He had been teasing her, Mira realized. The Butcher of Bidwell had been teasing her. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
She had taken only a few steps toward the corner in which she had last seen Kitty and George when a woman’s voice behind her called, “Miss Fitzhenry?”
Mira turned and found herself face to face with an exquisite, yet unfamiliar, young woman, not much more than a girl. Her rich chestnut hair presented a striking contrast to her alabaster skin, but it was her wide green eyes that captured and held the attention. Not only were they beautiful in color and shape, but there was a haunted look to them that made the young woman seem fragile and forlorn.
“I am Mirabelle Fitzhenry. I’m sorry, have we met?”
The young woman shook her head. “I am sorry if I startled you Miss Fitzhenry, but I felt I must speak with you. My name is Sarah Linworth.” She paused, as though the name should carry some import. Although it seemed vaguely familiar, Mira could only wait for Miss Linworth to explain.
“My sister was Olivia Linworth.” Mira’s heart sank when she made the connection: Olivia Linworth, who had been promised to Nicholas—and who had perished, allegedly at his hands.
Sarah moved closer so that she could speak in confidential tones. “Miss Fitzhenry, might I speak with you in private?”
Mira nodded slowly, wary. She followed Miss Linworth through the crowd to a quiet corner, a small space tucked behind a flourishing potted palm.
“Miss Fitzhenry, I do not mean to be presumptuous, but I feel it is my duty to warn you, one woman to another, that Viscount Ashfield is an evil man, a monster. Whatever you do, you must not marry him. Indeed, you must never allow yourself to be alone with him.”
Sarah spoke with such conviction, yet it was difficult for Mira to reconcile the gentle man who had led her in her first waltz with the man Sarah described, the man brutal enough to murder his own betrothed in cold blood.
Her skepticism must have shown in her face, because Sarah desperately grasped Mira’s arm, and her eyes burned with a feverish intensity.
“You must believe me, Miss Fitzhenry. I was at the house party that summer. I saw how oddly Ashfield behaved. He was forever up in his tower room, hardly mingling with his guests at all. He barely spoke to my poor sister. She confided in me that she felt she was being watched. One night, she looked out her bedroom window, and she actually saw a figure darting through the shrubberies. She heard footsteps following her down the corridors of that big, drafty house, but when she called out, no one answered.”
Miss Linworth paused, worrying her lower lip with her teeth and glancing nervously from side to side. “Miss Fitzhenry,” she said finally, her gaze boring into Mira’s, “Miss Fitzhenry, I hesitate to be blunt, given that we have not even been properly introduced, but the circumstances are dire and call for plain talk. Just the day before she died, my sister told me that someone had broken into her bedroom and searched through her belongings. Her unmentionables were in a tangled heap in their drawer, her jewelry was scattered across her dressing table, and her locket—a beautiful etched gold locket containing a miniature of our mother—her locket was missing. She told me about the intrusion after dinner that night, and she was beside herself with fear.
“The next day, they found her, dead at the foot of the curtain wall leading to Ashfield’s tower room.” Sarah’s lovely green eyes filled with tears, and she continued in an agonized whisper.
“The constable—a second cousin to Blackwell and dependent upon him for his income—said Olivia had probably been out walking and fallen. The mist had been thick that night, the allure, the walkway atop the curtain wall, was undoubtedly slippery. And Olivia was a bit short-sighted. Without any inquiry at all, the constable declared it an accident, and no one—not even my father—was brave enough to stand up to Blackwell and swear out an information that said differently. Besides, without a confession, Ashfield could not be convicted of murder, and he is hardly likely to suffer from an attack of conscience. But I know better, Miss Fitzhenry. Olivia was terrified, she was terrified of him. She would never have wandered out alone at night, certainly not in the direction of his room.”