The severity of Signa’s darkening eyes straightened Blythe’s spine.
“Did someone want the child gone?” Signa asked, not the least bit taken aback when Eliza puckered her lips at such a brazen question. Even Byron tensed further.
“My uncle did.” Eliza kept her voice soft, meant only for the four of them. “He gave me two options the night before his death—get rid of the baby or be engaged to Sir Bennet by the week’s end.”
Byron didn’t bother trying to conceal his bitterness. “The child deserves better than someone with one foot already in his grave. The baby is a Hawthorne and should be raised as one.”
Blythe felt Signa’s eyes slide to her and understood the look at once. Byron had not necessarily said anything damning… and yet one could not help but wonder at his tone while remembering how adamant Eliza had been about the dose of cyanide. Blythe had thought it little more than the ramblings of a guilty woman, and yet as she looked upon the possessiveness of Byron’s touch as he held Eliza, sweat trailed a line down her back.
Eliza claimed to have rid herself of the cyanide in a panic that night. And if that was true, it was possible that Eliza had not been the last person to touch the poison or the drink that had made its way to Lord Wakefield.
Byron was one of the few who’d known about Elijah’s sobriety. He was one of the few who could have ensured that it wasn’t Elijah who drank the poison, but Lord Wakefield. Because had Lord Wakefield lived, Percy’s child would have been lost to them, either never born, or made the secret bastard of a father Byron believed was unsuited to raise a Hawthorne.
Looking at Byron now—at the pride in his eyes and the possessiveness of his touch—Blythe realized one thing: Byron never would have allowed either of those scenarios to happen.
Blythe knew that her cousin had come to the same understanding as they watched the two retreat toward a shaded table, Byron taking great care to help Eliza into a seat.
For the sake of Percy’s child, it was Byron who’d poisoned the duke. And though the truth of it weighed upon her chest like a brick, there was nothing to be done. It wasn’t as though they’d ever get a confirmation out of Byron, and even if they did, what would it matter? They’d chosen to protect Eliza. Now they’d have to do the same for him.
So lost in her own thoughts was Blythe that she didn’t hear the clinking against crystal until she noticed several heads swivel toward it. There wasn’t so much as a moment to check in with Signa about this new information, for her cousin’s attention had already been stolen away by the sound. Only when Signa blanched did Blythe follow her gaze.
Prince Aris did not wear black as the other men did but had outfitted himself in a frock coat the color of autumn moss. He looked every bit a prince as he smiled upon the crowd and raised his champagne into the air, waiting for others to mirror him.
“I’d like to extend my congratulations to the new husband and wife, and to propose a toast to the joys of marriage!” He’d cleaned up nicely since Blythe had last seen him, no longer wild and haggard or raging like a rabid dog. His golden hair had been freshly barbered and his shoes polished, though it was the ring of golden light around his finger that Blythe struggled to peel her eyes from. She wondered whether anyone else could see it.
“You’ve made the commitment to honor one person, for better or worse. Richer or poorer. To cherish and be faithful to them until Death himself comes for you.” He kept his voice jovial even as he scanned the crowd, one corner of his lips twisting upward as his gaze settled upon Blythe. “It’s an admirable commitment, and I can only hope that, one day, my future bride and I will be half as happy as the two of you. Isn’t that right, Miss Hawthorne?”
Several ladies gasped and looked toward Diana, who had undoubtedly still been proclaiming herself the future princess of the imaginary Verena. In the end though, it was Blythe that all eyes sought out, including her father’s. Elijah had gone pale as a ghost, and in that moment, Blythe wanted nothing more than to cross the floor and pluck Aris’s eyeballs from his skull. Then she’d shove them back into their sockets just so she could pluck them again.
She didn’t though, as a better, more vicious plan had entered her mind, refusing to let her shy away from his challenge. It was a decision that would warrant a discussion she really didn’t want to have with her father, but there was no way Blythe could allow Aris to win the war he’d waged.
She lifted her own flute of champagne and threw on her brightest smile as she twirled around the crowd. “You two are an inspiration to us all!” Someone ought to have given her an award for the joy she managed to slip into her own voice. “Let us toast to your brilliant future, and to your many years ahead. I hope that His Highness and I will soon be as happy.” She tipped the flute back among polite clapping, swallowing the drink in a single swig.