is Worthington?” Catherine leaned forward, curiosity brightening her features. “And why do you both look as though someone has died?”
“The Duke of Worthington is seventy-three years old,” Adrian said flatly. “Rich as Croesus, mean as a snake, and has buried three wives already.”
“Seventy-three?” Catherine’s eyes widened. “But Venetia can’t be more than eight-and-twenty”
“Nine-and-twenty,” Adrian corrected absently, still staring at the invitation as if it might reveal hidden secrets. “And desperate, apparently.”
“Not desperate,” Marianne said quietly. “Strategic. This betrothal happened after the assembly, after I—” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “After our public encounter.”
Adrian’s gaze snapped to hers, dark with understanding. “She’s establishing a power base.”
“Worthington commands more influence than Harrowmere,” Marianne continued, tracing the gilt edge with her fingertip. “As his duchess, she’ll take precedence over me at every gathering. She’ll have his wealth, his influence, his connections.”
“And when he dies—given his age and fondness for port, that may not be long—she’ll be a very wealthy widow.” Adrian set the card down with controlled precision. “Free to do as she pleases, and well equipped to ruin anyone who’s crossed her.”
Catherine glanced between them, dawning understanding in her eyes. “This is about you two. About what happened at the assembly.”
“Among other things.” Adrian’s jaw tightened. “We won’t attend.”
“We must attend,” Marianne countered at once.
“Absolutely not.”
“If we refuse, it will look like fear—like we acknowledge her power over us.” Marianne rose and paced to the window, her morning gown whispering with agitation. “Besides, look at the guest list she implies—‘select friends’ means the highest circlesof theton. Those whose opinions shape society itself. If we are absent, she controls the narrative entirely.”
“Let her—”
“No.” Marianne turned back, spine straight, eyes bright with resolve. “We go. We show perfect unity. We demonstrate that her little schemes have failed.”
“It’s a trap,” Adrian said grimly.
“Of course it’s a trap. But sometimes the only way to defeat one is to spring it deliberately.” She moved to his side, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Unless you fear what she might reveal?”
His hand came up to cover hers, squeezing just hard enough to border on warning. “Careful, wife.”
“I’m always careful. It’s you who leans toward the dramatic.”
Catherine cleared her throat delicately. “I should mention—I know Venetia. Orknewher. We corresponded while I was abroad.”
Both Adrian and Marianne turned to stare. The morning sun seemed suddenly too bright, too exposing.
