Belladonna (Belladonna #1)(46)
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.”