The Wolf of Winterthorne: Scandalous Secrets, Book 4 (20 page)

The book Arabella had been clutching dropped to the floor with a
thud
.

“Oh, dear,” Victoria patted her arm. “I fear this is too much.”

“Lean on me. You must sit.” Logan led Arabella to the sofa.

Arabella followed his instructions, the pain in her temples intensifying. She heard Lady Victoria suggest ringing for tea, though it sounded distant. As did Logan’s baritone, when he asked if she was all right.

All she could discern with any sort of lucidity was an acute ringing in her ears, intensifying to a deafening crescendo with each passing moment. Add to that a searing pain in her temples that now seemed to be pounding like a drum, and Arabella was certain she was going stark raving mad.

Squinting in the bright sunshine that streamed through the bank of windows at the far side of the room, she stood. It was as if the light and its radiating warmth was beckoning her, and she followed its silent call until the rays warmed her face through the translucent panes of glass.

She stared absentmindedly through the windows noting the russet colored grass and leaves, the green pines, and the rambling hills on the horizon. Closer to the house, she noticed a tall tree with a wide trunk and spindly branches upon which hung leaves in various tawny hues.

A leaf floated downward, drifting amongst a gentle breeze until it reached the grass below.

The tree …

“I cannot climb this tree,” Sybil insisted, dressed in a pale pink gown, clearly affronted. She must have been in her early teens.

“No, you will not,” Arabella remembered saying while clad in a bright fuchsia concoction that clearly belonged to her ostentatious sister.

Their mother had sewn their garments when they were children. After her death, Arabella had done so. She remembered pricking herself once, bleeding on the shimmering fabric of her sister’s yellow dress. It had enraged Sybil at the time.

“You are so boring,” Sybil taunted. “Hats, gloves, pastels. So prim, yet you climb trees. How is that possible?”

Arabella answered, “It is my only peace from you. Because you cannot climb trees.”

“Your only peace?” Sybil’s retort was laced with venom. “What would your peasant boy think of that statement? I’m quite certain he believes he offers you peace as you read together on our stoop. Please tell me you aren’t besotted with that urchin.”

Arabella’s face had turned a deep crimson, she was certain of it, as heat crept up her cheeks, her anger reaching a fevered pitch with Sybil’s latest insult towards Logan.

“It was once amusing – us switching places,” Arabella shook her bright skirts. “No longer. Now, I feel ridiculous and self-indulgent. This shall be our last game, Sybil, for I have no desire to pretend to be you. Not any longer.”

“But I am so good at being you,” Sybil had countered, curtseying for dramatic effect. “It is such an easy role: feign innocence, polite civility. I bet I could even convince your urchin that I am you. Perhaps he’d like my version of you better? Or, he might like me better – perchance I can steal him from you. Shall that be our next game?”

As the blinding daze of memories slowly lifted, Arabella felt Logan’s hands splayed on her waist. His strong grasp grounded her. Perhaps he was fearful that she would collapse. Regardless, his comforting presence was with her, strengthening her resolve to remember. It caused Logan’s eruption to spring to mind – when he believed Arabella to be her sister.

What had he said?

That Sybil once told him that he wasn’t good enough to shine her shoes, let alone sit on her front stoop?

Game …

It was all a game to Sybil. It always had been, even when they were younger. How many ruses had she committed?

To what extent?

Turning to face him, Arabella asked, “Did my sister ever try to …” How should she word this? “Did you ever reject Sybil? Is that why she made the comment about her shoes and our stoop?”

“Yes,” Logan stared at her, apprehension dripping from his every word. “How do you know that?”

“Because when we outgrew our game of pretending to be one another when we were children, she threatened a new game – one meant for you to reject me for her.”

He squeezed her waist. “She lost because I chose you and it infuriated her.”

“No,” Arabella shook her head, a numbness washing over her. “My sister, the soprano, the actress – with the ability to be anyone who suits her, be it out of desire or necessity. She won. Then and now.”

Logan clenched his jaw so tight that it twitched.

Clearly, he had come to the same realization she had.

“Sybil pretended to be me on that stoop, Logan. I never said you weren’t good enough for me – she did. My sister pretended to be me all of those years ago. It was all a carefully crafted ruse meant to separate us and she succeeded,” Arabella reached for him, threading her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. “Sybil ruined us years ago, pretending to be me and now she has sentenced me to death in her most dangerous game to date. She has burdened me with her sins – the blood, the knife, her identity, while she creates a new life, my life, by her own dictates.”

Logan exhaled, a ragged sigh, as he placed his forehead against hers. “There were more occasions when she pretended to be you.”

What didn’t Arabella know?

“Please, tell me the truth,” Bella beseeched Logan.

His eyes sought Victoria’s.

“I must know.” Arabella turned to her former employer. “Please tell me.”

“Perhaps you should be seated?” Victoria prompted again.

“No,” Arabella shook her head. Logan’s palms remained clamped firmly on her waist. She would lean on him, clutch him tighter as her rising panic coiled like vines, wrapping tightly around her heart, around her soul. “Pray, tell me what you know.”

Victoria bridged the distance between them, her skirts rustling in time with the clock ticking in the distance.

“When you applied for the position at my school, you had a history in London,” her words were spoken with great care. Pauses, here and there, as if Lady Victoria was attempting to ease into the truth.

“What does that mean – ‘a history?’ ” Arabella searched the resplendent woman’s gaze.

Her shining eyes, once the color of a bright sky, were now the tumultuous gray-blue of a churning sea. “You had garnered a reputation in London … oh, to hades with being tactful – you were caught in the bed of your former employer, a married noble to whom you were a governess.”

