Chapter 24

Lord Somerville's summer gala glittered like a scene from a dream. Candles in crystal chandeliers bathed the gilded ballroom in a warm glow. Laughter and the strains of a lively quartet's music wafted through the open doors to the terrace, where couples strolled under garlands of fairy lights. Ladies in elegant gowns of pastel silks and gentlemen in gleaming white-tie tailcoats mingled, oblivious to the undercurrent of danger known only to two uninvited players in their midst.

Vivienne arrived fashionably late, as befitted a woman who had initially declined the invitation. She swept in on the arm of an older matron—Lady Wilmington—who had offered to chaperone her in absence of other family. Dressed in an ethereal gown of ice-blue satin with silver embroidery, Vivienne looked every inch the aristocratic belle. A diamond comb held her hair in an artful upsweep, and a few curls were left to caress her neck. No one would guess that beneath her opera-length gloves she had a tiny dagger strapped, or that her fan hid a folded message detailing the conspirators' plan.

As she entered the ballroom, conversations paused and heads turned. The elusive Lady Vivienne had come after all, and escorted by no less than the Duchess of Wilmington. A buzz of speculation passed—was tonight the night the Duke of Rockford would formally stake his claim on the lovely widow?

Vivienne's heart drummed as she scanned the crowd. Immediately, she spotted Lucien. He stood near the orchestra stage, deep in conversation with Lord Somerville himself and a couple of MPs. Clad in an impeccably cut black tailcoat and a waistcoat of rich midnight blue, he appeared relaxed, even jovial—completely at ease despite having orchestrated treason the night before and an impending attack this very evening. The sight of his easy smile turned Vivienne's stomach with a mix of anger and lingering disbelief.

Sensing her gaze, Lucien looked up. His eyes lit up in pleased surprise. With a polite bow to excuse himself from the conversation, he crossed the floor to her.

Vivienne drew a breath, fixing a serene smile on her face. She had rehearsed this moment in her mind: act natural, do not let him suspect. Every instinct rebelled at playing cordial with the man she now knew to be a murderer, but she summoned all her years of social training.

"Lady Vivienne," Lucien greeted, taking her gloved hand and brushing it with a gentle kiss. "You graced us after all. My night is now complete." His tone was warm, intimately so, as if nothing had changed since morning.

She dipped into a slight curtsy. "Your Grace. Forgive my late arrival—I had to persuade dear Aunt Wilmington to accompany me on short notice." She gestured lightly to the elderly duchess beside her, who was already smiling approvingly at Lucien.

Lucien inclined his head respectfully to the older woman. "Your Grace, a pleasure to see you." With the chaperone acknowledged, Lady Wilmington drifted off to greet a friend, leaving Vivienne and Lucien momentarily tête-à-tête in a corner of the bustling ballroom.

Lucien's gaze swept over Vivienne appreciatively. "You look breathtaking," he murmured, lowering his voice in a way that felt intimate. "That gown suits you marvelously. I'm delighted you came."

Vivienne's skin prickled under his scrutiny. Was there a double meaning in his words? Did he suspect she came for reasons beyond his company? His expression was nothing but genial, yet she remembered the cold steel in his voice last night at the docks.

"My lord Somerville's galas are a temptation hard to refuse," she replied lightly, fluttering her fan. "And...I confess, I felt rather unwell declining your gracious invitation earlier. I worried I might have offended you, so here I am to make amends."

Lucien's eyes softened as he offered his arm. "There was nothing to forgive. But I'm overjoyed you reconsidered." He guided her onto the edge of the dance floor where couples were lining up for the next waltz. "Will you do me the honor?" he asked.

Vivienne's heart thumped. To dance with him now—there would be eyes on them, reducing the chance he'd risk anything overt. And it could keep him away from orchestrating mischief for a few minutes more. She placed her gloved hand in his. "Of course, Your Grace."

As the music began, Lucien swept her into the dance. It was astonishing how normal he appeared: smiling calmly, executing the steps flawlessly. Vivienne felt almost as if she were back in Chapter 21, naive to his true nature. But now each courteous step he took, each light pressure of his hand at her waist, felt like a calculated move.

"You seem tense, my dear," he observed quietly after a few turns. "Are you feeling alright? The events of this morning did not upset you, I hope?"

Vivienne mentally bristled; he was probing her. She forced a chuckle. "Not at all—if anything, I'm excited. It's been a while since I attended a grand gala like this. I fear I'm out of practice, thus my tension. Do forgive me if I tread upon your toes."

