“That,” he said dryly, “is what I’m afraid of.”
He kissed her then—deeply, possessively—as though he might brand her his before sending her into battle. When they finally drew apart, both breathing hard, he pressed something small into her palm.
A knife—delicate, elegant, and deadly—its sheath crafted to disappear within a corset.
“Just in case,” he said.
“You think it could come to that?”
“I think Venetia’s friends sometimes forget thatnois a complete sentence. Consider this insurance that they remember.”
***
The next three days passed in a blur of preparation. Trunks were packed and repacked as Sarah fretted over every ribbon and hem. Adrian spent the hours drilling Marianne and Catherine on the likely attendees—their habits, their alliances, their vices.
“Lord Harrison will be there—he’s been sniffing after Venetia for years, hoping for scraps. Avoid being alone with him; he believes merchant daughters are fair game.” Adrian paced the morning room like a caged panther, agitation simmering beneath control. “Lady Thornton will feign friendship while gathering gossip—tell her nothing true—make up banalities if you must. Sir Gerald Hawthorne is tolerable when sober, dangerous when drunk. Keep well away from him after dinner.”
“You make it sound as if we’re going to war,” Catherine remarked.
“We are,” Adrian replied grimly. “A war fought with words instead of steel, and the battlefield is a ballroom.”
***
Marianne’s father arrived on the eve of their departure, bringing not just the emeralds but his own particular brand of merchant pragmatism.
“So you’re walking into a viper’s nest out of pride,” he said, studying Adrian with those sharp eyes that had built a fortune from nothing.
“Among other reasons,” Adrian answered evenly.
“Good. Pride’s underrated. But pride without strategy is just folly.” Edmund set a case upon the table and opened it, revealing not only the emeralds but a fortune in jewels. “Your mother’s collection. All of it. Let those inbred peacocks see what merchant money can buy.”
“Papa,” Marianne breathed, touching the glittering array. “These must be worth—”
“More than the manor. Your mother insisted I bring them to you. Said her daughter should wear them now, while she’s young and beautiful. Keep them safe.”
“With my life.”
“I’d rather you use your wits, but that’ll do.” He drew her into a fierce embrace. “Show them what Whitcombe women are made of.”
“Steel and stubbornness?”
“And a healthy dose of merchant cunning.”
***
The morning of their departure dawned grey and misted, as though the world itself understood the gravity of theirerrand. Their party was suitably grand: Adrian, Marianne, and Catherine in the main coach; Sarah and Adrian’s valet in the second; footmen and luggage in the third. It was a deliberate display of ducal authority.
“Remember,” Adrian said as they rolled through London’s awakening streets, “we stay together as much as possible. We trust no one. And at the first sign of genuine danger, we leave.”
“Definegenuine danger,”Catherine said, her attempt at lightness falling flat.
“If anyone tries to compromise you. If Venetia separates us for too long. If—” His jaw flexed. “If I give the word, we go. No hesitation. Understood?”
Both women nodded, though Marianne crossed her fingers in her lap. She would decide for herself what constituted true danger.
The journey to Worthington Manor lasted six hours, the roads growing steadily worse as the countryside swallowed them. Adrian sat in tense silence, occasionally pulling back the curtain to gauge their progress. Catherine tried to read, but abandoned the effort after attempting the same page thrice. Marianne watched them both—these scarred siblings she loved—and wondered what price pride would exact from them all.
As they turned into the long drive of Worthington Manor, Adrian reached over and took her hand.
