Belladonna
: Chapter 19

THE PARTY WAS IN FULL BLAST THAT EVENING. MUSIC POURED FROM the ballroom, with the trill of a grand piano reverberating against the walls. It was as bustling as when Signa had first arrived at Thorn Grove, the gowns as full and as dazzling as they’d been that night, and the sweets passed around on silver platters just as luxurious.

Signa caught only glimpses of the festivities. The heavy wool dress she’d changed into—with the exception of a corset, which she was unable to fasten herself—was far from the imported velvets and silks the others around her had donned. She sneaked around the maids, maneuvering out of the vision of those who might question her. Death had been right—this would have been so much easier if she’d been able to call upon those blasted powers of hers.

But to put herself in that state would summon him, and after what she’d said to him that afternoon, he was the last person she wished to see.

She had every reason to hate Death. Every reason to be angry, and to tell him so.

So why did she feel so guilty?

Signa kept her head ducked low as she shuffled down the stairs, nearly clear of the house when her face collided with someone’s chest. She stumbled back, noticing first the rosewood cane the man fisted tight, then shrinking beneath the weight of Byron Hawthorne’s scrutiny.

One corner of his lip curled as he looked her over, pausing upon her eyes. The breath left him in a rush, a pallor overtaking his skin. “Lillian?” The words seemed to escape him before he could stop himself, and he shook his head. “No. You’re that girl who was with Marjorie, aren’t you? My brother’s new ward. Where do you think you’re headed, dressed like that?”

One wrong word, Signa knew, and he’d have her back up the stairs. She considered her lie carefully and decided it best to play into the role this man would expect of her—a young, foolish girl. “I—I just wanted to see the party, sir.”

She swallowed, for although she was acting, her discomfort with this man was very real. He made a dismissive grunt and took her by the wrist as though he intended to haul her back up the stairs. They’d taken but one step when something down the hall caught his eye. Signa followed his gaze to see that it was Marjorie’s strawberry-blond hair he watched as she escaped the party, making her way toward the kitchen.

Byron released Signa’s hand. “Return to your room, girl,” Byron demanded, though he no longer looked at her. “This is no place for children.”

“Of course, sir.” She nodded, but the moment he turned to follow Marjorie, Signa seized her opportunity to escape into the night, not daring to glance behind to see if she’d been spotted. Anyone who noticed her skulking off to meet a young man at this hour would think one thing, and if her etiquette book was accurate, it’d mean social ruin.

Sylas waited in the stables with the horses ready—Mitra again for Signa, and a stallion dark as the sky above for him, one that reminded her of the beautiful beasts that had picked her up from Aunt Magda’s. Gundry sat at Sylas’s heels, the hound’s eyes a rich amber. His nose was lifted and his eyes alert, ensuring no company dared to venture too close.

“Took you long enough.” Sylas glanced once at her wool gown and promptly unfastened his black cloak, draping it around her without waiting for permission. “Decide to stop for scones on your way here?”

“If only I were so lucky.” Signa made a fist around the cloak, too embarrassed to thank him as he pressed Mitra’s reins into her palm. Sliding her foot into a stirrup, Signa tried to pull herself up and onto the mare.

In no mood to waste time, Sylas reached for her waist and hoisted her up, checking to ensure that she was secure in the saddle. This time, she did her best not to flinch from his touch.

“It’s half an hour’s ride.” He lifted himself onto his own stallion with admirable grace. “Keep close to Mitra for warmth—we won’t be stopping.”

“And might I ask why we’re going to Grey’s in the first place?” There was only an hour until she was meant to meet with Death. Although she didn’t particularly care to see him, she had no desire to discover what he’d do if she was late for whatever ridiculous “lesson” he had planned.

“I was with the horses this afternoon when I overheard your governess speaking to Byron Hawthorne,” Sylas told her, brisk. “Grey’s will be closed for repairs tonight, and she is to join him there. There’s something he wants to show her—something that he said will ‘persuade her.’ If we can outrun them, we might be able to figure out what it is.”

That would explain the hunger in Byron’s eyes when he saw Marjorie. “I saw them inside, heading for the kitchen,” Signa said.

Sylas tightened his jaw. “They’ll likely use the distraction of the party to take his carriage. We should hurry.”

Gundry padded around the stallion’s feet, amber eyes glinting and body tensed with anticipation. Signa wondered whether he was more dog or wolf. She was beginning to suspect the latter. “Is the hound coming with us?”

