“I knew Signa when we were only children,” Charlotte insisted. “She was my closest friend because I liked that she was a little strange, and that she spent her days in the woods like I did. People would say things about her, but I never listened. There are rumors, though. Rumors about why she’s been passed from family to family, and why all her guardians have died.
“People always said that she was cursed, though I didn’t believe it until her uncle died,” Charlotte continued, each word quieter than the previous. “And then my own mother followed. My father and I fled, and for years I thought it was silly. Signa couldn’t have been the reason my mother and her uncle contracted the disease that killed them. I was glad to see her again, but ever since that night in the garden I can’t help but wonder… why did she run toward the fire?”
Blythe didn’t need to think about the answer; she knew it in her bones. “She was looking for Percy.”
“Perhaps.” Charlotte’s fingers clenched the edge of the bench. “Again, it’s not my place to speculate.”
Blythe wished suddenly that she’d never come to Charlotte’s. Because Signa had saved her life. She had been there when no one else had. She was Blythe’s person, which was all Blythe could think of as she flagged William and summoned their horses. She mounted wordlessly while Charlotte looked on, her expression hostile.
“Everett wants to keep his eye on her, you know,” she called as Blythe gathered the reins in her hand. “Why do you think he’s invited you all to the investiture? Surely, you can’t believe it’s because he still cares for her.”
Blythe paused then, only for a moment and only because she had never heard such malice seep from Charlotte’s tongue. Even Miss Killinger seemed to quickly recognize her slipup, for her eyes went wide as she covered her mouth.
And though Blythe knew better—though she hadn’t wanted to say a word about it—she felt such a protective fire for Signa that she could not help but reply. “Given what I just witnessed between you and Everett, it never crossed my mind that he did. When you go back to him, do tell him hello for me, would you?”
Charlotte drew back, and Blythe hated that she’d hit her mark. One word from Blythe, and Charlotte’s reputation would be ruined.
Blythe wouldn’t say anything, of course, and she hated herself for even letting Charlotte believe that she might. Without another breath between them, Charlotte hurried inside while Blythe snapped the reins and set off atop Mitra, William keeping pace beside her.
“There was a man hiding in the stables,” he whispered. “He was squatting behind a hay bale.”
The look that Blythe cut him was indignant. “No, there was not.”
This time, as she gave Mitra a gentle kick and hurried into the forest’s embrace, it wasn’t her mother that Blythe thought of as branches clawed her hair and snagged her dress. She was instead reminded of the ladies of this season, who would claw at anyone they could to get ahead; Charlotte’s competitiveness had her behaving no better than the others.
Yet that wasn’t why, in that moment, Blythe hated Charlotte more than anyone in the world. Rather, it was because Charlotte had planted a seed inside her mind. And no matter how hard Blythe tried to be rid of it, the idea was a weed within her thoughts, burying itself deep and spreading its roots.
There was no way that Signa would have ever harmed Percy. She loved him, just as she loved Blythe.…
… Didn’t she?
SEVENTEEN
THERE HAD BEEN A TIME AT THE START OF THE SEASON WHEN HOPEFUL men called on the ladies of Thorn Grove every Monday and Thursday. They’d come with lavish gifts and sweet sentiments, only to be met with Blythe’s easy dismissal and Signa’s apologies. Those men had trickled out over the weeks, disappearing entirely after Lord Wakefield’s death. While this had irritated Byron so much that he never once turned the page of the paper he’d been pretending to read, Signa was now thankful for the time it allowed her to spend with Blythe, curled upon a chaise in the drawing room and sharing their theories and hunting for Lord Wakefield’s murderer while Byron likely suspected they were gossiping about men.
Blythe had been quiet since the previous day’s incident in the study, though, and often Signa would catch her cousin’s eyes wandering to her, scrutinizing Signa in a way she never had before. Surely, she couldn’t have known that Signa had anything to do with what had happened, and yet…
“What about Charlotte?” Blythe whispered, her legs drawn beneath her as a cup of tea steamed her face. “In books the killer is always the quiet one.”