Lucien gave a soft laugh. "Nonsense. You dance perfectly." He gazed at her with such convincing fondness that for a heartbeat Vivienne's facade wavered. Did any part of him care for her genuinely, or was it all a mask? She recalled his gentle gestures, the donation, his listening ear about her grief... She had thought him so kind. Her chest tightened with hurt and fury at the deception.

She bit the inside of her cheek to maintain composure. They twirled past a cluster of guests. Among them, Vivienne spotted familiar faces—Lady Charlotte, her closest friend, watching with a grin and a fan hiding a delighted whisper to the lady beside her. Charlotte winked at Vivienne, clearly supportive of this potential match. Vivienne mustered a faint smile back, heart clenching knowing her friend had no idea of the dark truth.

As the waltz continued, Vivienne subtly scanned the room over Lucien's shoulder. Near the banquet tables, a footman poured champagne—Julian. She recognized him in an instant despite the wig and servant's livery; her pulse steadied knowing he was in position. His eyes briefly met hers as he moved about his duties, and he gave the slightest nod. He had managed to infiltrate with the hired staff, as planned.

She and Julian had agreed on signals: if either spotted Colonel Maynard or any sign of the impending attack, they would find a way to alert the other. Now Vivienne kept a careful watch. It was approaching the hour when the Prince Regent was expected to make a toast—prime opportunity for an assassin to strike amid distraction.

Lucien guided her through a final elegant turn as the music ebbed. When the dance ended, polite applause rose from the onlookers. Lucien bowed and Vivienne curtsied. Before she could step away, he leaned in, his breath warm at her ear. "I must steal you for another, later. But I believe Lord Pendleton is headed this way to claim the next dance. You are in high demand tonight, it seems." Indeed, an approaching lord was eyeing Vivienne hopefully.

Vivienne offered a polite smile. "If you'll excuse me, Your Grace."

Lucien pressed a light kiss to her gloved knuckles, an action rife with gentle possessiveness. "I shall find you soon, my lady." With that, he melted back into the crowd, likely to continue his schmoozing... or to prepare whatever chaos he had planned.

Vivienne allowed Lord Pendleton to lead her to the floor for the next dance, but her focus was elsewhere. Over Pendleton's shoulder, she saw Lucien cross to speak with the conductor of the quartet briefly, then move toward the refreshment area. Her nerves prickled. Perhaps the conductor was in on timing something.

Halfway through the dance with Pendleton—an older, talkative man—Vivienne spied a figure slipping along the edge of the room, near the servants' entry: Colonel Maynard, disguised in a footman's uniform. He kept his head down, but she recognized the stride, the build. He was pushing a wheeled tray towards the dais where the Prince's party sat.

Vivienne's blood ran cold. On the cart was a tiered arrangement of flowers and what looked like a large ornate centerpiece—perhaps a parting gift for the Prince? But something about it seemed off; the base of the "centerpiece" was a metal box rather than a vase.

Her heart lurched—could it be a bomb?

She caught a glimpse of Julian, now stationed near the dais with a tray. He had spotted it too; his posture had gone taut, eyes tracking the disguised Colonel.

Lord Pendleton prattled on about the price of tea from India, oblivious that his dance partner's attention was elsewhere. Vivienne's mind raced. She needed to get out of this dance and act.

"My lord," she interrupted Pendleton gently, feigning a sudden light-headedness, "I'm so sorry, I feel a bit faint." She let her steps falter slightly.

Pendleton instantly slowed. "Oh dear! Let's get you some air, Lady Vivienne." He began guiding her off the dance floor toward the open terrace doors.

As soon as they neared the edge of the crowd, Vivienne withdrew her arm. "Thank you, I will just step outside a moment." She forced a reassuring smile at his concerned look. "Please, enjoy the rest of the dance—I'll be quite alright."

Pendleton hesitated, then nodded and rejoined the swirling couples. Vivienne ducked behind a marble column, then made a beeline, skirting the perimeter of the ballroom toward the dais.

The Prince Regent—a portly man with bright garb—was seated with his entourage, enjoying a laugh at some joke. The timing was critical; the toast was minutes away, and Colonel Maynard was nearly at the dais with his cart.

