Before long, the pretty torches ceased to exist. The guided pathways did not lead this far, though she could still see by the silvery light of the full moon overhead. Gerome had been slightly ahead of her this whole time, acting as her beacon, but he soon began to fall behind. His breath came in ragged bursts, the exertion evidently taking its toll on him.

“Are you well, Gerome?” she asked, worried. If Seth was following them, and Gerome was struggling, how was she supposed to keep him from attacking her?

He nodded, wheezing. “Quite well, My Lady. Though I may require a moment’s pause soon.”

“Is my father’s man not around here somewhere?” She glanced into the gloom, unable to see much ahead of her. Clutterbuck was supposed to be stationed along this path, but he was nowhere to be seen.

“When I was standing with him, he was some way up this trail,” Gerome panted. “He had taken up his position at the bridge to prevent anyone from crossing that way. I suppose he thought Mr. Booth would refrain from trudging through the water, if he attempted to make a swift escape.”

“A short way, you say?”

“Yes, it is not much further now,” Gerome assured.

“Very well,” she said, trying to push away the terror that crept across her skin, setting the fine hairs on edge. The world around her felt eerie and wrong, as though there were monsters lurking nearby. She could not see any, but that did not mean they weren’t there.

I only wish to see my husband again. I want him to hold me and tell me that everything will be fine—that he will garner information from Molly and have Seth arrested forthwith. Please, allow me to live, so that I may see him again.

She realized, in that moment of abject fear, that she had fallen truly in love with Ewan. He was her ever-fixed star in the sky, guiding her home. And she did not wish to be anywhere but by his side.

For a further five minutes, they walked in stilted silence. Gerome was still wheezing a few steps behind her, but the sound of his grating breaths brought her some sense of comfort. At least she was not alone.

Up ahead, she spied the bridge that Gerome must have been talking about. Carved from sandstone, it bore two sculptured vases at either side of the entrance, the stone fruit and foliage tumbling over the lip. There were Doric-style gaps all along the curve of the bridge proper, showing glimpses of the rushing river below.

“I thought you said that my father’s man was stationed here?” she said, with trepidation, for the bridge was entirely empty.

Gerome stared in surprise. “He was here, but a short while ago. I left him with the accomplice and His Lordship, as I ran back to the ballroom for you. He was just here, I swear it.” He began to scour the banks on either side of the bridge, peering for any signs of foul play.

“Where are they, Gerome?” she whispered, her throat constricting.

“My Lady, I cannot say. They were here, I promise you.” He looked close to tears.

“What if something has happened to them?” she gasped, trying to drag breath into her tightened lungs.

“I am sure it has not,” he said, reassuring her. However, it was too late for that. She could not be calmed.

“How can you be sure?”

He sighed. “I cannot, My Lady. Indeed, perhaps you should stand in the center of the bridge in case someone comes,” he warned, his demeanor equally perplexed. “It may be that they have decided to bring the carriage closer, so you do not have to walk as far. Or, perhaps, the accomplice made her escape and they have chased after her. I do not know.”

Taking a shaky breath, she heeded his advice and stepped up to the center of the bridge, leaning against the balustrade. Her knees were trembling, threatening to give way at any moment.

Ewan, where are you? Come back to me, as you said you would. Hurry.

She glanced towards the opposite bank, squinting at the darkness there. A rustle of leaves made her pulse quicken, and the snap of a distant branch went off like a gunshot. There was somebody out there, she was certain of it. She could feel their eyes, watching her. Determined not to be captured by Seth, she kept her gaze fixed on the woodland. Nobody would creep up on her unawares, not with Gerome watching her from the other side. Here, she was safe.

Suddenly, a shadow flitted in front of her eyes. She staggered backwards, bumping into something—or rather, someone—solid. She tried to turn, to see who it was, but strong hands held her forwards, preventing her. Before she could open her mouth to scream, that same, strong hand clamped over her mouth and something scratchy slid around her neck. It tightened, with just enough pressure to warn of what might happen if it tightened any further.

“Don’t make a sound,” a voice warned. A familiar voice. Painfully familiar. “I’ll kill you where you stand if you make even a squeak. Nod if you understand.”

With tears streaming from her eyes, she nodded slowly.

“Good. I would prefer it if you could speak,” the voice said, releasing her mouth from his grip.

“Why are you doing this?” she whimpered. “What have I done to you?”

A bitter laugh hissed in her ear. “You took the place that was rightfully mine.”

“I do not understand.”

“You were wanted, whilst I was abandoned and left to rot. Our father chose unwisely, and now you will suffer for his ill-fated mistake. I deserved his affection as much as you did, if not more. I would not have flouted his good name and humiliated him with such outlandish ideas of becoming a physician. I would have been a good son, had he but let me. But he will pay, Henrietta. He will pay, and it will cost him dearly.”

