Page 71 of The Betrothal

As much as I wanted to reassure him, Alex was the imminent concern. Huge, overbearing and absolutely furious. I’d never felt physically threatened by Alex – his speciality was making me feel wholly unwelcome – but now he was beginning to vibrate.

“You didn’t want to know. Remember?” I asked. I made a point of sounding non-confrontational, any temptation to poke the beast was now well and truly dead in the water and I wanted to de-escalate.

I realised that this was my reality, and an inevitability that at some point they would know, but exactly who I was would likely be a surprise to them – unless they were really into political movers and shakers, which I had clocked was thankfully not the case.

And even if they were, I wasn’t that well known.

“You should have damned well insisted on fucking telling me!” he raged.

“Alex.” Ben finally moved inside the room, placing himself between the wall of rage that was his brother and both Seb and me. “Nothing can be as bad as you’re thinking.”

“It’s fucking worse.” He sidestepped his brother but Ben smoothly planted himself back in his path.

“Ben.” I smiled at him when he turned to me. “It’s okay. Alex is upset at me, and understandably. I can handle him.”

Ben’s brow furrowed.

“Alex, would you care to elaborate?” Seb was sidling towards me and when he finally came close enough, he pulled me from my seat and tucked me under his arm. After I was safely in his hold, Ben visibly relaxed.

“I’ll tell you what, I’ll show you. All of you!” Alex spun, storming from the room, the stairs creaking under him as he thundered down them.

“Come on.” I stepped to follow but Seb’s hand tightened on my shoulder.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

I nodded. “You would have found out soon enough. You can decide if you feel similarly to Alex, when you have the full picture. But Alex, he’s already quite upset, so…” I dragged him with me to the hall; he gathered Ben along the way and allowed me to lead him after the tornado that was Alex.

The sound of the TV volume increasing met us part way down the stairs. From the droning voices, I knew it was the news. The news about me.

We all stopped in front of their large TV, turned to the twenty-four-hour news channel.

A banner rolled across the bottom of the screen, the news reporter droning on about the story.

BREAKING NEWS

“…the family of Miss Blackthorne are said to be inconsolable at their daughter’s disappearance, which we understand took place several weeks ago. Only days before what was coined to be the wedding of the season between the Secretary of State’s eldest daughter and her long-term fiancé, Theodore Fairchild.”

A picture from one of the many galas flashed up on screen. I looked every part the well-raised daughter of the influential politician.

I could see Alex trembling with irritation in the corner. He collapsed down onto the armchair but stood again instantly.

“It is understood that the families sought to resolve this privately but are now asking for the public’s assistance. Substantial rewards are being offered for any information that leads to her safe return. Her husband-to-be offered our team of reporters a few words earlier today.”

The screen cut to Teddy standing on the stone steps leading to their family home in Belgravia. His suit was a dark blue, a shade lighter than the black someone would associate with loss. His hair was styled perfectly to look just dishevelled enough to appear distressed, but I knew differently, the man was always perfectly coiffed to look like he had only recently woken up, and the appearance took forever to create.

His eyes were what gave him away to me though. To anyone else he would look dismayed, the slight red rim below his long lashes, something that could easily be attributed to sleepless nights and the anguish of losing a loved one.

But I knew him better, and that was rage.

“Mr Fairchild! Mr Fairchild! Anything to say?” The clip showed reporters clamouring, the flash of camera bulbs lighting up his face despite it being broad daylight.

Teddy frowned, lips pulling downwards as he slowed, his steady swallow a beautiful manipulation, like a man struggling for words.

Struggling for composure more like.

“Please, please.” The reporters’ cries died down when he began to speak.

At first his voice sounded raw, sore, but he cleared his throat and, like magic, the coarseness was gone. “I’m sure you can understand this is a horrific time for our families, and we are desperately concerned for our dearest Izzy.”