Page 22 of Felicity Cabot Sells Her Soul (Scandalous Sisters #3)

Felicity hadn’t paid much attention to the conversation which had been taking place at the rear of the box during the performance, though she had noticed Louisa’s soft snore which had begun halfway through the second act.

The woman had not understated her boredom with Shakespeare, and Felicity had held up her end of their bargain with a discreet nudge.

But Louisa had proved an amiable companion, kind and engaging. More so than Felicity had expected.

“You must have married quite recently,”

Louisa said as she led Felicity toward the retiring room at the interlude.

“Oh. Yes. A few weeks, now.”

“I suppose that must explain it, then,”

Louisa said on a sigh as she ushered Felicity through the retiring room door.

“There’s no zeal quite like that of the newly converted.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“That glare your husband gave to Papa when you arrived,”

Louisa said.

“Did you not notice? Here, let me fix your hair.”

With both hands, she redirected Felicity to face the mirror and began to pluck pins from her hair.

The whole mass came spiraling down, and Felicity held very still as Louisa raked her fingers through it, picking apart curls.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,”

she said.

“He glared?”

“Such a glare,”

Louisa said.

“Of course he had to have known at once that Papa meant to fling me at his head.”

Felicity swallowed. “Did he?”

Why did the thought provoke such an unsettled feeling in the pit of her stomach?

“Oh, yes. He’s been trying to marry me off for years, now.”

A light squeeze to Felicity’s right shoulder as she began to wind Felicity’s hair up once again.

“Not to worry; I never had designs upon your husband. I’d just as soon not marry at all.”

“I’m not worried. We don’t have that sort of marriage,”

Felicity said.

“Hmm.”

The doubtful inflection scored Felicity’s swiftly-fraying nerves.

“Are you certain of that?”

Another strange flicker of apprehension.

“Why—why do you ask?”

“Because it’s plain enough that your husband doesn’t share that opinion,”

Louisa said flatly as she eased a pin in.

“A man doesn’t glare like that in the absence of love; I was surprised only that Papa did not expire on the spot. Your husband knew at once what Papa had intended, and he was not at all pleased.”

Another pin.

“I was, however,”

she said.

“It grows wearying, being trotted about like a prize mare. So I was quite glad, you see, that Mr. Carlisle turned up to the theatre with a wife.”

Somehow, Louisa had constructed a rather elegant style with only the comb of her fingers and having left a few curls artfully free to dangle about Felicity’s neck.

“He doesn’t love me,”

Felicity said, shifting restlessly. He hadn’t loved her in years; not really. He just always had to win, and she—she represented a rare failure. One he’d never managed to let go of.

“Hold still, if you please,”

Louisa instructed.

“I’m nearly finished, but it wants a few more pins.”

She shoved another pin into Felicity’s hair.

“I really don’t think I’m mistaken,”

she said.

“You watched the play, but Mr. Carlisle watched you.”

Felicity’s heart squeezed within the cage of her ribs.

“How could you know that? You were asleep!”

“For perhaps five minutes,”

Louisa said dryly.

“I do thank you, however, for the nudge. Once, I snored straight through two full acts and a gossip columnist made sport of me for it in the paper. Papa was furious. Ah, there you are,”

she said as she placed the last pin.

“Isn’t that better?”

It was better. She looked very nearly pretty, the sharpness of her face rendered softer by the few curls that had been left to dangle. Her usual severe style was practical, but unbecoming. She’d always known it. But she hadn’t expected such a simple change to manage such a flattering effect.

You look beautiful. You always look beautiful.

But she didn’t. Charity was beautiful; Felicity could not have held a candle to her on her best day, and she had always known it. And today was not amongst her best. She had looked wretched. Precisely like the run-ragged school teacher she was after a particularly difficult day. She’d been near to exhausted, her dress wrinkled to hell and back, her coat worn nearly threadbare, her hair faintly frizzy with the moisture in the air, and still he’d looked at her like—

Like she was beautiful to him, even when, by any objective measure, she wasn’t. Like he’d have been proud to have her at his side even had she been in only rags.

“Besotted,”

Louisa said, twitching one last curl from the pins to dangle over Felicity’s shoulder.

A jittery feeling swelled up from Felicity’s stomach, slid throughout her limbs. Her fingers plucked at the limp collar of her coat in a surfeit of nervous energy.

“I—I beg your pardon?”

“That’s how he looks at you. He’s besotted,”

Louisa repeated.

“When you’re not looking, anyway. You could probably catch him at it, if you were clever enough. Or quick enough.”

She didn’t want to catch him at it.

She didn’t want to be burdened with the revelation that there might be some sort of lingering emotion between them.

That what she had taken for obsession, for the need to win which he had evinced so often in the past, might be something else altogether.

Not now, when her feelings were so twisted up around that deadly sharp spike he’d driven into her too-tender heart ten years ago.

