Chapter Three
Ashwick Hall, the following morning
Juliana awoke to find her favorite gown ruined.
It had been carefully laid out the night before—white muslin with delicate blue embroidery, it was her mother's which her aunt had prepared for her before the journey to London. Now it lay crumpled at the foot of her bed, the embroidery shredded and the hem slashed as though by a blade.
Her eyes misted with tears as her fondest memory was of her mother wearing the same gown only it was re-embellished by the seamstress her aunt favors.
Her maid, Lucy, gasped. "Miss! What on earth—?"
"I don't know," Juliana said slowly, kneeling to examine the fabric. The cuts were precise. Purposeful. "Could someone have—?"
"No one came in last night," Lucy said, pale. "I swear it."
But Juliana wasn't so sure.
Breakfast was a glittering affair, held in the solarium beneath a cascade of morning light. The guests—aristocrats, heiresses, and ambitious widows—were dressed in tones of pale lemon and lavender, all radiating the effortless grace of people born into the game.
Juliana arrived in her second-best gown, still lovely but modest. In a sage green hue that highlighted her eyes making it sparkle more. She took her seat quietly, conscious of the murmurs that still followed her after her infamous refusal of the Duke.
He, of course, sat at the head of the table, unreadable as ever.
And beside him, freshly arrived, was a stunning blonde with haughty ice blue eyes— Lady Evelyne Harrow.
Widowed at twenty-six, impossibly poised and dressed in silver silk, Evelyne was the sort of woman who made other women straighten their backs. Her gaze drifted lazily over the guests—pausing only when it reached Juliana.
She smiled.
It was a beautiful smile. Warm. Perfectly pitched.
And completely empty.
"Miss Merrick," she said sweetly. "You must be the girl who refused our dear Ashbourne. How… refreshing."
Juliana smiled back, slow and steady. "Lady Evelyne. How gracious of you to visit."
"I do adore house parties," Evelyne replied, reaching for a sugared plum. "So many delightful accidents waiting to happen."
Sebastian said nothing. But Juliana noticed the subtle tension in his jaw.
Later, in the gardens, Juliana found her path mysteriously blocked.
A stone vase had fallen—smashed—directly onto the bench she'd been told to meet her aunt at. Shards of porcelain glittered in the grass.
"Odd," said one of the footmen, sweeping up the mess. "No wind this morning. Must've slipped."
Juliana stood still, a chill threading down her spine.
Was it coincidence?
Or had someone been waiting?
That evening, at dinner, Lady Evelyne sat beside Sebastian.
She leaned in close, fingers just brushing the edge of his sleeve, her laugh soft and musical. It was the kind of performance that could fool any observer.
Except Juliana.
She knew a snake when she saw one.
Halfway through the second course, Evelyne turned to her and said lightly, "My dear, I do hope you've settled in. One hears you've had a dreadful morning—something about a torn gown?"
Juliana met her eyes. "How thoughtful of you to ask. It seems someone mistook my dress for kindling."
"Hmm," Evelyne murmured, taking a sip of wine. "London can be such a cruel place. But then, the countryside is hardly safer, is it?"
Their gazes locked.
And just for a moment, the mask slipped.
Not enough for anyone else to notice. But enough for Juliana to be sure:
Someone wanted her gone.
And Lady Evelyne, elegant and smiling, was the only one enjoying the view.