Chapter Twenty

L eo dreamed, as he always did, of the day Sabrina had died.

It began with his father punching him squarely in the jaw. Leo staggered back, hitting the back of his shin against an old trunk, and falling to the ground. Blood filled his mouth.

His father's teeth were bared beneath his wiry, black mustache, and his dark-brown eyes were bloodshot. "I regret ever siring you," his father said. "I could overlook your drinking and gambling, but this is inexcusable."

What had he done to earn his father's censure? Memories flickered past, too fast to catch. His legs ached as if he'd run a mile the previous day. Had he gotten into a fight? Knocked out some young lord at the gambling hall? His father nudged an empty bottle on the floor with his foot. "Pathetic. You have no idea what has happened, do you?" He tossed a crumpled paper onto Leo's chest. "Read that and see."

Leo smoothed out the paper, which appeared to be a telegram. His tired eyes struggled to focus on the small script. Finally, he puzzled it out. "An accident?"

He had a vague recollection of being woken up at the crack of dawn by his sister's pleading voice. He had thrown her aside, having no desire to wake up after getting so deep into his cups the night before. Sabrina had been insistent, ranting and raving at him, then sobbing when he'd refused to move.

He checked the telegram again. The name of the ship was familiar. Why? The fog in his brain parted, and he remembered that he'd promised his sister he would accompany her on a trip to visit a young man she had met in London. That was it—the tickets she had shown him had been for the same ship.

He tore the paper into small pieces. "No. I don't believe it."

"Get out of my house," his father said. "Don't come back unless Sabrina is with you."

Leo pushed past his parents. His sister wasn't dead. She couldn't be. His father couldn't see it. He would have to go to the scene and find Sabrina himself. Somewhere, she was laughing at him, certain she had punished him for not coming with her on the trip down the river. He was sure of that; he simply had to find her and end the game.

He hitched up a horse and set off. The light of the rising sun was insufferably bright, pounding into his head. He paid a fisherman to take him across the river. There was still no reliable transportation other than taking a boat. It was a long crossing, but once he finally arrived, he started hearing the whispers.

"Those poor people," one woman said.

"There were mostly women and children on board," a man replied. "Such a tragedy."

As he journeyed closer to the city, he pieced together the gossip to learn what had happened. Two boats had collided on the river, a cargo ship destined for London and a small river cruiser laden with tourists returning from a day exploring the pleasure gardens.

"Please, brother. It will be cold soon, and I might not get another chance to meet with him."

Sabrina's wheedling voice echoed in his mind. They'd been on their way back from a shopping trip, laden with boxes, when she'd bumped into a young man. Leo had been so preoccupied with keeping them from missing their ferry that he remembered little about the man except that he was skinny, wore a striped, yellow suit, and had sputtered his apologies for so long that Sabrina had giggled. To keep them from being late, Leo had finally agreed to chaperone Sabrina on an outing with the man the next day.

It was worth it to see her smile.

She couldn't be dead.

Finally, the coach could take him no farther and dropped him at the edge of the city, near the river and the foul stench that came with it.

The scene was chaos.

The bodies dragged out of the water were white, clammy things covered in a sick layer of mud.

"Sabrina!" he called.

She's around here somewhere.

Even if she had been on the boat, she certainly would have survived. She had been a strong swimmer all her life.

He could only just make out the remains of the transport ship, lilting to one side in the river. The pleasure cruiser was gone, but dozens of other boats bobbed in the gentle waves. Their operators held long sticks with barbed ends that they used to pull up hulking shapes and haul them onto the boats.

He accepted a perfumed rag from a woman holding a basket and staggered between one row of bodies to the next.

"If you have not found your loved one here," a man shouted from a few feet away, "search on the other side of the river."

The dream skipped forward, and he was standing beside a body, trembling with exhaustion and fear. He flipped the corpse over with the toe of his boot.

It was Sabrina, her curls plastered to her swollen face.

He fell to his knees, ignoring the wet squelch of the mud that seeped through his trousers, icy daggers cutting into his flesh.

Then the dream twisted from reality, and his sister's eyes flew open.