All that pain and anger and grief—still every bit as deep, every bit as agonizing. A poison that festered still in her veins.

“We ought to make our way back,”

Louisa said lightly.

“Papa fusses if I’m gone for too long.”

Felicity swallowed down the strange, shuddery breath that lodged in her throat and flexed her fingers, digging her nails into her palms.

“I need just another moment, if you don’t mind,”

she said, striving to keep her voice calm and even.

“But there is no need to wait upon me. I remember the way.”

“Oh. Well, then. If you’re quite sure…”

“I am.”

Felicity pasted on a smile.

“But before you go—do you happen to know the time?”

∞∞∞

Louisa had returned to the box alone.

It had been curious enough for Ian to have made note of it even while half-listening to Mr.

Jennings prattle on about the other potential investors in his railway venture and his rather optimistic—in Ian’s opinion—prediction of expected returns.

But when the theatre patrons had begun once again to find their seats and the curtain had opened for the beginning of the next act, the truth had become impossible to ignore.

Felicity did not intend to return.

Louisa flashed him a baffled glance.

“I’m sorry,”

she said.

“I can’t imagine what might be keeping your wife. Shall I go fetch her from the retiring room?”

With her absence, Felicity had left the responsibility of making excuses in his hands.

“Best I go instead,”

he said.

“My wife made mention of a touch of a headache earlier in the evening.”

“A headache?”

A quizzical frown pleated Louisa’s brow.

“She seemed well enough. I fixed her hair for her, and we chatted about—”

She caught herself, pressing her lips together as a tinge of a blush spread across her cheeks.

“Well. She seemed well enough,”

she repeated.

“She asked for the time. I assumed she meant to ensure she made it back before the interlude had concluded.”

The time. Of course. Ian suppressed a wince. If his hour had elapsed, then it was likely that Felicity had taken her leave. As was her right, according to the terms they’d made of their marriage.

“I’ll see to her,”

Ian said.

“It’s possible she’ll require an escort home. In the event we don’t return, I’m certain she would want me to extend to you her thanks for the invitation this evening.”

“But our conversation,”

Mr. Jennings blustered. “Surely—”

Ian was already striding for the door.

“We’ll continue it later in the week. I’ll have my solicitor contact you.”

A tiny bit of reassurance, and a salve to the man’s pride which had no doubt been a bit pricked at the swiftness of Ian’s exit.

As the door closed behind him, Ian withdrew his watch from his pocket, angling the face to the dim light in the corridor to read the time.

Nearly two hours had gone by since he’d retrieved her at the school.

She could have left almost at the very beginning of the second act—and yet she’d stayed.

She’d been enjoying the play; he knew she had. Enrapt by the performance, she had scooted her chair up to the very edge of the box and peered out over the railing, attention thoroughly captured.

So what had made leave now, when she had not earlier?

Ian headed for the stairs, squeezing past a passing theatre attendant as he wound down the narrow steps.

It had been perhaps ten minutes since Louisa had returned to the box—possibly he could catch Felicity in the lobby if he hurried.

Or would he? He scarcely avoided rolling his ankle as he redoubled his pace, taking the steps two at a time.

She’d never attended the theatre before, never had the luxury of a private carriage.

Would she even know to send an attendant for the carriage to be brought round for her? Would she know where to find the carriage waiting if she had not?

Had she walked? The journey wasn’t far, but it was late, dark…and somewhere out there in the city, there was a villain lurking in the shadows who was in possession of knowledge of some bit of scandal in her past.

Something worth stalking her, threatening her.

Something worth paying the sum of five thousand pounds—or so had claimed the letter Ian had filched from her mail, which rested still tucked within his nightstand drawer.

He swallowed through the queer lump that had risen in his throat, yanking at the knot of his cravat which had grown altogether too tight as he arrived in the lobby, scanning the room for any sign of Felicity.

If she had come through, then she hadn’t stayed.

His stomach twisted itself into a knot as he strode for the nearest attendant, stationed near the doors.

“Has a woman left the theatre recently?”

he asked.

“She would have had dark hair, a grey coat—”

“Black dress? Bit wrinkled?”

The attendant interjected.

Ian breathed a sigh of relief.

“That’s the one. Did she send for the carriage?”

“No, sir.”

The man’s brows knotted.

“She didn’t seem the sort to have had one.”

Of course she hadn’t. Not in her plain, worn dress and a coat that might be half a dozen years old at this point.

“She left, then?”

he asked, cognizant of the odd, hoarse rasp to his voice.

“A few minutes ago,”

the attendant offered.

“She waited inside a spell, just there.”

He gave a jerk of his head toward the nearest window.

“It’s dreadful cold this evening. Thought she might be waiting until she’d caught sight of a hack to hire out.”

