Belladonna (Belladonna #1)(44)

Signa took it, smoothing her finger over the delicate parchment. She somehow already knew that was wrong. “Or perhaps it’s from Miss Hargreaves, detailing my lesson plans for tomorrow.” That didn’t feel right, either, but it was enough for Elaine to nod, satisfied.

Though Signa wanted more than anything to tear open the letter, she tucked the envelope into her lap and casually reached for the honey. “Thank you, Elaine.” She kept her tone casual and polite, but full of what she hoped was obvious dismissal.

“Have a good evening, Miss Farrow.” With a final passing glance at the envelope, Elaine bowed her head and saw herself out.

The moment the door shut, Signa tore open the letter. Written upon thick parchment in the most beautiful script she’d ever seen were three lines:

Meet me in the stables at the eleventh hour this evening, and dress warmly.

We ride to Grey’s.

—S





NINETEEN





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.”