Cora (Virtue & Vice #4)

Chapter 29

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CORA

T rust.

Cora knew she had some gall in asking Gideon to trust her when she was keeping secrets from him.

Her visits to the House of Virtue, for example. She felt guilty, using Honora’s proximity to the Dove Street mansion to cover for her visits. Despite vowing not to let it happen, Martha had taken over her social calendar almost completely. When she wasn’t practicing frantically for her upcoming performance, she was being escorted around town to teas and luncheons with the kind of Important People who used to visit her half-brother Lysander.

She had barely spoken with Honora since the night of the Blumford’s ball. Martha had gotten her way on this matter, too.

Cora’s reasons for visiting the House of Virtue were easily covered by the fiction that she was supporting Countess Oreste’s supposed reform efforts. To say the Queen would not appreciate being associated with the countess, even for a supposedly charitable endeavor, was a massive understatement.

Would Victoria cut ties with the bank over it?

Probably not. Yet the risk of confirming Martha’s reservations about her sent cold trickling uncomfortably down her spine.

“Titi!” Honey exclaimed when Cora came into her front parlor. The Yorkie barked excitedly and ran in circles until Honey caught her for a cuddle. “Look at you! No jacket, freshly bathed, with a little bow in your hair. I am dying of cuteness.”

“Has your stepmother relented upon getting a cat yet?”

Honey made a dismissive pfft . “I feed the ones in the alleyway, but they aren’t friendly. Besides, I want a dog like Titi. Maybe a Cavalier King Charles. They have such soft ears and sweet eyes. Would you like a friend, Titi, dear?”

“I am certain she would, but I have come to give you a gift,” Cora said, producing a thick packet.

“Is this about your concert?”

“You heard about that?”

“Everyone has heard about it, Cora.” A note of hurt crept into Honey’s voice. Cora squeezed her eyes closed. She should have come sooner to tell her in person. Her friend deserved better. But at least she had brought a gift by way of apology. “I brought tickets for you and five other people. I know your stepmother won’t want to attend without your father and stepsisters. You’ll be seated next to the Dowager Countess de Lucey and Miss Kingston.”

“Thank you, that’s very sweet of you.” Honey accepted the packet, but Cora couldn’t escape the feeling that something wasn’t right.

“Do you not enjoy Miss Kingston’s company? I know there have been…concerns.”

Cora’s debut Season had been a disaster, but not due to her own personality flaws—and she could admit she had a few. Isabelle’s was not a disaster, yet, but it wasn’t the success her mother had clearly hoped for. Honey could be trusted to repeat everything people had said about poor Isabelle’s debut.

“Miss Kingston’s beauty has drawn the attention of many admirers, but each and every one of them finds her awkward in conversation,” Honey said with her typical lack of artifice. She blushed and covered her mouth. “I don’t mean to be rude. She is difficult to hold a conversation with.”

“I know. I understand. Fortunately, men rarely marry for a lady’s conversational skills. I doubt that will prove to be an impediment to her marriage prospects.”

“Is your marriage improving? I haven’t seen much of you lately. Has Mr. Wentworth been keeping you busy?”

Heat flushed her body from head to toe. “We are getting on tolerably well, yes.”

“Excellent news. I had worried after I heard that he was the one who started that awful rumor about your brother’s bank failing.”

The warmth of embarrassment faded into an icy chill creeping down her skin like a late-spring frost.

“You heard what ?”

“I heard that he wanted to put your brother out of business so he could acquire the assets. I assume it isn’t true. I know you’d never forgive him, and that’s exactly what I told Lady Wells Kepson when she told me.”

Oh, that evil woman. Clearly, Cora had made her angry after she’d been dismissive at the Blumford’s ball. But this was low.

Low enough for it to have a whiff of truth amongst the stench.

Gideon had alluded to doing whatever it took to have her as his wife. At the time, she’d believed he meant the night he ruined her publicly. But she knew he had a ruthless streak, and he had treated her like a prize to be won. Even this stupid concert she was giving at his behest wasn’t for her benefit. It was for his. He wanted to show off the filly with good bloodlines he’d acquired for such a bargain.

Making her into an advertisement for the one thing he cared about. His stupid bank.

