“A title only gets you so far, Atherbourne. Francesca will see right through you, and when she does?—”
His words end with an abrupt hiccup at seeing what my shirt has revealed. One good eye catches the bruise that spells her name in a blotch of violent purple and red. Here he stands, warning me that I’d be the one to ruin her when she already bared her teeth to me. Sank them into my skin and left her mark. I wait until realisation dawns, curdling alongside disbelief and, eventually, jealousy.
Once that mixture bubbles to the surface, leaving his face stretched in horror, only then do I say, “Funny, she’s already seen me. Thoroughly. And I don’t think she’s complaining about what she’s found.”
Edmund nearly trips over his friend to reach me, screaming, “You filthy bastard!” Another missed attempt at a punch, and then security sweeps in, dragging us apart. Hands grab at my arms, and I let them.
The corridor swells with witnesses; security is still addressing me respectfully, but for the sake of the unconscious pervert on the floor, they’ve got my hands behind my back. My title rings through the air, summoning whispers. Another scandal. Another headline. Father will be pissed. I smile wider through the blood clotting my teeth, and I gift it to Edmund as they drag me out. He flinches. I wanthimto see it, want him to picture it each time he shuts his eyes.
My feet scuffle against stone like I’m being exiled all over again, two guards on each arm. The corridors swim with light and whispers, down every grand stairway and through the main doors. Sylvaine stands at the steps with Frank at her side, grey brows pinched like she already knows what I’ve done. The old witch doesn’t even flinch. I feel her awareness cut right to the bone. She knows. Knows that what happened in that room doesn’t belong to scandal but to something older. To her damntest. Her lips remain pursed, yet the pride is evident in the way she dips her chin.
A damning pride.
And then Francesca. She nearly tears herself from Frank’s hand to cross the space but is forced to take me in from a distance: the blood on my shirt, the split knuckles, and the grin I can’t stop. I keep my eyes on her, only her, as they lead me past. Concern lights up that stare, and I watch her swallow her temper because there’s too much attention on us right now.
Phones angle for a glimpse at this scandal; vultures are already giving their opinion; the whole fucking resort seems to have spawned here in the courtyard. They all mutter the same thing, that the prince should’ve been raised better, been taught manners, and Francesca twists in her grandfather’s hold. Edmund would see a damsel in the quiver of her lips.
I can’t fathom it.
All I see is fury.
That’s where Edmund has it all wrong.
Francesca killed her fiancé with a letter opener to his chest and fought Charlie from her throat. Her cousin wants her sainted, but my phantom of delight is no saint. She’s the duchess-heir of a cursed house, a hunted orphan clawing her way out of graves—amurderess, for fuck’s sake. And if the web is as wide as it feels, she’ll become something worse before it’s all over.
Camera flashes burn my face into permanence, teeth bared in a violent confession before I’m shoved headlong into Philip’s car.
37
HOW REDFORD LOST IT’S SHIELD
ERIC
The curtains in my hotel room are as thin as tissue paper, so when dawn breaks, it chomps down on me like teeth. Four hours of sleep is what I can claim (at most) and my eyes sting as I roll over to reach for my phone. I hit call again, probably for like the thirtieth time since yesterday afternoon.
‘BASKERVILLE’flashes across the screen until it’s routed to voicemail, at which point I end the call before having to hear her recorded message. I try another five times before admitting defeat and scrolling through our chat. Her phone had to have been going off like crazy with each message I’ve sent.
Eric
Are you okay?
They took me to the station.
I’m out, headed to a hotel, apparently.
No replies. I tell myself that her phone is probably dead or that Susannah had to take it by force because social media is no doubt flooded with speculation about what happened. I can onlyimagine what story Edmund and Charlie are running with whilst I’m away.
Yesterday comes back in fragments: Charlie’s face when he realised I recognised him, the sound of his skull hitting the wall, and the way he wheezed a cowardly explanation, ratting his friend out as always wanting to be the saviour. My knuckles burn when I clench my hand around the phone; the skin is still raw and swollen over.
I lay in bed for another hour, phone on my chest and staring up at the ceiling.STAYgets pressed into my leg until I feel it bruise. Any moment now, an officer’s going to knock on my door and take me back to Lanorythe station, and then we’ll repeat last evening’s long-winded ordeal.
‘Why did you hit him, sir?’Inspector Hartlynd would ask.
‘Personal matter’, I would say each time, or‘I’m not comfortable discussing that’. Over and over again, my answer would remain unchanging even when they threatened to call in Chief Inspector Henderson—who was out over in Marathid, searching for a serial killer that doesn’t exist.
There was even mention of my father.‘We’ll have to notify the Royal Household, sir; they’ll want to be aware of this incident. There may be legal representation sent on your behalf, and it’s important that we properly establish what happened before this goes above all our heads. If Mr Charles Henderson was a threat to you, now is the time to say so. Otherwise it looks like you attacked an innocent man, unprovoked.’
I said nothing, obviously, because Godwyn’s test isn’t mine to offer up in a statement. Francesca placed every rotten detail of her history in my hands even though she couldn’t fully trust that I wouldn’t sharpen it and cut her with it. The last thing I need is to prove Godwyn correct, that our bloodline remains as foul as it has always been.