Julian moved in, deliberately bumping another servant and causing a tray of champagne glasses to clatter to the floor in front of the approaching Colonel. The sudden crash of glass drew everyone's attention for a split second. Gasps and a titter of laughter came from guests at the minor mishap.

Colonel Maynard halted, annoyance flashing in his eyes at the obstruction.

Vivienne seized that moment. Under cover of the commotion, she slipped behind the Colonel. With steady hands, she reached beneath the white cloth draped over the cart and felt the edges of the metal box. There—her fingers brushed a tangle of wires and a clockwork device attached to the underside of the floral arrangement. A bomb set to detonate, likely at the time of the toast.

Her heart pounding, Vivienne drew the small dagger from under her glove and, with as much precision as haste allowed, sliced through what looked like the main fuse wire.

She had no time to be sure of success. Colonel Maynard was already moving again, pushing past the fallen glasses. As he reached the dais, Julian was on the other side of the cart, ostensibly helping to steady it. Vivienne caught his eye; he gave a slight tilt of his head and she knew he had seen her cut the wire.

The Prince Regent rose, raising his glass—he was beginning his toast. Colonel Maynard slipped a hand into his coat. Vivienne's breath caught—if the bomb was defused, would he resort to a pistol?

Before he could withdraw his hand, Julian acted. In one swift motion, he overturned the entire cart. The heavy centerpiece and flowers crashed to the floor between the Prince's table and Colonel Maynard. Startled cries rang out. The Colonel stumbled back, his hand yanking out a small pistol instead of the intended subtle detonation.

"Assassin!" Julian shouted, pointing at the Colonel.

Chaos erupted. The Prince's guards lunged forward. Colonel Maynard, realizing subtlety was lost, raised his pistol directly at the Prince. A shot cracked—the sound deafening in the enclosed space. But one of the Prince's stout attendants knocked into his sovereign, and the shot went wide, splintering a chair.

People screamed. Guests ducked and scrambled away from the dais in a flurry of silk and coattails. In the melee, Colonel Maynard turned to run, shoving through panicked revelers. But Julian was faster; he tackled the Colonel to the polished floor. The pistol skidded from Maynard's hand.

Vivienne rushed forward without hesitation. She snatched up the fallen pistol and held it aloft. "Guards, here! This man tried to kill the Prince!" she cried, her clear voice cutting through the pandemonium.

The Prince's personal guards were already storming the scene. One seized Colonel Maynard by the arms as he struggled under Julian's grip. Another leveled a sword at Julian, not knowing who was friend or foe.

Lucien appeared out of nowhere, a picture of concern. "Protect His Highness! Ensure his safety!" he commanded the guards, playing the role of gallant leader. His eyes flickered to the device on the floor—his plan thwarted—and then to Vivienne, shock and something like anger flaring there before he masked it.

In the confusion, Lady Charlotte and others had pressed forward. Charlotte's face was white as she took in the unbelievable scene: Vivienne standing with a smoking pistol in hand, a strange servant (Julian) grappling with a would-be assassin, and the Duke at Vivienne's side.

"Vivienne! What on earth—?" Charlotte gasped, stepping toward her friend in horror and worry.

Before Vivienne could respond, Colonel Maynard, held by two guards now, snarled and did the unexpected—he laughed, a harsh, triumphant sound. All eyes turned to him.

"Fools," Maynard spat, blood trickling from a cut on his brow. "You think this ends here? Nightshade will..." Suddenly, his voice choked off. He convulsed, eyes bulging. One guard let go in alarm. Foam appeared at the Colonel's mouth—he had bitten down on a hidden cyanide capsule.

"No!" Vivienne shouted, realizing they were about to lose the chance to interrogate him. Within seconds, Colonel Maynard collapsed to the floor, lifeless, the acrid scent of bitter almonds lingering in the air.

A stunned silence fell, broken only by distant sounds of guests sobbing or exclaiming in fear.

Julian slowly got to his feet, breathing hard. Guards moved in warily, unsure whether to apprehend him or thank him. He held his hands up, the universal gesture of peace. "I'm on your side," he said clearly. "Check the device—he intended to bomb the Prince! We stopped it."

Some guests nearby murmured in shock at the word "bomb." Two guards inspected the strange metal box and wires amidst the wreckage of flowers. "By God... he's right," one guard said.

The Prince Regent, pale but unharmed, blustered, "What is the meaning of this? Who are these people?" He pointed a shaking finger at Julian and Vivienne.

