But perhaps if she cared less about what others thought of her and how much she lived up to her ideal of whatshewanted to be, she would have felt the sting of condemnation less. That didn’t make her mother’s actions right, but it didn’t make Sybil right, either.
The thought brought tears to her eyes. “I love you, Mama.”
“And I you, my love.” Scarlet wiped the tears from her face. “There now, don’t cry. You are going to be happy now, Sybil. I promise. I will do everything in my power to ensure it. Now, go and shine as only you can. And let your Duke love you, sweet. It’s good to be loved the way a man can love a woman.”
Before her mother could flow from poetic to literal, Sybil bid her goodbye and fled downstairs to where George waited. He took her hand, raised it to his lips, and gave her the slow smile that made her heart flutter.
“Now,” he said, inviting her to his carriage. “Let us discover the truth once and for all.”
* * *
The ball was just as glitzy as these events always were. Sybil wandered on George’s arm, making sure they were seen. They danced together, and every time his hand brushed hers, butterflies exploded in her stomach.
As soon as there was an opening, Sybil did a single solo trip around the room, talking to as many of her acquaintances as possible, knowing that memories would blur as the night went on and everyone would trust she was there. Then, she left, slipping through the front doors to where George was already waiting for her. His carriage took them to his mother’s townhouse, and before the clock struck twelve, they were bidding a tired butler let them in.
“Would you like me to wake the maids and send for refreshment?” he asked testily.
George smiled lazily. “No, that shan’t be necessary, thank you.”
With a frigid bow, the butler left, and Sybil looked around. They had been taken to the library—or as the butler had called it, her book room—and she was at liberty to appreciate the many books that lined the shelves, many of which seemed old and… she swiped a finger across the tops of the books. Untouched. It seemed the maids had not been doing their jobs.
“Five minutes,” George said as he peered through the doors. “If she has any proof, I expect it will be in her rooms.”
Her rooms. For the first time, a twinge of guilt speared through Sybil, but she squashed it. If the Dowagerhadn’tbeen behind this, it meant there was another culprit, and Sybil had exhausted her list of enemies. At least, she no doubt had plenty of enemies, but, she fancied, not many inclined to go to these lengths to prevent the wedding.
The five minutes were soon up, and they left the library into a darkened corridor. There were some lights, kept low, but the townhouse felt otherwise deserted. George met her eyes and pressed his fingers to his lips as he led the way up the grand stairwell to the second floor, keeping to the side to prevent creaks. She followed in the same steps as he took, making sure to hold her dress carefully so it didn’t rustle.
Her heart pounded. This was equal measures terrifying and exhilarating. Soon, they would discover the truth.
Her rooms were to the left at the top of the stairs, and George turned the handle, wincing at the small click as the door finally opened, revealing a room bathed in darkness. It took Sybil’s eyes a few moments to acclimatize.
“Start searching,” George whispered. “I’ll take the desk.”
Sybil crossed the room to the table beside the bed, opening the top drawer to reveal a candle stub, a Bible, and a pen that she suspected required repairing. In the drawer below, there was a book. The third drawer was empty.
Sucking her teeth, Sybil looked around the room. It was a handsome one, she could tell even in the moonlight, and there were ample places one could hide letter-writing equipment. Had the broken pen been the one used to write her letters?
She checked under the pillow to find a small packet of letters, wrapped together with a ribbon.Anne Hansenwas written across the top in elegant writing.
“George?” Sybil held out the letters. “Do you think these could be pertinent?”
He crossed the room to her and looked at them, before fishing in the desk for a light. He lit a candle, and its wavering light cast long shadows as he untied the packet of letters.
“This is my uncle’s writing,” he said, a tone of puzzlement in his voice. “I hardly—” He broke away as he read, then he cursed, anger in every syllable.
“What?” Sybil caught his arm, holding him in place. “What is it?George?”
“It’s my uncle and my mother. They were…” he shook his head and in the candlelight, his eyes glinted with hurt and rage, “they were having an affair?”
ChapterTwenty-Two
George had thought he was angry when he had discovered his mother had sent him away to Italy, or the fact she had made him work as a footman after his return. He had thought himself angry when he suspected her of impairing his relationship with Sybil.
But nothing compared to the rage he felt now. It was pure, channeling through him with a kind of restless energy that he knew would manifest itself in violence before too much time passed.
“Return home,” he heard himself say to Sybil. Her eyes were wide, her hands white as they clasped themselves. “Take the carriage. My groom will see you home safely.”
“But—”
