Chapter 21

"Ivy, wake up!"

Someone was calling her name, but Ivy was floating through the most exquisite dream, her headaches gone, her worries nothing but a distant memory. She was standing on a verdant hill overlooking an expanse of clear, gurgling water. Everything here was in bloom, the most extraordinary flowers and trees in colors that could never exist in nature. The wind was soft and warm—a far cry from the damp chill of Yorkshire—and caressed her as gently as a silk scarf. It had to be paradise, with exotic birds drinking deeply from trumpet-shaped flowers, and women bathing in aqua pools, their long hair streaming out around them like Botticelli's Venus. Why would anyone try to wake her up? Inside this luminescent and heavenly dream it was safe. Out there dwelled chaos, horror. Parents died, leaving children to fend for themselves, and adored older brothers were sent off to perish in the trenches. Out there, a young woman had to survive by her wits alone, and even then, nothing was guaranteed. No, she did not think she wanted to return to all that.

Cold water hit her face and she bolted upright with a gasp. The birds took flight, the flowers faded. As she rubbed her wet eyes, the world began to take shape around her. A bed, not her own. Heavy velvet curtains blocked the windows and any light, but there was a stillness that told her it was nighttime. A sickly arsenic-green wallpaper swirled and danced in the dim candlelight. She looked down, and saw she was still wearing her black evening gown, the delicate silk clinging to her chest from the dousing of water. When she glanced back up, the dark outline of a man crouching in front of her became visible, his silver eyes piercing through her as if his next breath depended on hers. He wore the bottle-green livery of a footman, but something in the way he held himself told her he was no servant. Scuttling back up against the pillows, Ivy grabbed at the covers and pulled them over her chest in a flimsy display of modesty. The man's dark brows drew together, and he scowled.

"Trust me, m'lady, I've no interest in what's under that blanket."

She blinked at the rough yet familiar voice. "Ralph?"

"The very same. We need to leave. Now."

"What?"

"Oh for Christ's—" He ripped the blanket away from her, and in a surprisingly gentle yet self-assured movement, scooped her up into his arms.

"What are you doing? Put me down!"

"There's no time," he said as he carried her toward the door.

Her legs felt like jelly but she was able to land a good kick between his thighs, and Ralph instantly dropped her, cursing.

"I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what's going on." Ivy's head was swimming and her mouth tasted like chemicals. The last thing she remembered was sitting at the dining room table, listening as Arthur gave his toast. "Where's Arthur? What have you done with him?"

Through the darkness, she could see Ralph quickly cut his gaze away, still kneeling from the blow. It all became clear in an instant. Ralph was jealous of Arthur. How many cryptic warnings had he given her about Arthur Mabry? How many times had he had murder in his eyes when Ivy mentioned him? There was no ancient family feud, no dispute over the library. It was a simple case of jealousy. Though why Ralph cared about Arthur was beyond her.

"I didn't do anything to your bloody fiancé," Ralph gasped as he stood with a grunt. "Though I'd like to."

Ivy crossed her arms over her chest. The room was cold and her dress was still wet from her rude awakening. "I don't believe you."

"You don't have to, but you need to come with me. Now." Ralph kept glancing over his shoulder at the door.

As if on cue, the door swung open, and Ralph raised his fist, preparing for an attack.

"Is she awake?" Mrs. Hewitt asked as she peered into the dim room, a thick shaft of lamplight from the hall spilling inside.

Ralph dropped his fist. "Yes, and she's stubborn as a bloody mule."

Mrs. Hewitt would help her, wouldn't she? Even if she had no personal liking for Ivy, she was a woman and would surely not just stand by while Ralph abducted her. But the housekeeper quickly extinguished Ivy's hope. "Come with us, my lady. None of this dawdling now."

Still on the floor near the fireplace where Ralph had dropped her, Ivy groped behind her until her hand closed around something long and cool to the touch. Scrambling to her feet, she brandished the fire poker wildly in front of her. Ralph had the audacity to actually roll his eyes at her.

"Just tell her," he growled at Mrs. Hewitt. "She won't cooperate unless she understands."

"Understand what?" Ivy swayed on her feet, still very much under the effects of the alcohol.

"She won't believe it unless she sees it for herself," Mrs. Hewitt said quietly.

"Believe what?" They were speaking around her as if she wasn't even there.

Both turned to her, and there was something in their looks that made Ivy wish maybe she didn't have to see whatever it was to believe it.

"My lady, please, come with us. I promise you will come to no harm if you do, but I cannot guarantee the same if you stay here. They'll be coming to check on you any time now."

Ivy tightened her grip on the poker. "This doesn't make any sense. You don't make any sense." She closed her eyes, trying to remember how she had gotten here. "I had too much to drink at dinner, and Arthur must have shown me to the wrong room. If I'm not here when he comes back, he'll be worried. I must change and get back to the party."

Carefully, as if he was corralling a skittish horse, Ralph approached her, palms up. "You aren't drunk, Ivy," he said, his rough voice the gentlest she'd ever heard. "There was something in your drink. I tried to stop it, but they got it to you anyhow."

Ivy rubbed her eyes with her free hand, shards of memories flashing through her mind: Arthur continually having her glass refilled, Ralph dressed as a servant, hovering at the edge of the room. A room full of strange faces watching her with detached interest, no one coming to her aid as she fainted.

"No," she said, though it was a weak protest. "No, I had too much wine. Arthur would never do that to me."