“Of course. Should we run into company, he’ll alert us before they can see us. Now let’s get going.”

Though Signa had more questions—primarily how much trouble they’d be in if they were found—she was given no chance to ask them as Sylas gave his steed a gentle kick and took off. Mitra didn’t wait for permission to follow. Wind stung Signa’s cheeks and she pulled on the hood of her borrowed cloak. As it enveloped her, she was surprised to find it did not smell of hay and manure but of the wintertime woods, crisp and rich with pine.

She pulled the cloak closer as she followed behind Sylas, who seemed at ease beneath the starry night. He didn’t shiver as she did but tipped his head back to face the sky. His black hair blew wild, as untamed and free as the way he rode. Beside him, Gundry ran at full speed, huffing with exertion and tongue lolling, loving every moment of the journey. Sylas caught the hound’s eye, which sparked a grin of mischief from Sylas. He tipped his head back and howled into the night. Gundry joined in, the sound as beautiful as it was haunting as it echoed across the moors.

Watching Sylas, Signa softened. Every day, it seemed, there was another side of him to discover. So far, this was her favorite.

They rode in silence for a long while after that, the only sounds those of the beasts around them. Snorting from the horses, and heavy hoofbeats as they raced each other through the moors. Panting from Gundry, who never slowed even as the terrain shifted beneath his paws, grass turning into rubble and then cobblestones.

Sylas eased his horse to a stop, and Signa did the same. When they’d dismounted, Sylas tied the horses’ reins loosely around a tree trunk. “We’ll go on foot from here. Keep your hood on.” Burrowed into the woodsy scent of it, she didn’t argue.

Gundry ventured ahead to sniff out the streets. They were lined with hat shops and dressmakers and even a tiny apothecary, every building shut tight. Yet the lights of a pub farther down the street glowed bright, and it was better to take no chances.

“Byron and Marjorie. Do you think one of them could be behind the murder?” Her whisper echoed across the empty cobblestone street. It felt odd to be out at such an hour—odd to be out in town at all, but Signa felt no fear. She’d spent too much time with the night to be afraid.

And so, it seemed, had Sylas. Though, given his hulking size, it felt more likely that the night would be afraid of him. Sylas’s walk was confident, his body long and chin lifted. “I’m not sure. But if someone’s targeting the Hawthornes, there has to be a motive. Byron certainly has one—Grey’s is the Hawthornes’ source of income. It’s their legacy. As for Marjorie—”

“There’s something going on between her and Elijah,” Signa said, earning a surprised blink from Sylas. Spotting it, she arched a brow. “Do you think you’re the only one who can manage some sleuthing?”

Sylas set a hand on her shoulder, steering Signa to the side of the street so that they hugged the buildings. “Keep to the shadows, sleuth. If anyone sees you out at this hour, they’ll think you’ve something to sell.”

“But I’ve nothing in my—oh.” Her cheeks warmed. “And they wouldn’t think the same of you?”

“They’d think it scandalous, but you would withstand the worst of that social branding. If I were of higher status, it would be expected that I marry you. But you are lucky in this world, Miss Farrow, for you have the resources to care for yourself regardless of what society deems for you. Most people are not so fortunate.” He looped his arm through Signa’s and pulled her toward a greystone building—the tallest in the street, one with a massive bow window near the front entry.

Signa couldn’t manage a more thorough look at the building, for her entire face was on fire. Such a touch was in no way socially acceptable. From their difference in status, to the fact that they had no familial relation, this intimate link was nearly as scandalous as selling herself on the streets. It didn’t matter that she had money; she didn’t wish to buy people’s affection. She wanted them to truly like and respect her. And yet… she’d never known that a man’s arm could be so firm. That shoulders could feel so solid, and hands so strong.

Sylas was perhaps one of the most irritating creatures upon this earth, and yet she could not look away from him.

Whatever locks were on Grey’s, Sylas wasted no time crouching before them, picking them with unnerving ease. He strode inside, gloved hands slipping into his pockets. “I’ve had practice,” he said when he noticed that she’d stepped away from him, staring incredulously. “The padlocks on the stalls jam all the time, and we can’t very well keep the horses stuck inside.”

Signa nodded as she crossed the threshold, though it felt like her bones had been locked into place. How foolish she’d been to come. To agree to travel half an hour from her home in the dead of the night with a man who was practically a stranger. A man who had dismantled a lock as though it were a mere suggestion.