Had she the funds to do so? Ian couldn’t be certain of it. And less certain still that she would part with the coin for an easily walkable journey besides. He dug into his pocket, fished out a shilling.

“Which way did she go?” he asked.

“To the right,”

the man said.

“I’m certain of that much, at least.”

Toward home, then, on a busier street. That was good. Probably she had not gotten terribly far from the center of town yet. She was an intelligent woman;

she’d stay to the well-lit streets, keep to the more populated areas wherever possible. And Brighton was a town of some forty thousand residents—how likely was it that her mysterious extortionist had managed to follow them to the theatre?

But still his stomach clenched as he extended the shilling toward the attendant and dropped it into the man’s outstretched hand.

“I’m going in her direction. Send my carriage after us, if you would.”

Otherwise the man would be left waiting until the play let out—and he and Felicity would have to walk home.

“The coachman is called Jim, in the employ of Ian Carlisle.”

“Right away.”

The attendant nipped out the door, and Ian followed behind, striding in the opposite direction.

To his relief, the street was still well-populated, even at this hour.

Though most of the shops had closed, a few taverns would be open still, offering ale, hot meals, and a respite from the bitter cold outside.

But most of the passersby were headed into the center of town, not away.

And Felicity had had enough of a head start that she’d gotten well out of sight.

With every street she passed, there would be fewer and fewer people in her vicinity. Any city of size could grow dangerous after dark—but particularly so for Felicity.

She might not know precisely how dangerous.

No sign of her yet. But he couldn’t be too far behind her. Ian redoubled his pace, hoping his longer strides would quickly eat up whatever distance remained between them.

∞∞∞

The pavement was thick with people, and Felicity dodged passersby and squeezed through the milling crowd. A quick step to the left to evade a gentleman barreling past her to enter a tavern had her shoulder slamming instead into a young blond girl, perhaps sixteen years of age at the most. Felicity’s foot slipped off the pavement, sending her reeling, near to sprawling in the street.

The girl reached out to seize her arm and steady her, concern widening her green eyes. Her face—which looked as though it hadn’t had a good scrub in a long while—pulled into a worried look.

“Oh, dear. Are you all right, there?”

“Yes.”

Felicity breathed a sigh of relief.

“Thank you. I’m terribly sorry.”

“No, no, it was my fault. I shouldn’t have been in the way.”

She let go of Felicity’s arm, and stepped closer to brush at Felicity’s coat, straightening the rumpled wool with quick, efficient tugs.

“There you are,”

she said brightly.

“Right as rain again.”

“You’re very kind.”

Felicity offered the girl a smile.

“But too young to be out so late. Do be sure you get home safely this evening.”

The girl hiked a thumb at the tavern behind her.

“Mama sent me for a slice of kidney pie,”

she said with a little toss of her tousled blond hair.

“Else I’d have been home long before now.”

Her brows pinched, lips pursing.

“You’re certain you’re well? You look a bit—”

“Just eager to be home.”

And away from the theatre. Away from Ian. Just—away.

“Thank you, though.”

Although she did not look at all convinced, with a last little nod, the girl thrust herself back once more into the thick of the crowd vying for entrance to the tavern.

Felicity resumed her walk, mindful of her surroundings despite the fact that the people milling about didn’t seem particularly interested in being mindful of her.

It was almost a relief when the crowd began to thin.

Almost.

But as the crowd thinned, so did the light begin to wane, street lamps placed fewer and further between.

As she left the safety of the city center for the quiet and shadows of the residential streets, anxiety began to creep over her once again, not unlike that sense she had so often had of being watched whenever she had dared to peek out of the school’s windows in search of some phantom observer.

Possibly it was only her uneasy mind playing tricks on her.

The night hadn’t seemed quite so threatening when she had left the theatre.

She’d reasoned the walk was short, and the city crowded.

She hadn’t even known she would be attending the theatre this evening; it was hardly likely she’d been followed.

And still that anxiety spiked as she glanced down mostly-deserted streets.

Best not to chance it.

She’d made it perhaps half the distance home, but she would climb into the first hack she came across and make the journey that much shorter.

Perhaps it would not be the best use of the scant coin she had on her, but better to be safe.

She stuffed her hand in her pocket as she walked, searching for her reticule.

Came up empty.

How was that possible? She’d had it in her pocket when she’d left the school; she was certain of it.

Comprehension struck at last with the weight of a hammer.

That girl—the blond girl at the tavern.

She hadn’t been straightening Felicity’s coat at all.

She’d been picking her pocket.

And like a fool, Felicity had taken it for simple kindness.

Probably the girl had orchestrated the whole thing, using Felicity’s distraction and disorientation to relieve her of her reticule without her notice.

Well, there was no help for it now.

She was just as far from home as she was from the theatre, and there was no sense in doubling back on herself.

She’d just have to go on.

