The Wolf of Winterthorne: Scandalous Secrets, Book 4 (26 page)

Logan turned towards Colin. “Many who are staring already know who Arabella is,” he muttered low enough that only Arabella could hear. “They know she isn’t Sybil.”

“So, why do they continue to stare?” Colin asked, his whisper ragged, clearly unnerved.

The crowd carried cards. Cream-colored cards. Not a program. Stacks of the square-shaped cards traveled through the rows like foamy waves crashing against the shore in a rush. With each group who received and read the card, their eyes immediately turned upwards to Bella.

Victoria sat behind Arabella and tapped her on the shoulder. When Arabella turned, Tori smiled sweetly. “Pretend we are conducting a witty conversation about fashion, or jewels, or how pretentious that lot is. Just look at me and forget them.”

Though Victoria took great pains to conceal it, her tone was laced with apprehension.

What was happening?

What went wrong with their plan?

“I don’t understand,” Bella whispered, plastering a smile on her face. “What are they reading?”

Her friend laughed, as if Arabella had just narrated the most amusing of jokes. “Remain calm. We will sort this out.”

A man dressed in unknown livery entered their box, handing one of the cards to each member of their party.

Arabella clutched hers in her gloved hand, black ink staining the pristine, white fabric of her gloves. The ink was wet, hand written in an elaborate script. The headline, centered in large, curly letters, read
Tales of the Ton
.

“Is this the name of the gossip rag to which you referred?” Bella asked Victoria.

Victoria gasped. “No. Oh, no.”

While her eyes remained fixed upon the writing, the decorative words on the card swirled about Arabella’s brain.

A soprano’s sister has been wicked, thieving while none was the wiser.

Shall we guess what sin she will commit next, once the noose gets tighter?

Someone has blood on their hands but whose?

Like springtime daisies ending the winter pall; there will be more to follow, for I know all…

Arabella’s hands trembled. “Who would make such an accusation?”

Another memory, not a flash but rather a muted scene, one cloaked in darkness filled Arabella’s mind. The aroma of dirt intermingled with a metallic scent of blood wafting in the air, filling her nostrils as if fresh, like the ink on the page.

Closing her eyes, Bella’s heart raced as she lost herself in the black depths of oblivion and her sister’s voice.

“I have already pretended to be you, have I not?” Sybil laughed. “Poor dear. You haven’t a clue.”

“Must you bare your soul? What if she hears you?” It was a male’s tenor. One Arabella had never heard before.

Sybil sighed. “My sister is unconscious and will not live through this night. That is why I owe her an explanation.”

Sybil had smoothed Arabella’s hair from her face, the mere recollection causing Bella to flinch. She remembered that, at the time, she had silently instructed herself not to breathe, not to move, not to do anything that would reveal she was indeed awake.

“You have served your purpose, dear sister,” Sybil jeered in the darkness. “And now I will claim the role that I have been forever destined to fill … that of a star. It comes at your expense, but that cannot be helped.”

“Are you finished, Sybil?” The man’s impatience was mounting. “Why the need to give her your bracelet?”

Sybil touched the silver charm. “So, if she does awaken, Arabella will know who is responsible for her demise. Shall we depart, Faustino?”

“So begins our journey,
cara mia,
” the male added. Together they giggled, their voices growing more faint until Arabella succumbed to the darkness.

Arabella turned, her eyes seeking Logan’s. “Faustino … who is Faustino?”

“The composer for this evening,” Logan grasped her hand. “Faustino Beniamino.”

Faustino Beniamino.

The composer for tonight.

Sybil’s accomplice.

“Oh God, this is an ambush,” Arabella whispered to Logan, her rapid breathing increasing.

Logan’s eyes locked with hers, “Tell me. What have you remembered?”

“Sybil never wanted to be me,” An unnatural stillness befell them as the lights dimmed.

Victoria leaned forward, whispering, “Remember what you are concealing.”

Bella could not forget.

She clutched the handle of her fan with all her might, until she was certain her knuckles had turned white beneath the fabric of her gloves.

It wouldn’t help her now.

Not against what was about to occur in this theatre…

The orchestra began playing an Italian arrangement prompting the crowd to study the stage with rapt attention. The spotlight illuminated a lone figure, clad in an ebony, hooded cape. Slowly, the figure stepped onto the stage, out of the shadows from stage left.

Her voice began, an angelic sound, like the strings of a violin. The beauty of her voice was tinged with melancholy. She sang a haunting melody, someone whose face no one could yet discern.

Chills ran through Arabella’s veins.

The voice was familiar.

“Oh, dear God,” she whispered, just before the woman on stage removed her hood.

In that instant, the entire crowd gasped.

It was Arabella’s face on that stage.

As Sybil’s soprano reached a high note, she turned, meeting Bella’s gaze while her outstretched hands dripped with a crimson substance that pooled on the wooden planks beneath her feet.

Bloody hands.

Reaching for Arabella from the stage.

The eyes of the crowd followed, the audience now staring at Bella. Such was Sybil’s intention, of that Arabella was certain as she scrutinized her sister, whose heart-shaped lips were upturned in a malicious smirk, one she opted not to conceal.