Where, she wondered, had he learned such a skill? And how much danger was she in? Perhaps she’d been a fool to trust Sylas—though she supposed she shouldn’t worry too much. Should Sylas try anything, Signa needed only to summon her powers. To summon Death and end Sylas’s life. Her hand went instinctively to her pockets, but they were empty.

She’d left her belladonna berries in the pockets of her day dress.

Sweat formed upon her brow, and her breathing grew uneasy as Gundry’s sudden whine pierced the night, joined by the clunking of hooves and carriage wheels on cobblestones. Without missing a breath, Sylas shut the door and took hold of Signa’s hand. There was no time to ask what he was doing—no time to look around—before she was shoved into a coat closet. Sylas stumbled in after her, hissing as he hit his head on something she couldn’t see in the darkness. “Make room!”

Signa gathered her skirts closer, though there was little room to be spared. They were half on top of each other as he pressed in. He tried to brace against a wall, only for the leather of his gloves to brush against Signa’s waist. She gasped and kicked one of his boots.

Sylas hissed, “Give me some credit, Miss Farrow. If I was trying to seduce you, my methods would be much more pointed.”

His words were cut short as a door opposite the one they’d entered from rattled. Shooting Signa a glare to silently signal her to behave, Sylas eased the closet door shut.

Signa was convinced there was no part of her body that Sylas wasn’t touching, and there was no part of him that she wasn’t trying very hard not to think about. That she’d ventured out without a corset amplified the situation, for every brush against her felt that much more jarring, and the pressure of his body all the more perilous. It was an inopportune moment for such a fervent feeling to awaken in her, and yet awaken it did, quickening her pulse and making her mind wander. She wondered what it might be like to curl her fingers through his soot-colored hair, or how his lips might feel against hers. What his body might feel like beneath all the layers—

“Someone’s here,” Sylas whispered, and Signa nearly kicked him again.

“Obviously.” Pulled from her stupor, she tried to peer through the thin wooden slats in the door. Though it was too dark to see his eyes, she could have sworn that Sylas was watching her before he leaned in and did the same, looking through the slats above her.

When the handle of the front door rattled, Signa drew a breath and held it, afraid that if she made so much as a sound, they’d be found out. Oh, what a fool she was to let Sylas drag her here, hiding in a coat closet of all places.

The two shadows entered without a sound, the larger of them bending to light one of the oil lamps, bathing his face in a dim ember glow. Through tiny slivers, she could see that Grey’s floors were made of obsidian, as was the bar top stretching along an entire wall. There were glass tables scattered throughout, with plush leather chairs around each one. On the opposite side of the room, leather sofas surrounded the largest hearth Signa had ever seen.

“We’ll have to be quick,” Byron grumbled, voice rough as a carriage tumbling down a gravel road. “Should anyone discover a woman’s been allowed in, we’ll have even more of a headache than we do now.”

“You beg me to come yet condemn me the moment I walk in?” Marjorie sounded haughtier than Signa had ever heard her. “I am perfectly content standing outside and sharing our discussion with the world if my feminine wiles offend you. Or perhaps we could take it back to the carriage, so that I may return home?”

Signa couldn’t quite make out his response, though she thought it was something to do with how Marjorie needed to see this place for herself, to understand what he was trying to save. Taking a seat at one of the tables, Byron slid something across to her—papers. “Look at these and you’ll see that liquor has not been ordered in weeks. And at these, which show we’d have no food for guests had I not realized our shipment was late. Elijah’s not booked any entertainment, our cigars are no longer being imported, and yet it’s he who holds the ledgers. It’s he who refuses to offer this company any coin. He who refuses to pass his work on to me, and even worse, on to Percy! That boy has been here every day this week begging to work, Marjorie, and I am running out of excuses to give him.”

Signa wished she could see Marjorie’s face. Wished she could see anything as Marjorie answered, “I’ve done everything in my power, Byron. Yet even in her death, Lillian still holds his soul. I cannot get through to him.”

“Then change that.” There was such resentment in his tone that Signa flinched, glad for once that Sylas’s body was there to steady her. One of his hands found purchase on her waist as he leaned over her to watch the scene unfold. Now that she’d noticed it, she struggled not to focus on every twitch of his fingers and shift in his body and to instead pay attention to what was happening outside the closet.

“Have you lost all your charm, woman?” Byron set his palms flat upon the table and leaned in. “Should he let this business fail, Percy will be left with nothing. He will be made a laughingstock and left with no prospects. I can’t watch that happen to him, and I know you feel the same. Elijah has children—two, still, no matter what he may think. We must get him to realize that, before I can no longer fix his mess.”