Arabella felt herself sway. “No! This isn’t right. That cannot be correct.”

“With your reputation in tatters, you came to me searching for a position at my school – my orphanage, as Logan aptly refers to it, in Northamptonshire—”

“Why would you hire me?” It was as if a teacup had broken and, try as she might, Arabella couldn’t piece together the remnants of the fractured china.

It didn’t look right, it didn’t feel right.

Nothing made sense.

“You convinced me that it wasn’t you who had tarnished your reputation,” Lady Victoria asserted, tipping her head to the side, as if allowing time for her words to register in Arabella’s overwrought brain.

It wasn’t you.

Arabella’s eyes widened. “Sybil. That vindictive—”

“Yes, she most certainly is,” the Dowager Viscountess added, her lips pursed as if she had ingested something bitter. “No one can fault you for despising her, dearest, but we must concentrate on how to help you. This issue is far more complicated than we first imagined, is it not?”

It was.

The Dowager Viscountess was correct in her assessment. Sybil had a history of controlling Arabella’s life, of debasing it. First with Logan, then her reputation and livelihood, now this final bit of savagery.

Who knows how many times, how many ways, she had taken it upon herself to destroy everything Arabella possessed.

The knots in her abdomen coiled tighter, climbing upwards to Bella’s heart where they encircled, squeezing the organ until she was certain it would cease beating.

Her sister had been successful.

With every attempt of which Arabella was now aware.

How did she stand a chance at survival when her sister was so far ahead of her? Plotting, scheming, long before Arabella had any idea.

“When I first stumbled upon the grounds of Winterthorne, I had no memory. Only instinct. I counted that as a piece of the puzzle that was me – the me I failed to remember.” She exhaled deeply. “How wrong I was. I don’t possess instinct. If I did, my sister never would have been able to succeed in her endeavors to steal my life, my love, my profession and reputation. She destroyed everything that I had. I allowed it because I don’t possess instinct. I was, I am, a fool.”

Logan rested his head against hers. “No, my love, that makes you human. Trusting in people who we care about is a human trait and a compassionate one at that. Unfortunately, not everyone deserves such faith. That isn’t your fault. It is theirs – for being deceitful. You wanted to believe the best of your twin, that makes you remarkable. Don’t allow her machinations and ability to deceive lessen your opinion of yourself.”

“But she has won, Logan. I remember very little, which means that we are at a distinct disadvantage.” Arabella squeezed her eyes shut, fighting the overwhelming urge to cry as tears stung the backs of her eyes. “Make no mistake, Sybil has outwitted me and soon nothing will be left of the woman I truly am. How do I stand a chance against someone who knows me so well, someone so duplicitous, so bereft of a conscience, someone who may have done much more than I recall, someone who may be planning something that I remain unaware of because my memory is gone.”

Releasing Logan, Arabella began to pace the room. Through the corner of her eye, she noted that Logan and Lady Victoria exchanged concerned glances, yet she couldn’t stop moving, couldn’t cease marching to and fro.

Keep moving.

That would be the only way Arabella could survive now. There was no other solution. There was no alternative in sight, she noted, her hands trembling as the full extent of her sister’s scheme soared out of the shadows and into the bright light of realization.

“If my memory serves me correctly, my sister has no plans of coming forward,” Arabella crossed her arms over her chest, a sudden chill gripping her with icy tentacles, causing her limbs to shudder. “Sybil has practiced destroying me many times over. Perhaps it was all in preparation for this. What else can we assume other than the obvious – that Sybil will create a new life for herself, under my name. Far away from her enemies. How else do we explain her bracelet?”

That bracelet, the one that presently lay in a pile of shiny metal on Arabella’s dressing table. She had removed it early this morning. In truth she wanted to chuck it into the fire.

Why else would Sybil place that shiny silver bracelet with her initial on Arabella’s wrist if she weren’t attempting to steal her sister’s life?”

“She will never release me. She is a master manipulator, and this game is one of survival now. Sybil will never break character.” Arabella met Logan’s concerned gaze. “Oh, God, Logan. I’ll never escape.”

Crossing the room in several brisk strides, Logan swept Arabella in his tight embrace.

She quivered beneath him and he clutched her tighter, his heart racing with all he had learned. After years spent believing Arabella had rebuffed him, he now knew it had been Sybil the entire time.

So much time wasted, believing Arabella did not love him, believing her reputation tarnished, when all the while Sybil was behind it all. Always in the wings, Logan remembered. It gave her time to craft her schemes without a spotlight.

Even with his infallible intuition, Logan had not seen it.

Why had he failed to see it?

Because Sybil could sense others’ weaknesses and manipulate them. Like marionettes, she could bring about events by moving this person forward, whilst moving another back.

Cold, heartless, downright ruthless and immoral – Sybil Sutton was all those qualities and more.

Logan knew people like that.

Hell, at one time, some categorized him as such. Though it was during a time of war, where allegiances turned and alliances crumbled like coarse granules of sand slipping through one’s fingers.

Although he had changed, he could become that person once again. Easily step foot into his mercenary boots one final time. He could be as calculating as Sybil Sutton.

No, more so.

Because the true Logan Ambrose knew how to exploit people, knew how to play one side against the other.

Logan was an expert at it, in fact.

He had to be. His desperate desire for survival left him no other alternatives. Hence, he could predict what would cause such a woman like Sybil to come out from the shadows, show herself after shaping such an impeccable exit.

He would sculpt her demise.

Scanning the room, he realized with a pang of relief that Victoria and Fiona had exited in silence. Though he was too preoccupied to notice at the time, too busy considering the options and conceiving a plan. Careful to leave the couple in privacy, the door to the library was shut and he was alone with Arabella.