35. Chapter 35

Chapter 35

L ady Rosalind's heart sank as she entered Lord Wycliffe's grand London residence, the opulent surroundings a stark contrast to the turmoil raging within her. On Lord Ashford's arm, she barely registered his droning voice as he introduced her to yet another group of acquaintances from the ton. Her mind was elsewhere, lost in a whirlwind of memories and regrets.

"Lady Rosalind, may I present Lord and Lady Pemberton," Ashford's voice cut through her reverie, jolting her back to the present.

Rosalind managed a polite nod, her eyes glazing over as the tedious pleasantries unfolded. A small murmur rippled through the crowd, capturing her attention. She strained to catch the whispers, her heart pounding in her chest as she discerned the subject of their hushed gossip.

A murmur passed through the crowd, and Rosalind's gaze was immediately drawn to the striking figure of Mary, resplendent in a crimson silk gown that seemed to shift and shimmer in the candlelight. Her raven tresses artfully arranged to accentuate her captivating beauty. The sight of Mary on Alex's arm was a knife to Rosalind's heart. The picture of triumph etched upon the other woman's features a cruel reminder of all that she had lost.

Rosalind felt the familiar tendrils of nausea coil in her stomach, the urge to flee overwhelming her senses. She murmured a hasty excuse to Lord Ashford, her suitor's concerned gaze doing little to soothe the anguish that threatened to consume her. Before she could make her escape, however, a gentle hand upon her arm stilled her movements, and she found herself gazing into the warm, reassuring eyes of her sister, Isabella.

"Be strong, Rosalind," Isabella implored, her voice a soothing balm amidst the cacophony of emotions that battered Rosalind's soul. "Stay, for my sake. I need you here tonight."

Rosalind's gaze drifted back to the exhibition hall. Her eyes drawn inexorably to the sight of Mary leaning in to whisper something in Alex's ear, the intimate gesture a searing brand upon her heart. She felt the icy tendrils of jealousy and heartache coil around her, threatening to drag her under the weight of her own despair.

Yet, as she turned to meet Isabella's imploring gaze, Rosalind found herself torn between the desire to escape the torment of witnessing Alex's newfound happiness and the love she bore for her sister. With a trembling breath, she forced a nod, her resolve wavering but her devotion to Isabella unwavering.

"For you, dear sister," she murmured, her voice a mere whisper amidst the clamour of the crowd. "I shall stay."

Each passing moment felt like an interminable torment for Lady Rosalind. Despite Isabella's reassuring presence at her side, the sight of Alex, resplendent in his evening attire and exuding an air of cheerful conviviality, was almost too much for her to bear.

Rosalind's gaze was drawn inexorably to the couple, her eyes following their every movement with a masochistic fascination. As Mary reached up to tenderly caress Alex's face, a gesture so intimate and familiar, Rosalind felt the last vestiges of her composure begin to crumble.

A strangled gasp escaped her lips, and she turned to flee, the need for escape overwhelming her senses. Yet Isabella's firm grip upon her hand stilled her movements, her sister's voice a soothing balm amidst the storm of emotions that threatened to drown her.

"You cannot leave, not yet," Isabella implored, her eyes shining with a determination that gave Rosalind pause. "You must stay, for you cannot miss what is about to unfold."

Confusion furrowed Rosalind's brow, and she opened her mouth to question her sister's cryptic words. Yet before she could give voice to her queries, Alex's voice rang out across the crowded hall, commanding the attention of all present.

"Mrs Smithfield," he called out, beckoning an elderly lady to approach. "Allow me to introduce my companion, Mary."

A hush fell over the gathered throng as Mary turned to face the newcomer, her expression one of frozen trepidation. Rosalind watched, enraptured, as Mrs Smithfield's eyes narrowed, her gaze raking over Mary's form with a scrutiny that bordered on disdain.

"You!" The elderly woman's voice was a thunderous accusation, her face contorting with rage. "I would know you anywhere, you shameless harlot! You robbed me blind!"

The words hung in the air like a palpable weight, and Rosalind felt her breath catch in her throat as the implications began to sink in. Mary's mouth opened and closed, her lips forming words of denial and protest, but Mrs Smithfield would not be deterred.

