“We’re here…” His voice jarred Geneva back from her thoughts and she glanced out the window.
Oh, no. She wanted to sink through the carriage into the muddy ground below, recognizing the deep-green barouche immediately. She’d ridden in the blasted thing. Any lingering doubts were squelched when the door opened and the marquess’s emblazoned coat of arms revealed the fact. She cringed as the trio emerged, along with a maid, and watched as they were ushered into the castle.
Abra’s parents had arrived along with Baron Ruskin—and no Hannah. There would be no avoiding him or his evil marchioness. Westbridge wouldn’t allow anyone to dismiss Geneva outright—one could hope—but Lady Westbridge had no such restraints.
“We shall have to wait until the other conveyances have moved,” Mr. Oshea said unnecessarily.
“I have an umbrella,” Julius offered.
But Mr. Oshea’s eyes were on Geneva. He’d read her expression and was helping…her. She forced her features to relax. While his assistance was appreciated—truly appreciated, beyond words appreciated—it wouldn’t save her from having to face Lady Westbridge.
Geneva studied the baron, worried anew, praying he was good enough for her friend. She didn’t trust his intentions. But then, she acknowledged, whose did she trust but her own? She forced herself to recall Hannah’s reassurances. It was right for someone to be concerned and she knew Lady Westbridge didn’tharbor any such concern. In the end, it was Abra who would suffer. All because of her mixed heritage.
Geneva donned her own cloak of hostility. She could handle Lord RuskinandLady Westbridge. She nodded at Julius. “Thank you, sir. There’s no need to wait on my account.”
“There certainly is,” Miss Hale bit out. “That is one of my best gowns you are wearing and your slippers will never survive the muck.”
“Oh,” Julius said, his eyes dropping to Geneva’s feet. “I’m afraid Docia is quite correct.”
“We shall wait,” Mr. Oshea decreed, brooking no argument.
In the end, it mattered not. The Marquess of Westbridge and party were still in the vestibule when Geneva entered. “Oh, Lord Westbridge. How lovely to see you,” she said with heartfelt emotion. Lord Westbridge was the personification of Geneva’s idea of a loving father. The stately countenance, the stern look in the hazel eyes Abra had clearly inherited from him. He took Geneva’s hand and bowed over it, leaving a sheen of guilt in its wake.
Raising his head and spearing her with a paternal narrowing of his eyes, one brow lifted, and spoke too softly for those around to hear. “Miss Wimbley. What are you doing in Northumberland, you naughty child? I must have misinterpreted my daughter’s… words. I could have sworn she said you and she would be traveling to Cornwall for a visit with—” His eyes swept the hall. “Lady Perl—Pender,” he quickly corrected with an admonishing look that heated Geneva’s face to some ungodly shade she likely couldn’t name. He leaned closer. “And the man I sent to travel with the two of you?”
Panic banded her chest; she swallowed back bile.
“Never mind. I shall deal with you later. Where is that elusive daughter of mine?”
“Upstairs, my lord. I-I’ll let her know you’ve arrived,” she whispered.
Lady Westbridge glared down her pointed nose. She had small eyes that always seemed too close together. The marchioness abhorred that the marquess treated Geneva with such respect as one of Abra’s closest friends. She was older than the type of woman Geneva had thought the marquess would have wed, but Abra had told her he hadn’t been looking for a child bride. By no means was Lady Westbridge in her dotage, as she was in her early forties, if memory served. The woman didn’t speak, but her rancor seeped through every layer of Geneva’s fine clothes.
“Lady Westbridge. Lord Ruskin.” Contriteness had Geneva lowering her eyes. She dipped a respectful curtsey. Of no matter, however, as Lady Westbridge’s lips tightened.
Lord Ruskin stepped forward, a puzzled look on his handsome face. He and Hannah shared the same wheat-colored hair and bright-blue eyes. But there was a seriousness about his demeanor that Hannah insisted had not been there before he’d left for the Continent.
“Geneva, you’re back—” Abra’s steps slowed on the grand staircase. “Papa? Mother?” Geneva feared her friend would faint and tumble the rest of the way down the stairs. But Abra was not so missish as to lose her comportment. Miss Greensley would be proud. Abra gathered her poise and continued her descent with grace, going to her father.
“Darling.” Lord Westbridge leaned in and kissed her cheek, murmuring quietly. He was careful in making certain no others could hear, but Geneva imagined his edict:Your mother warned me this friendship I’ve condoned would come back to haunt me.
Abra’s eyes dropped and she nodded.
Lady Westbridge looked as if her spine would splinter under such rigidity. “Lord Ruskin insisted on accompanying yourfather and me, Abra.” The woman’s words seemed to grind out of her.
Abra’s head lifted quickly, her amber-toned face darkening with a deep flush. Geneva nearly groaned.
Granted, the baron was an attractive man, Geneva felt forced into admitting, but his staunchness concerned her for the future of the Sapphire Society should he learn of Hannah, Abra, and Geneva’s endeavors. He didn’t seem the sort to embrace change.
With Meredith gone and Lady Westbridge determined to marry Abra off, Hannah would be next. Where would that leave the Society?
Where would that leave…her?
Geneva started up the stairs, desperate for escape. Before she reached the top, Mr. Oshea called out. “A word, Miss Wimbley?”
She couldn’t turn. If she moved her head an iota, the unshed tears blurring her sight would spill. She just couldn’t. Not in front of Lord Westbridge. Not in front of Lady Westbridge. And most especially, not in front of Mr. Oshea. “Later, sir.”
Even Lady Westbridge’s gasp failed in cheering her. Though there would be a gossip bill for cutting the man in his own entryway. The thought didn’t stop her. She quickened her steps.