Before Julian could speak, Lucien stepped forward smoothly. "Your Highness, that man—" he pointed at Julian, voice grave, "—is an unknown interloper in servant's garb. I saw him tackle the assailant, but whether he was preventing the attack or part of it is unclear." He cast an apologetic look toward Vivienne. "And Lady Vivienne... I'm not sure why she is armed. It's all very confusing."

All eyes turned to Vivienne. She realized, with a sinking feeling, how compromising the scene looked. She, a lady, holding a pistol at a royal gala; Julian, a man no one recognized, disguised as a footman and involved in violence; the two of them apparently acting in concert. Only Lucien's framing narrative was being heard by the stunned onlookers.

Vivienne lowered the pistol slowly, placing it on the table beside her, and tried to regain her composure. "Your Highness," she said, addressing the Prince directly with a respectful dip. "That man was Colonel Maynard, a traitor. He planned an attack tonight. This gentleman—" she indicated Julian, "—and I learned of it and intervened to save you and the guests." She kept her explanation succinct, conscious that time was not on their side; Lucien would already be working to sow doubt.

An ugly murmur swept through the remaining cluster of guests who had braved staying near. Lady Charlotte's face was stricken with confusion and worry as she stared at Vivienne. Others whispered behind fans, words like "conspiracy," "treason," and "impossible" drifting through the air.

The Prince's eyes narrowed. "Colonel Maynard? A traitor? Preposterous, he's served the Crown for decades." He looked to the Duke of Rockford, a fellow noble whose counsel he trusted. "Lucien, you knew Maynard, did you not? Is what she says even conceivable?"

Lucien affected a sorrowful expression. "I am as astonished as you, sire. But it appears Maynard was indeed up to something nefarious." He gestured to the device on the floor and the fallen Colonel. "However..." He turned to Vivienne and Julian, his gaze cool. "I am equally astonished to find Lady Vivienne in league with—" he eyed Julian with feigned uncertainty, "—whoever this man is. How exactly did you come by this information, my lady? And who is your accomplice?"

Vivienne opened her mouth to speak, but before she could frame a response that protected Julian's identity and explained enough, one of the shaken guests interjected loudly, "I saw them earlier! Lady Vivienne was sneaking about with that servant. They were whispering behind a pillar."

All eyes shifted to the speaker—Lord Hawthorne, an infamous gossip. He pointed accusingly. "I thought it odd at the time, and now here we are. It seems they knew something of this plot in advance."

A ripple of suspicion moved through the crowd. Charlotte pressed a hand to her mouth, looking between Vivienne and the Duke, clearly torn.

Vivienne felt heat rise to her cheeks. "It's not what it looks like," she protested, stepping nearer to Julian as if to shield him.

One of the Prince's advisors stepped forward. "Regardless, Your Highness, a thorough investigation is needed. We have one conspirator dead." He glared at Julian. "The other should be detained for questioning at once."

At that, Julian tensed, readying for a fight if need be. Vivienne couldn't bear to see him seized when they had done nothing but try to save lives.

"He's not a conspirator!" she cried out, moving between Julian and the advancing guard. Her sudden motion caused a few ladies to gasp. Vivienne realized she was effectively defending him against her own class and Crown. But she lifted her chin and continued firmly, "This man is Julian Westley, formerly of His Majesty's Army. He aided me in stopping the true villains. If not for him, who knows how many would be dead now? You owe him a debt, not shackles."

Julian looked at her with a mix of gratitude and fear—for he knew as well as she what it meant for her to publicly ally herself with someone the Prince's circle saw as suspect.

There was an uncomfortable silence. The Prince Regent looked bewildered, drunk, and angry all at once. Lucien stepped in smoothly, playing the voice of reason. "Your Highness, perhaps Lady Vivienne was duped. She may have believed she was acting for the good, but it stands to reason Colonel Maynard did not act alone. This man Westley could have fed her lies to involve her as a distraction, or use her status as cover." He gave Vivienne an almost pained glance. "We cannot assume she was fully complicit... Perhaps she is guilty only of misguided trust. But the man—Westley—must be taken in until his story can be verified."

Vivienne's heart hammered with rage at how effortlessly Lucien painted Julian as the villain and herself as a naive pawn. He was protecting her superficially, but in truth isolating her and sacrificing Julian to clear himself.

Two burly guards moved to grab Julian. He dodged one, but another seized his arm. Vivienne instinctively grasped Julian's free hand, as if to anchor him to her. "Let him go!" she pleaded with the guards and the gathered nobles. "Please, he's done nothing wrong!"