But as she stepped out into the darkening streets, she wished—

She wished that she had simply sat through the remainder of the play.

That she had waited in comfort for the carriage to return.

Far better Ian’s confusing, irritating presence than the fear that gnawed at her stomach at the prospect of the walk remaining to her.

In the cold.

In the dark. Alone.

Pausing at the intersection of two streets, she tried to wrench her fretful brain into a decision—turn right or proceed straight? Both would take her toward her destination.

Both seemed equally treacherous in the darkness.

It had been years since she had walked these streets at such an hour, and she had not been alone.

She had been in Ian’s company then.

And she had never once feared for her safety.

And now she did, surrounded by the ominous loom of shadows, the street lamps that promised safety so far apart, the streets all but deserted.

A faint noise from somewhere behind her sent her scurrying around the corner, and her calves ached beneath her skirts from the taut pull of her muscles as she wrenched her trembling legs into a run.

Her breath burned in her lungs.

Her burst of speed had at least gained her some distance.

She wasn’t so very far away, now.

Five minutes if she could manage to maintain her pace.

Her shoes slapped the pavement, her footsteps deafeningly loud, reverberating down the street, the sound echoing in rapid patters.

No.

Not only her footsteps.

Panic beat within her chest.

An odd haze frilled the edges of her vision owing to the scant few breaths she’d taken since she’d burst into a run.

In the distance on the next corner, a single light glowed within the window of a stately townhouse.

If she could only get near enough to attract attention—

A heavy grunt.

The collar of her coat pulled tight against her throat as a fist seized a handful of the back of it, and the scream that had collected in her lungs was choked into a bitter squeak as she was yanked to an abrupt halt.

She flailed her arms, lashing out blindly through a pained cough.

One hand connected—briefly, weakly—with a rough-hewn face, eliciting a grunt.

A wrench of the fabric of her coat.

A meaty hand hard upon her shoulder, squeezing past the point of pain.

She managed to draw a fresh breath just as the villain jerked her about.

She loosed a scream, resonant and ear-splitting, so piercing it shredded her throat as it emerged.

“Stupid bloody bitch.”

That beefy hand slammed into her jaw, a heavy-handed slap which rattled her senses. Her face stung; her vision blurred. And somewhere, in the depths of her brain, her conscious mind scuttled off just as it always had in moments of violence, and tucked itself away behind a closed door. Her arms dangled at her sides, limp and useless. Her knees locked, saving her from a fall—but it was only the pinch of those hard, hurtful fingers upon her shoulder that kept her upright.

A face rendered blurry through the haze of her vision leered into hers. Sour breath coasted over her nose and turned her stomach. Through the buzz in her ears, she heard, as if from a great distance.

“Ye’ll pay, or ye’ll lose everything ye hold dear.”

“Felicity!”

The shout in the distance sizzled along her spine. There was the pound of feet on the pavement, growing nearer.

“Fuckin’ hell.”

A last violent shake, another rasped demand.

“Five thousand pounds.”

Her knees collapsed beneath her, sending her sprawling to the pavement.

Her head struck something hard, and stars swam before her eyes, swirling in the inky blackness above.

Humiliation lay bitterly on her tongue, which felt too thick in her mouth.

Her limbs remained too heavy to move.

Even the twitch of her fingers was too onerous a task. A sob gathered somewhere in her lungs, slid up her throat, and stuck just behind her teeth. A tear slipped from the corner of her eye, trickled down the side of her face toward her temple.

Harsh breaths tore through the silence.

The pavement vibrated with the report of those rapid steps approaching, and she—she couldn’t make herself move.

Couldn’t summon even the faintest sense of self-preservation that might force her to her feet.

A tiny whimper eked out of her throat as the footsteps drew to a stop, as movement swirled in her peripheral vision.

Wool scraped across pavement, and a hand slid beneath her head.

She tried to cringe away instinctively, managed a faint twitch at best.

“No, don’t move.”

Ian’s voice shattered the silence.

“You struck your head when you fell. Are you hurt anywhere else?”

Felicity drew a breath, a real one. It rushed into her lungs, fading a bit of the film that had dulled her vision. That sob stuck behind her teeth emerged, loud and shrill, tearing out a piece of her soul with the mortification of it. The puling whine of the child she had once been wrenched out of the past. A tremor shook her, a helpless quake she’d not experienced in years.

“Christ.”

The rough sound seared her ears.

“Here, just—”

One arm slid beneath her shoulders and the other beneath her knees. A strange sense of weightlessness assailed her as he lifted her from the cold, hard pavement. Her head lolled back against his shoulder. “There,”

he crooned near her ear.

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

That part of her that had packed itself away within the depths of her mind surged back with a vengeance. Tucked within the safety of Ian’s arms, Felicity turned her face into the front of his coat and sobbed in earnest.