Belladonna (Belladonna #1)(10)

A Lady’s Guide to Beauty and Etiquette claimed that there were important rules when it came to dining in front of others. There were certain forks to be used and a particular order of eating things. Yet Signa longed for the treats so fiercely that her stomach protested her resistance. Loudly.

She froze, waiting in horror to ensure that Sylas hadn’t heard. Luck, however, was too infrequently on her side.

Sylas arched one fine brow as he leaned forward and took hold of Signa’s hand. Though both her hands were gloved, Signa stiffened when Sylas slid a handkerchief into her palm.

His voice was coy when he spoke. “You look as though you’re in pain.”

She wrapped her fingers tight around the handkerchief, thinking through a million things she’d like to say, not one of them proper or polite. Instead, she said, “I had a large breakfast. It would be rude for me to indulge.”

Sylas’s smile was a scythe. A surprising thing, curt and cleaving. There one moment and gone the next. “It would be offensive to waste so much food, Miss Farrow. Especially when it was bought for you. Show some respect to Mr. Hawthorne and eat.”

Perhaps Sylas wasn’t the absolute worst after all. Signa didn’t need to be told twice to pull the trolley toward her. She reached immediately for a tart with bright yellow custard and glazed strawberries, the top sprinkled with powdered sugar. Because there was no cutlery or plates, she slipped off her gloves and tucked them at her side, eating with her fingers.

“Will you be rude to Mr. Hawthorne, then?” she challenged Sylas between bites, doing everything in her power not to groan from the tart’s deliciousness. It’d been ages since Signa had eaten something so overwhelmingly sweet. She polished it off within a minute, moving right on to a sticky bun.

Sylas blinked at the sweets, as though the idea to eat one had never occurred to him. He peered at the cart, scanning over each item before selecting a tiny tea cake drizzled with orange marmalade. As he ate, his posture became less severe and his furrowed forehead less grim. The moment he finished his tea cake, he glanced back at the cart for another.

“Tell me more about your work with the Hawthornes,” Signa said while he chose a small fruit tart. It seemed like a simple enough subject, nothing too personal or too taxing. Even so, Sylas hesitated before answering.

“I used to work closely with his wife, but I’d be surprised if Elijah even knows I exist.”

“He sent you to escort me,” Signa pressed as she tried not to lick her fingers. “Surely, he knows who you are.”

Sylas took perhaps the largest bite Signa had ever seen anyone take, then said, “I was sent by one of the staff. Mr. Hawthorne’s daughter is dying of the same illness that took his wife—he’s not in the right state of mind to know anyone’s name right now.”

She was glad for the excuse of toffee in her mouth as she pondered what her future would be like at Thorn Grove. Perhaps this journey was little more than a cruel trick; perhaps she’d arrive only to find Death had already staked his claim upon everyone there. Maybe this was his next move in an elaborate game of chess, and she was stuck playing a pawn. Or… maybe he really was trying to prove himself to her.

“It’s my turn to ask a question,” Sylas said. “Do you know what you’re getting into by coming to Thorn Grove?”

She knew so little about the place, and though his question was unnerving, it didn’t change her answer. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve nowhere else to go.”

Sylas faced the window next to him, where distant paved streets gave way to a glistening ocean. It made her wonder: Would there be an ocean close to Thorn Grove? Or perhaps there’d be a forest, or nothing but sprawling, rolling hills.

“Your arrival is what Lillian would have wanted,” Sylas said eventually. “She wasn’t someone who could refuse an orphan.”

Orphan. Signa hated the word—hated how it was something that, to most people, defined her and her situation so thoroughly. “What about the estate itself?” she asked, hurrying to change the subject. “Has it been there long?”

“Thorn Grove is a beautiful place. I’m told it’s been passed down for many generations.”

Signa tried not to grimace as she polished off a tart. Places that old were likely crawling with the very spirits she was trying to avoid. “And Mr. Hawthorne is a businessman?” she asked rather than let her thoughts linger. “Does he work in banking?”

She was surprised when the corners of Sylas’s lips quirked. “Not banking, no. The Hawthornes own the most popular gentleman’s club in the country. Its members are dukes and earls. Princes even, so I’ve heard. The wealthiest and most affluent people only. It keeps him a busy man.”

At this, Signa scrunched up her nose. The idea of a club for only wealthy gentlemen seemed ridiculous. “Do they have a club for women as well?”

Lines of confusion etched into Sylas’s forehead. “For women? Of course not.”

“What about one for all people, then?”

Even more lines. “There’s not one of those, either.”

“That’s a shame.” Signa rested her head against the window. “Were they more inclusive, the Hawthornes could be twice as wealthy.” Her words came easier, for it was comfortable in this compartment, even with Sylas. He was rude, certainly, but not cruel. And over the past hour, his brooding had undergone significant improvement. “Is that your business, too, Mr. Thorly? The club?”