“You’re right.” Byron set down his water glass. “It’s not logical at all. Unfortunately, after the past year, no one is expecting Elijah to think rationally.”
“He no longer indulges,” Blythe argued. “Not even a little.”
The thin skin around Byron’s eyes creased in genuine apology. “Once you earn a reputation for yourself, it’s difficult to change the way others perceive you. I’m afraid your father is facing a long and arduous uphill climb.”
“But you believe him,” Blythe pressed, “don’t you?” Signa’s belly churned when Byron looked away. She was glad that Blythe couldn’t see the shadows that darkened his expression. “It’s not for me to decide,” he said.
Signa thought of all the people who had shown up for the party the night prior. She thought of their painted-on grins and their pretty words, congratulating Elijah one moment only to condemn him the next. How quickly everyone had turned on him. How quickly they would turn on anyone. For too many years she’d been willing to fight tooth and nail for a place in society, and she hated herself for it. Hated how hard she had tried to mold and shape herself into something worse than any poison she’d ever tasted.
“Surely my father got the drink from the true killer,” Blythe suggested.
Byron’s seat gave a low creak as he leaned back, shut his eyes, and began to massage his temples. “He claims he got it off a serving tray and doesn’t remember who from.”
Signa went to take a sip of her tea only to find she’d already drunk it all. Her mind had been too busy processing this new information to notice, for it made little sense. No one else at the party had been sick, so how was it that someone had managed to poison a single drink on a serving tray and ensure it landed on its right mark. Unless, perhaps…
“Do you think it possible that Lord Wakefield wasn’t the intended victim?” she asked, thinking of Percy and how the tea he’d poisoned had been meant for his birth mother, Marjorie.
Blythe went rigid. “You think the poison was for my father?”
“It’s a possibility.” Signa drummed her fingers on the table as she worked through the idea. “It could have been meant for anyone, really. If it had been meant for Elijah, the person behind this was unaware that he’s no longer drinking.”
“We can theorize all day.” Byron seemed ready to fall asleep in his seat, should they let him. “All that matters right now is that the authorities believe Elijah is the murderer. And if they don’t find a more obvious culprit by the time of his trial…”
He didn’t need to say the rest; the truth of it already hung heavy around them. The punishment for murder was execution. If they didn’t find the true culprit, Elijah would be hanged.
Blythe hadn’t taken a bite of food since Byron walked in, yet she still clutched her fork so tightly that her knuckles were bone white.
“We cannot leave this up to a constable,” Signa said. With Fate involved, that option would only end in loss. However, it wasn’t as though she could say that aloud, and Byron hadn’t changed enough to stop himself from fixing Signa with an incredulous stare.
“I know there’s something strange about you, Miss Farrow,” he began, not unkindly. Or at least not unkindly for him. “I know that, with this strangeness, you have helped my family once already. But you are no Hawthorne, and this is not something any young lady should get herself involved with. No one would fault you if you were to return to Foxglove early.”
Signa hadn’t realized those words would feel like a bludgeon until they struck.
Beside her, Blythe threw her fork onto the table with a clatter. “To Foxglove?” she demanded. “Why on earth would she go there?”
“Because that is her home, Blythe. To be frank, the last thing we need is to give anyone another reason to scrutinize our family, and Signa is a beacon of unfavorable attention.”
There was no time for Signa to form her own thoughts before Blythe sat up straighter, fuming. “How do you think it would look if she left us now? People would think we frightened her off!”
As much as Signa could both hear and acknowledge the argument surrounding her, she could hardly pay it any mind. Her heart had lurched from her chest to her throat, hammering so fiercely that she worried she might be sick.
Foxglove.
For months that manor had been looming over her. When she’d turned twenty and inherited her parents’ fortune, Elijah had given her all the help she might need to pursue getting the manor set up for her arrival. He’d given her recommendations, contact information for a newspaper that would put out ads for staff, and had even offered to purchase her a ticket for the train. Eventually, though, as ledgers of his notes and advice began to pile up with dust in her sitting room, Elijah stopped discussing Foxglove altogether. Ages ago he’d told Signa that she could remain at Thorn Grove for as long as she liked, and it seemed he’d meant it.