“Gerome… please, let me go.”

“It is much too late for that now, Henrietta. My revenge is almost at its completion.”

All this time, she had suspected Seth, when Gerome had been the one plotting against her and her father. She wracked her brain furiously, trying to make sense of it, trying to put the puzzle pieces together. He had become Ewan’s manservant shortly after the wedding. He had come to Scarborough with them. He was the one who sent the letters… he was the one who took mine from the postal box. He overheard our every word. He used Ewan to get close to me, so that he might punish my father. Ewan had entrusted him with everything—the one man we ought to have been watching.

“You said ‘our father’. What do you mean?” Henrietta tried to even out her voice, knowing that panic would get her nowhere. The rope around her neck dug in harder, grating against her skin.

“My name may be Gerome Buffond, but I deserved the title of Oliver,” he spat viciously, tugging on the rope. “Our father, the great war hero, seduced my mother during the battles in France. She died of grief, after he abandoned us both to a life of destitution. I was alone, living out my youngest years in an orphanage, in grime, and filth, and squalor. Can you picture that, Henrietta?” He said the last words with such venom that she physically recoiled.

“I am sorry, Gerome,” she murmured. “I—”

“I do not want your pity!” he snapped. “I want your life, Henrietta. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. I am owed that much.”

She lifted her hands to try and loosen the rope. “How do you know he is the one who did this to you?” Keep him talking, and I may find my means of escape. Her eyes scoured the banks desperately, praying for a miracle. Clutterbuck should have been here, but a sinking feeling made her realize that Gerome had already dealt with her father’s man. She looked at the rushing river below and felt her chest grip in a vise of horror.

“My mother left me a note, though I did not receive it until years later, upon my exit from the orphanage,” he explained bitterly. “When I discovered the truth, I gave my life to the pursuit of revenge—hers and mine. You will be my crowning glory. He will be made to watch you die—the thing he loves most in this world. The daughter who disappoints him at every turn.”

“Let me go,” Henrietta pleaded. “We can speak with my father together. We may resolve this without any harm. I am certain he would wish to meet with you, if you would allow him to.”

He scoffed. “The time for talking is long past. He did not return to see my mother, though he knew there might have been a child. He cast her aside, and he cast me aside, and soon he will know what that pain feels like. He will suffer, as I have suffered. There can be no forgiveness now.”

There was nothing more frightening than a person with nothing left to lose. Henrietta knew that. She could tell that Gerome did not care if this ended in his death, too. At least he would have tasted the sweet nectar of long-sought vengeance. In fact, she sensed that he did not plan to survive this, either. He was going to drag her down with him and bring the ultimate agony to their father.

“I am your sister, Gerome,” she said softly. “You cannot kill your own blood. You would not.”

He tugged the rope harder, squeezing too tight. “I have been ordered around for long enough, bowing and scraping to work my way up to your household. You did not pay me any heed when I was in your husband’s employ. Do not expect me to believe that you view me as anything other than staff. You high-and-mighty leeches are all the same.”

“There must be a way to stop you from doing this,” Henrietta gasped, struggling for air. A pressure was building behind her eyes, her cheeks hot.

“And the way you treated poor Mr. Booth, whose only crime was speaking out and losing his job,” Gerome sneered. “It was almost too easy to distract you from my endeavors. Your sights were solely upon him. He was the perfect scapegoat when, indeed, he suspected me the moment he arrived at Lord Averson’s residence. That wench of his has been trying to follow me, attempting to catch me in the act, though I am always one step ahead of them both. All of you, in fact.”

Henrietta’s heart lurched. “She was trying to warn me away from you.”

“You are slowly figuring it out,” he mocked.

“They were there to watch me. To ensure you did not strike at me.”

“Perhaps you are sharper than I have given you credit for,” he mused. “Although, you followed me so readily, like a lamb to the slaughter. Not once did you suspect that something was amiss, trailing after me with that pitiful expression of fear on your face.”

“Spare me, Gerome. I beg of you.”

He laughed coldly. “Why? I know you cannot be with child, for you have spurned your husband’s advances. Or did you think to lie to me, to appeal to my ‘better nature’?”

“I wish to live,” she replied firmly.

“Then it is too bad for you.” Without another word, he tied a gag across Henrietta’s mouth and hoisted her over the edge of the bridge. Her feet landed on the perilously thin edge between the Doric-style gaps, scuffling for purchase. She wobbled forwards and backwards, until Gerome pulled on the rope, steadying her. There was a steep distance between her and the water below. One hard push, and she would end up dangling from the rope around her neck. Which she suspected was the point.

The only trouble was, Gerome’s audience had yet to arrive. Henrietta knew that might buy her some more time. Indeed, she was about to open her mouth to try and convince him once more that he ought to release her, when a cry shot through the still atmosphere.

“Stop! Let her go!”