Miss Ashford, I believe we should speak. There are things you need to know about Charles. About his engagement. About the future you're trying to steal. If you care for him at all, you'll meet me. The Serpentine Tea House. 3:00 today. Come alone. Lady Beatrice Harrington.
Emma's blood ran cold. Beatrice knew. Or suspected. Either way, this was a summons, not an invitation. Margaret found her standing in the hallway, the letter trembling in her hands. Emma, what's wrong? I, Emma couldn't finish. Couldn't explain the dread settling in her stomach like lead. Is it from him? Margaret asked gently. Emma shook her head. From her? Margaret's eyes widened. Lady Beatrice. What does she want? To warn me off, I imagine. To remind me that he's hers and I'm, Emma's voice broke. I'm nothing.
You're not nothing. Aren't I? I have no title. No fortune. No claim to anything except a heart that won't stop loving someone I can never have. Emma looked at her cousin, desperation in her eyes. What do I do? You have a choice. You can ignore the letter. Refuse to meet her. Or, or you can go. Hear what she has to say. And make a decision based on truth instead of fear.
Emma looked down at the letter. The elegant script seemed to mock her. The future you're trying to steal. She wasn't trying to steal anything. She'd never asked Charles to love her. Never demanded a future. Never expected. But that was a lie, wasn't it? Some part of her, some foolish, desperate part, had been hoping. Hoping that love would be enough. That somehow, impossibly, they'd find a way.
But love was never enough in this world. I'll go, Emma said quietly. Emma, I have to. If I don't, I'll always wonder what she would have said. What truth she might have told me that Charles couldn't. Margaret looked worried. Then I'm coming with you. She said alone. I don't care. I'm not letting you face that woman without support.
Emma wanted to argue, but the truth was she was grateful. Beatrice was formidable. Beautiful. Sharp. And utterly convinced of her own superiority. Emma wasn't sure she could face her alone. All right, she said softly. Thank you.
The Serpentine Tea House was elegant and expensive, the kind of place where London's elite gathered to gossip over tiny sandwiches and overpriced tea. Emma and Margaret arrived exactly at 3, both dressed conservatively, armor disguised as propriety.
Lady Beatrice sat at a corner table positioned so she could see the entire room. She wore deep purple, a color that should have clashed with her coloring, but somehow didn't. Diamonds glittered at her throat. Her hair was arranged in an elaborate style that must have taken hours. She looked like royalty. Emma felt like a peasant.
Miss Ashford, Beatrice said as Emma approached. Her eyes flicked to Margaret. I said alone. Lady Margaret is my cousin. Where I go, she goes. Beatrice's lips thinned. How loyal. Very well. Sit. It wasn't an invitation. It was a command.