Ralph didn't say anything, but the pity in his eyes was somehow worse. "Please, Ivy," he said, extending his hand. "Please, just come with us."

She was so tired, and something deep within her responded to the gesture. She had pledged that she wouldn't trust anyone, but there was a bone-deep exhaustion that was forcing her to let her guard down. Before she could stop herself, Ivy was placing her hand in Ralph's, allowing him to take some of her weight. His fingers closed around hers, gentle and firm.

"I'm taking this though," she demanded, clutching the fire poker to her chest.

There was a quirk at Ralph's lips, though it was gone so fast that she wasn't sure it had been there at all. "Of course."

Mrs. Hewitt was in the hall, craning her neck in both directions. "It's empty. This way," she said, motioning them to follow her.

Mrs. Hewitt set a brisk pace, but Ralph lagged behind, helping Ivy when she realized just how unsteady her legs were. Judging from the musty carpets and closed-up rooms they passed, they were in the rarely used north wing of the house. Why had Arthur brought her here instead of to her room?

Ivy chanced a sidelong glance at Ralph, though he was so close to her that she could only see the green wool of his coat, the brass livery buttons glinting in the dim light. His arm was looped gingerly around her waist, almost as if he was afraid to touch her. Was Ralph right, had there really been something in her drink? She'd heard the stories whispered between women in powder rooms, about girls who'd had their drinks tampered with in the dance halls. But Arthur was her fiancé, he loved her, or at the very least, cared about her. He wasn't some anonymous cad in a club. He was a gentleman.

Ivy had only been in this part of the house a handful of times, but Mrs. Hewitt was taking them somewhere that she was sure she'd never seen before. They abruptly stopped at the end of the hall, moonlight pouring in from a window and casting the wood-paneled walls in deep shadows. Mrs. Hewitt put her finger to her lips, and then pushed on the wall next to the window alcove with both hands. The panel swung away, revealing a hidden door.

Ralph's arm tightened around Ivy as he guided her through the dark passageway. It was musty and narrow, but the assurance with which they moved told her that both Mrs. Hewitt and Ralph had been this way before. They emerged onto a gallery so low that they had to crouch, and Ivy caught her breath as it dawned on her where they were. She'd never been on this level before, hadn't even realized there was a third gallery in the library. They were well hidden by a heavy wood guardrail and thick shadows cast from the dim lamplight below. Chancing a peek over the side, Ivy's head swam at just how far up they were. She leaned into Ralph, glad that his strong arm was there to support her.

Below them, the various members of the party chatted in groups, some browsing the shelves. Their voices carried up even to the third gallery, the acoustics as clear as if Ivy was standing among them below.

Arthur was in conversation with his father, a drink in hand. "Should we go have a look, just to make sure she's all right?"

Lord Mabry scoffed. "Dr. Prescott said that the dose was enough to put her out for hours yet. In the meantime, I say we find the manuscript and begin."

Coldness shot through Ivy's veins. Arthur had drugged her, and they were down there talking about it as if it was just another item on the evening's itinerary. Ralph must have sensed that Ivy's body was coiled and ready for an outburst, because he placed heavy hands on her shoulders with a squeeze, ensuring that she couldn't move. Biting her tongue, Ivy felt her eyes water as the betrayal washed over her in waves.

Lord Mabry cleared his throat and raised his glass. Immediately the crowd fell silent. "Esteemed friends and colleagues, Sphinxes, your attention for a moment, please." His commanding voice carried through the library—her library. "We find ourselves in an extraordinary position, one never before achieved by our society. The library is not only within our grasp, but we are poised to seize the manuscript for ourselves. Arthur will be married to the Lady Hayworth, and the library will be de facto in our control."

A murmur rippled through the small crowd. One man was helping himself to a cigar, waving his match perilously close to the books, and another had made himself comfortable in Ivy's favorite chair, his boots propped up on the velvet ottoman. It was like watching a horde of soldiers desecrating a temple.

"Will she allow it?" the man with the boots asked.

"She is a woman and will be a wife—she has little choice in the matter. Besides, the library needs her, needs her to feed. I will not risk my son to its appetites by removing the lady from the picture."

What were they talking about? Why did the library need her? Ivy shot a look at Ralph, but he just gave her a slow shake of his head.

"But we still need the manuscript," said a man Ivy recognized as Sir Alfred from the parlor.

"And what do you think we're doing here?" Lord Mabry snapped. "We have tonight to find it, and then everything else will fall into place. Once the wedding takes place, both library and manuscript will be ours completely. But I don't want to take any chances until then. We find it tonight, then ensure that we have it well and firmly under our control."

There was a ripple of agreement in the crowd. Throughout all of this, Arthur had been hanging back, his face horribly blank. Never once did he step in and defend Ivy or refute what the others were saying. He was not only party to whatever was happening, he was instrumental in it. Tears stung her eyes. He had used her, betrayed her in the very worst way.

A light touch on her arm brought her back to the moment, and she looked up to see Mrs. Hewitt motioning them to follow her. Ivy didn't want to watch the man who she had thought loved her stand by while others devised her downfall, yet she couldn't bear to tear herself away. Gently, Ralph laced his arm under hers, and half carried her out. Once they were back through the hidden passage and in the hall, Ivy allowed herself to finally crumple against the wall. Her stomach was churning, but it was not from the food or whatever they had put into her drink; it was the sickening, acidic compound of heartbreak and betrayal.