“Would you like a preview of my show?” she asked abruptly. She wasn’t going to do anything rash. She would make inquiries. Gather evidence. Talk to Lysander and Eryx before confronting Gideon, for once she did, their fragile bond would be knocked over as easily as a sand castle. She wasn’t ready to face that yet.

“I haven’t heard you play in years!” exclaimed Honey. “Please. I would love to hear what songs you have in store. Will you do another bawdy house tune? They’re popular in public houses.”

A terrible, wonderful idea came into her head. Cora sat at the piano and ran her fingers over the keys, depressing a few of them in a haphazard melody. Warming up.

She already knew she would do the performance. Cora bore down on the piano keys, pounding out a swelling chord progression. Felt it resonate in her bones. Vibrate in her chest.

Yes.

She would perform for the world. She would show everyone that no one, not even her mother-in-law, and certainly not Gideon, could hurt her anymore. She was impervious to his slights and tricks now. A grown woman who could handle anything.

For she knew in her bones that what Honey had said was true. She needed proof, but she already knew what she would find. Underhanded was precisely the kind of tactic her husband would use. Anger surged through Cora, breathtaking in its intensity. Out of spite, she changed to the tune that had once taken her down publicly, pounding out the notes and leaning over to grin at a very confused Titi and a laughing Honey.

The Yorkie yipped excitedly.

* * *

Meanwhile, in France…

A shaft of light cut across her face. Bella snapped to attention, as much as she could. She sagged against her bonds.

“You, again,” she grumbled.

“Eat.” He threw a bundle at her. It landed on the dirt floor beside her knee. Bella couldn’t reach for it unless he came down the stairs and unhooked her from the wall. She stared at it.

Eventually, he took pity and thudded down the wood planks.

A shadow moving across the rectangle of light captured her hunger-clouded attention. Bella’s eyes widened, the lids scraping over her dry corneas, as the outline of a man moved stealthily down the steps.

She was hallucinating.

She had gone without food for so long that she was conjuring him. Hawke. The man who had sent her running, supposedly to safety, into the waiting arms of her enemies.

Belatedly, Gibface saw that her attention was riveted elsewhere. Bella ducked her head, but it was too late. The shadow moved fast. He whipped a wire around Gibface’s neck and pulled it taut before her captor could make a sound. He wheezed and gasped, clutching at his throat. Bella could see how deeply it was indented into his skin. She felt nothing. No remorse. Only a fleeting sense of satisfaction that a monster like him was meeting his end in a violent fashion.

Seconds stretched into minutes. His choked protests diminished, then faltered. Still Hawke held the wire taut. Gibface’s meaty hand fell to the dirt floor.

Still, he held firm.

I don’t think I would have had the resolve to see it through, had I tried it. There had been a time, once, when she’d been determined to garotte a man. But someone beat her to the punch with poison.

Biddy Ross.

Gibface’s body collapsed face-down in the dirt at her feet. Bella swallowed around a dry throat. Suddenly, revenge was no longer theoretical.

“God, Bella.” Hawke’s raw whisper conveyed everything.

“Don’t look at me,” she pleaded, turning her face between her bound arms. “Go away. I can handle this.”

He huffed quietly. A condemnation that sliced clear to her bones. Bella became suddenly aware of the stench she had forgotten how to smell, of her filthy hair plastered to her skull, her stained rag of a dress hanging off her wasted frame.

Hawke didn’t waste breath arguing with her. He sliced the fraying rope. For the first time in months, she could move her hands freely. Her shoulders ached. Her neck cracked, but at last, she was free.

Heedless of the filth, he scooped her into his arms. His touch seared through her. Even before her extended captivity, Bella had not allowed a man to touch her since her husband’s death.

She thought she had had enough of male touch to last her a lifetime.

She was wrong.

She had never hungered for human contact the way she did now.

Utterly spent, Bella buried her face in Hawke’s neck and wept.

“I’m going to murder you, you know,” she murmured as tears summoned from the depths of her soul—God knew her body contained not a drop of moisture to spare—dampened his collar. He smelled like soap and starch and man.

Shame swept through her like a wildfire. Out of control.

Non lasciare mai che ti umilino. Never let them shame you.

For once, her mentor’s advice offered no protection from searing humiliation.

“Later, Bella. You can kill me as many times as you want to, once you’re safe.”

He carried her into the light.