Tears threatened her eyes at the injustice of it. Julian met her gaze, his own expression torn between fear for her and the frustration of his impending capture. "Vivienne..." he said hoarsely, "You must leave here. It's alright—"

But it wasn't alright. Lady Charlotte stepped hesitantly toward Vivienne. "Vivienne dear... perhaps you should retire. I'm sure this can all be sorted out quietly," she urged in a hushed tone, trying to gently pry her friend away from the scene, clearly concerned for Vivienne's reputation and sanity.

Vivienne shook her head fiercely. "No. I will not leave him." She clung to Julian's hand even as the guards tried to pull him away.

Lucien's cool voice cut through: "My lady, please. This is a matter of state security now. For your own sake, step back." There was steel beneath the polite phrasing.

She looked at him then, truly looked. Those blue-grey eyes that had gazed at her so tenderly earlier now regarded her with chill calculation. In that moment, she realized that if she continued to defy them all, Lucien would ensure she fell under suspicion too. Perhaps that was even his plan—to tarnish her or neutralize her after her interference.

The Prince Regent was already being escorted out by his entourage to safety, having lost interest in the squabbles once he was secure. The remaining guests formed a loose circle at a distance, whispering furiously as they watched the scandal unfold.

Vivienne's mind raced. If both she and Julian were taken, who would stop Lucien from covering his tracks completely? She could try to expose him now, but with Colonel Maynard dead and no physical proof, it would be her word against a beloved Duke's. And given how the crowd already doubted her, it would likely be seen as hysteria or deflection.

She realized with a sinking heart that they had to retreat and regroup—or they'd be crushed here and now by Lucien's control of the narrative.

Julian read her resolve even as the guards started to drag him. In one fluid motion, he yanked his arm free and used the momentum to pull Vivienne with him. "Run!" he hissed.

They bolted. Vivienne lifted her skirts and sprinted by his side, cutting through a gap in the gawking crowd. For a moment, people were too stunned to react. One guard lunged, nearly catching Vivienne's trailing shawl, but she slipped out of it, leaving the fabric in his hands.

Lady Charlotte called out her name in distress, but Vivienne couldn't stop.

She and Julian dashed into the hall. Behind them, Lucien's voice shouted, "Stop them! Don't let them escape!" Footsteps thundered in pursuit.

Julian led her down a servants' corridor—he had memorized the layout earlier. They burst through a side door into the cool night. The stable yard lay ahead, dark and empty save for a few tethered horses.

Swiftly, Julian hoisted Vivienne onto one of the horses, a grey mare, then vaulted up behind her. He barely paused to grab the reins, his arms caging her securely. With a sharp kick, the horse bolted forward just as two house guards spilled out of the side door shouting.

Hooves clattered on cobblestone as they fled. Vivienne clutched the horse's mane with one hand and held Julian's forearm around her waist with the other. Her ball gown snagged and tore on a splinter of the stable gate as they barreled through, but she paid it no mind.

They raced off into the night, the manor lights receding behind them. Vivienne's hair came tumbling down, pins scattering to the wind as they galloped. Pressed against Julian's chest, she felt the wild pounding of his heart matching her own.

Tears finally spilled from her eyes as the reality sank in. They were fugitives now—branded traitors by the very people they'd tried to protect. Her reputation, her place in society, perhaps even her very identity as Lady Vivienne Fairchild— all were in tatters behind her, as shredded as the delicate shawl she'd left in that guard's hand.

Julian slowed the horse once they were far enough into the dark countryside. He squeezed her gently. "We'll be alright," he murmured into her ear, though his breath was ragged. "We have each other. That's what matters."

Vivienne swallowed hard and nodded, drawing strength from his warmth. She straightened her spine, the cool wind drying her tears. Yes, they had each other. And they still had the truth.

As Somerville's manor disappeared into the distance, Vivienne silently vowed they would clear their names and bring Lucien to justice. No matter if society shunned her, no matter if she had to shed her identity and fortune—she would not let the Duke of Rockford's betrayal stand.

Tonight, she had lost almost everything: her standing, her safety, and the illusions she once held. All that remained was her love for Julian, her will to fight, and the burning need to see right prevail.

With those as her armor, Lady Vivienne would forge ahead into the darkness—banished by society, perhaps, but not defeated.