“Have you forgotten Lillian so easily?” There was a chill in Marjorie’s voice that stole heat from the room and rendered Byron silent. “I know you haven’t—the entire town knew your feelings for her.”

“Lillian is unforgettable.” Byron’s voice dropped so low that Signa had to press her ear against the door to hear it. “Even so, we cannot allow my brother to throw everything away and chase after her.”

“He must mourn her—”

“He has mourned! It’s time for him to dust himself off before he damns this family. There’s little I can do when he refuses to offer so much as his signature. If he won’t give the business to Percy, convince him to give it to me. I’d take better care of it anyway, just as I would have taken better care of her.”

Every muscle in Signa’s body began to quiver at the heavy silence in the air. There was sweat along the back of her neck and down her back, but she paid it little mind.

“What,” Marjorie inquired at last, “are you asking of me?”

There was no hesitation in Byron’s response. “My brother is a lonely man, Marjorie. And lonely men are… susceptible. Especially to a woman’s wiles.”

“What are you implying?” Her fingers curled against the table. “Speak straight with me, Byron.”

Byron ran a thumb and forefinger down his dark mustache, taking the time to gather his wits. “You and my brother have had relations in the past. I’d have thought you’d jump at the opportunity to be with him—he could make quite the life for you.”

The chair screeched against the obsidian floor as Marjorie stood. “How dare you? You may have spent your life pining over a lost love, Byron, but I will not degrade myself to such shame.”

“I’m sorry if I’ve offended you—”

“Offended me?” Marjorie’s laugh was like the shot of a pistol, sharp and halting. “You have called into question my very virtues. You have implied I am little more than a whore, and Elijah a puppet to be played with. You’ve more than offended me, sir. For the sake of the children, I will continue to try to speak to Elijah, but it won’t be to help you. I want you to stay away from Percy.”

Byron rose as well. “I will do no such thing. If you care about that boy, then you’ll do as I ask. There’s more than one way to ruin him, Miss Hargreaves.”

There was a beat before she responded, her words shakier now. “Percy has done nothing wrong.”

Byron rolled his shoulders back, preening in his victory. “I will not see my family’s legacy fall over the death of some woman. Elijah must stop neglecting his duties.”

“How callous you’ve become, Byron. God, how I wish she could see you now.”

The slap was so loud that Sylas covered Signa’s mouth and pulled her against his chest as she gasped from the surprise of it. Signa could only imagine how much it must have burned, and every part of her ached to throw open the closet door and go after Byron. To hurt him for hurting Marjorie.

On shaky feet, Marjorie clutched her cheek in one hand. With the other, she took hold of her coat. “It’s time you grow up and stop competing with your brother. Lost as he may be right now, he will always be the better man.” She spat on the floor, then left. Signa desperately hoped she would take the carriage and leave Byron stranded, but Byron cursed and followed after her, slamming the door shut behind him.

Signa was too numbed by surprise to move as the silence settled into her bones. Had Marjorie and Elijah been together before? It would explain their familiarity. Whether it had happened before Elijah was married or after, it was a scandal nonetheless. Even so, Signa was beginning to understand the appeal of illicit attraction. After a moment, her thoughts returned to the firmness of Sylas’s body against hers, and to imagining things she had no business imagining, especially when it was already so hellishly hot in the tiny closet.

Fortunately, once they heard the rattle of a carriage rolling down the street, Sylas popped the coat closet door open and Signa burst out in desperate need of fresh air. She wanted nothing more than to strip out of her clothing, sweat slicked and stuffy, but settled for removing the cloak and tossing it at him. Signa had never been more grateful for the dark as she wondered whether he was thinking about her body as much as she was about his.

“I feel like we really bonded in there.” His tone was teasing, confirming her suspicions. “I daresay I now know you better than I’ve ever known anyone.” And then he stilled, as if realizing he’d given away a piece of information he didn’t intend to, and he turned away while clearing his throat.

“He hit her,” Signa whispered, dazed and eager for a change of subject. sᴇaʀᴄh thᴇ (F)indNƟvᴇl.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

Sylas nodded, adjusting his gloves. “He did.”

“Do you think she’ll be okay?”

“To be frank, I think it’s wise to fear more for Byron’s well-being than for Miss Hargreaves. I find that nothing is as terrifying as a woman scorned. And did you see her face? Positively murderous. Now”—he held out a hand—“enough of that. While we’re here, let’s find out what other secrets this place is hiding.”

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