Clio was painfully accustomed to being ignored. Her engagement had given her years of practice.
When she was seventeen, Lord Piers Brandon, the handsome, dashing heir to the Marquess of Granville, had obeyed the wishes of their families and proposed marriage. He’d gone on bended knee in the Whitmore drawing room, sliding a gold-and-ruby ring on her third finger. To Clio, it had felt like a dream.
A dream with one snag. Piers had a new but promising career in foreign diplomacy, and Clio was rather young to assume the duties of managing a household. They had all the time in the world, he pointed out. She didn’t mind a long engagement, did she?
“Of course not,” she’d said.
Looking back, perhaps she should have given a different answer. Such as, “Define ‘long.’ ”
Eight years—and no weddings—later, Clio was still waiting.
By now, her situation was a public joke. The scandal sheets called her “Miss Wait-More.” The gossip trailed her everywhere. Just what could be keeping his lordship from England and the altar, they all wondered? Was it ambition, distraction . . . devotion to his duty?
Or devotion to a foreign mistress, perhaps?
No one could say. Least of all Clio herself. Oh, she tried to laugh away the rumors and smile at the jokes, but inside . . .
Inside, she was hurting. And utterly alone.
Well, that all ended today. Starting this moment, she was Miss Wait-No-Longer.
The brass door handle turned in her gloved grip, and the door swung open.
“Stay here,” she told the servants.
“But Miss Whitmore, it isn’t—”
“I will be fine. Yes, his reputation is scandalous, but we were friends in our childhood. I spent summers at his family home, and I’m engaged to marry his brother.”
“Even so, Miss Whitmore . . . We should have a signal.”
“A signal?”
“A word to shout if you’re in distress. Like ‘Tangiers,’ or . . . or perhaps ‘muscadine.’ ”
Clio gave her an amused look. “Is something wrong with the word ‘help’?”
“I . . . well, I suppose not.”
“Very well.” She smiled, unable to bear Anna’s look of disappointment. “ ‘Muscadine’ it is.”
She passed through the door, walked down a dim corridor, and emerged into a soaring, empty space. What she found made her blood turn cold.
Oh, muscadine.
She blinked and forced herself to look again. Perhaps it wasn’t him.
But there was no mistaking his profile. That rugged slope of a nose healed from multiple breaks. Add in the thick, dark hair, the strong jaw, the impressive breadth of his shoulders . . . That was Lord Rafe Brandon himself, perched on a crossbeam some dozen feet above the bricked floor. He had a rope in his hands, and he was knotting it securely to the beam. At the end of the rope was a loop.
A noose.
Apparently, his spirits hadn’t fallen as low as she’d feared.
They’d sunk lower.
And she’d arrived not a moment too soon.
Her heartbeat went into a panicked stutter, whomp-whomp-whomp-ing in her chest. “My lord, don’t. Don’t do this.”
He glanced up. “Miss Whitmore?”
“Yes. Yes, it’s me.” She advanced in small steps, lifting an open palm in a gesture of peace. “It’s Miss Whitmore. It’s Clio. I know we’ve had our differences. I’m not sure if we have anything but differences. But I’m here for you. And I beg of you, please reconsider.”
“Reconsider.” He gave her a hard look. “You mean to stop me from . . .”
“Yes. Don’t do something you’ll regret. You have so much to live for.”
He paused. “I’ve no wife, no children. Both my parents are dead. My brother and I haven’t been on speaking terms for nearly a decade.”
“But you have friends, surely. And many fine qualities.”