"That necklace!" she cried, pointing an accusatory finger at the glittering jewels adorning Mary's neck. "That was mine, stolen from me by your wicked hands!"

As Mrs Smithfield's irate husband joined the fray, Rosalind could only watch, transfixed, as the scene unfolded before her. A glimmer of hope, fragile yet persistent, flickered to life within her breast, and she found herself clinging to Isabella's hand with a newfound determination.

Lady Rosalind's heart raced as the scene unfolded before her eyes. Mary, her face contorted with panic, turned to Alex, seeking his aid and support. The Duke merely folded his arms across his chest, his expression impassive, as if he had anticipated this very moment.

"Is there anything else you'd like to confess while we're at it?" Alex's voice cut through the charged silence, his words laced with an undercurrent of challenge.

Mary's eyes widened, her mouth opening and closing in a wordless display of indignation. "Whatever could you mean by that?" she stammered, her gaze darting about the room, seeking allies in the sea of bewildered faces.

A ripple of confusion spread through the gathered crowd, whispers and murmurs rising like a tide as they questioned the authenticity of the unfolding scene. "Is this part of the evening's entertainment?" one guest ventured, casting a questioning glance towards Lord Wycliffe. "Did you hire a troupe of actors?"

Rosalind, however, remained transfixed, her eyes riveted upon the confrontation unfolding before her. Her heart pounded in her chest, a mixture of trepidation and cautious hope swirling within her breast.

Alex, undeterred by Mary's feigned innocence, gestured towards a figure standing near the edge of the crowd. "Perhaps you would care to enlighten the assembly, John?"

Rosalind's gaze followed the motion, and she found herself staring at a young boy, impeccably dressed in a smart blue suit, his hair neatly combed. Despite his genteel appearance, the lad betrayed his humble origins with his first words, his accent a clear indicator of his lowly station.

"Miss Mary, she paid me to pretend to be her son," the boy declared, his voice ringing with conviction. "Said she needed to lay a trap for the Duke, and I was to play the part of her child."

Rosalind's breath caught in her throat as the truth of Mary's deception began to unfurl before her. The weight of the revelation pressed upon her, threatening to overwhelm her senses, yet she found herself clinging to a fragile thread of hope, a glimmer of possibility that perhaps, against all odds, she had not lost Alex forever.

Lady Rosalind's heart raced as Mary flew into a rage, her beautiful features contorted into a mask of fury and indignation. With a trembling finger, she pointed towards the young boy, her voice rising in a shrill crescendo of denunciation.

"That wretched child lies!" she spat, her words dripping with venom. "He is clearly attempting to run some nefarious scam of his own, preying upon your gullibility and good nature!"

Rosalind watched, transfixed, as Mary made as if to lunge towards the boy, her intentions clear. Before she could act upon her rage, Alex stepped forward, his broad frame shielding the lad from Mary's wrath. In that moment, Rosalind's breath caught in her throat, her heart swelling with a profound sense of admiration for the man she had once loved.

With a deft motion, Alex produced a sheaf of letters, the papers rustling in his grasp as he levelled an accusatory gaze upon Mary. "These letters tell a rather different tale, my dear," he declared, his voice ringing with conviction. "It seems you have been boasting to your acquaintances of the windfall you were soon to receive, bragging of how easily you would ensnare me in your web of deceit."

A hush fell over the gathered throng, the weight of Alex's words hanging heavy in the air. Rosalind's gaze flickered towards Lord Wycliffe, the man's expression one of abject panic and uncertainty, his eyes darting about as if seeking an escape from the chaos that had engulfed his once-elegant soirée.

It was then that Isabella's voice cut through the charged silence, her tone a conspiratorial stage-whisper that carried to every corner of the room. "Perhaps, my Lord, it would be wise to summon the watchmen," she suggested, her words laced with a subtle undercurrent of command.

Lord Wycliffe's head bobbed in frantic agreement, his normally jovial countenance replaced by a sombre gravity that lent him an air of unexpected authority. With a curt nod, he turned on his heel, his steps quickening as he made his way towards the door, his eagerness to aid Isabella palpable.