Here, in this magnificent theatre, Bella realized that her sister had staged another show. Long before ever taking to this stage.

Sybil had convinced Arabella that she was stealing her life, all the while keeping her own. She must have convinced whoever she wronged that it was Arabella and not Sybil who committed the crime.

Now, she had exposed Arabella to the entire
haut ton
in the most dramatic fashion.

Yes, Sybil Sutton was a star at long last. A grand actress, she was perhaps the most underrated on all continents.

Her own sister was fooled for Arabella had stepped right into her trap yet again.

When will she ever learn?

A
s soon as all eyes returned to the stage spectacle, Arabella hurried out of the box, leaning against a wall in the hallway for support.

Breathe
, she silently instructed herself.
Just breathe
.

She inhaled one ragged breath. Followed by a second, then a third as her frantic pulse pounded against her temples. Her sister’s high-pitched voice ebbing and flowing in her ears.

Sybil had outfoxed them.

Again.

How is it that my sister could be ahead of us at every turn?
The answer winded Bella, though she and Logan had already discussed it. They remained at a disadvantage due to the fact that Arabella was devoid of most of her memories.

A chill wracked Arabella’s body as another phantom of her past came into focus. This one, another conversation with her sister, had occurred in their parents’ home on a blustery day when the frigid air radiating from the windowpanes caused Bella’s bones to ache.

“Years of practice,” Sybil had once said as Arabella watched the snowflakes drift from the ominous gray clouds above, the landscape glistening with a pristine white power. Untouched by man.

“Pardon?” Arabella had asked, placing her forehead against an icy pane of glass. “Practicing what?”

“Being anyone I want. That will bring me wealth, fame, and everything I desire.” Sybil fluffed a drab pillow on the sofa, scowling. “That is what will allow me to escape this life I was born into. I will practice and I will plot.”

Bella noted that her sister’s eyes were vacant, bereft of humor, bereft of compassion. “Plot what, Sybil?”

Even at that juncture, a surge of panic shot up Arabella’s spine. “What do you plan on doing?”

“You will see. Someday.” Sybil smiled, as if all was right with the world. “Everyone will see.”

“Are you well?” Logan’s baritone sliced through the chill borne by memories and realization.

Arabella met his eyes, which were the same color as his pupils. She then noticed the vein pulsating in his neck.

Neither was a good sign.

“We are most certainly at a disadvantage,” Bella sighed.

Logan placed his hand on her arm. “We knew that. We were prepared for her to surprise us.”

Shaking her head, Bella insisted. “Nothing prepared us for this.”

“But we now know what we are facing,” Logan’s tone was sinister, dripping with a combination of disdain and methodical detail. “She played all of her cards tonight. It may not appear as if we gained anything, but we have garnered her true intentions. It is the only way to stop Sybil.”

“We could flee,” Arabella suggested. Though she knew it to be silly, really, for she highly doubted that Logan ever ran from a challenge.

But this time, perhaps …

“Arabella!” A male’s harried tone sliced through the hallway, announcing his arrival long before he rounded the corner

Her eyes widened, so did Logan’s as he stepped into the shadows of the box, motioning that he would be hiding behind the wall. She nodded her understanding. They could read each other’s thoughts now, were attuned to the other.

Husband and wife, truly one.

Moreover, Bella’s husband trusted her to confront the unknown man who knew her name and was frantically stalking her. Perhaps he had a clue as to how to defeat Sybil?

Dare she hope that this man had been part of Sybil’s plan, was privy to the details?

The thin, young man sprinted down the hall, his clothes speaking volumes. He was no noble, yet no pauper either. “Arabella! Where are the jewels? You promised me my cut and disappeared, leaving me to get sacked.”

His fingers grazed the necklace Logan had bequeathed her upon their union. “These will do nicely for a start.”

Grabbing the file from her fan, Arabella held the sharp, silver blade to the man’s neck. “Remove your hands from me this instant.”

Terror emanated from the man’s wide eyes. It was evident that he never expected such a reaction.

Relief flooded Arabella’s veins to feel Logan’s palm pressed against the small of her back. He now stood beside her.

“Nice work, my love,” Logan shoved the man against the wall, placing his arm over the man’s chest. “Now, I shall ask the questions. Let us begin with who you are and how do you think you know my wife?”

“I—” The man’s eyes darted from Logan to Arabella. “She—”

“Full sentences, mate,” Logan prodded, tilting his head towards the file that Bella still pressed against the man’s trachea. “She will stab you if need be.”

The man became panicked, his breathing erratic. “Your wife stole from my employer—”

“Who might that be?” Logan pressed him harder against the wall.

“Lord Lawrence,” the man turned to Arabella. “You got me sacked. Now I want my cut.”

Logan clucked his tongue. “That is no way to treat a lady.”

“Your wife is no lady,” the man barked back.

Logan growled, placing pressure against the man’s throat, to the point where the intruder began to gasp for air.

“S-sir,” he added in a feeble attempt at civility.

“What is your name?” Logan eased up on his grip for a moment.

The man coughed before answering. “Harry White. I was Lord Lawrence’s footman before your wife—”

“You were duped by my sister, Sybil, not me.” Arabella pressed the blade against his neck.