"You were supposed to protect me," she whispered. "You promised you would come with me, brother."

He reached for her, but a heavy-set man wearing a long, black coat shoved a cudgel in front of his face. "Take 'e number," the man said, gesturing to the strip of leather tied to his sister's legs. The number seventy-five was scratched on the surface. "Them at the big tent will give 'e a form. Bring the form back to take the gel."

He tried to push the cudgel away, but two others grabbed his arms and pulled him back, then dropped him and crossed their arms.

"Fine," he said. He carefully untied the scrap of fabric then stumbled away, past others who were sobbing into each other's arms or shouting and fighting. He reported to the main retrieving area and was given a letter of permission, which he accepted and returned to give to the undertaker. With no cart, he simply picked up his sister's limp body in his arms and walked through the crowds.

*

When Saffron awoke, it was to find Leo snoring beside her. His hair was splayed over his pillow, and every few seconds, he thrashed his head from side to side. She reached for his temple but then pulled back. She wanted to comfort him, but she couldn't stay. She carefully slipped out of his bed and crept through the halls until she returned to her room.

She had only enough time after to change into sleeping garments and muss up her bedsheets before Lily arrived to help her dress for the day.

As Lily prepared her gown, she wondered if Leo was still asleep, and what he would say the next time he saw her. She supposed she was his mistress, a role she'd never expected to fill. The very idea filled her with a shivering kind of excitement. All her life, she had been trained in the duties of a wife, but being a mistress was something new.

She shook her head. There were more important issues at hand and convincing Angelica not to marry the Duke of Canterbury was paramount. That meant speaking to Ravenmore as soon as she could.

A knock interrupted her thoughts, and when Lily opened the door, Rosemary entered.

"Not dressed yet?" her aunt asked archly.

Saffron was certain her aunt could read her guilty conscience all over her face, but she forced a smile. "I did not want to get out of bed this morning."

Rosemary raised one eyebrow but otherwise did not comment. Then she strode forward and sat on the bed. "I came to speak to you about Angelica. I believe we should encourage a short engagement. She could be married by month's end."

Saffron thumped down on the bed beside her aunt. Although a fire roared in the room, she felt as cold as if she were neck-deep in a snow drift. She imagined Angelica walking down a church aisle, a chain around her ankle. "Give me a chance to change her mind," she said. "Lady Allen has offered me a position as a companion—"

Rosemary silenced her with a slice of her hand. "That's enough. You can pursue employment if you choose, but I won't allow you to interfere with your sister's future." She paused, then added, "Angelica will be a duchess. Is that truly so bad?"

Saffron closed her eyes, and a tear slipped down her cheek. "He will crush her spirit."

Rosemary sighed. "You underestimate your sister."

She wanted to scream, but what good would it do? Angelica shared her stubbornness. In her view, marrying a cold, heartless man was the lesser of two evils. The other being a life of poverty for them all.

"I'll leave you to consider things," Rosemary said. As the older woman left the room, Saffron dashed away her tears. Her aunt had given in, but she would not surrender.

There was still one skirmish remaining before the war was decided. She paced the room three times before settling by the window. She felt restless, like she was on the cusp of an important discovery that was just out of reach.

As she stared at the grounds, two figures walked into view. The first was Mr. Morgan, easily identifiable by his size and the handkerchief clutched in one hand. The second was a nervous-looking man in a shabby, green suit.

Who is that?

She'd seen the man before, but she couldn't remember where. His wardrobe occupied that awkward gap that was neither plain or consistent enough to mark him as a servant, nor elaborate enough to indicate his status as a guest.

She peered closer, until her nose was pressed against the glass. The two men were talking, but the glass was too thick to make out the words. Mr. Morgan was gesturing wildly with his hands, including the one that held the handkerchief. The other man pulled a sheaf of papers from his pocket and thrust them at Mr. Morgan.

Mr. Percy.

Leo's solicitor, who had given up his own invitation so Saffron and her family could attend.

What's he doing here?

She rushed for the door, intent on sneaking down to listen to their conversation, but by the time she reached where they had been, both men were already gone.