Page 66 of A Sight to Behold
“It’s business, nothing else.”
Pippa stepped back, cradling her bunny close to her with one arm. Beneath her palm, his heartbeat grew fainter. She willed herself to focus on the orchid bed and the mulched earth it held, underneath her other palm.There! Tree bark, cork, and dry moss. She grabbed a fist full of the new soil. There were splinters in the wood chips.Good.“You’re a criminal.”
“If you want to come up the ranks in society, there’s no other way.”
“There’s always another way!”
“Well.” Wife Six tightened the grip of the machete. Her eyes, cold and unwavering, bore into Pippa’s, a chilling smile playing on her lips. “Well,” she drawled again, her voice echoing ominously in the vast orangery. “This is the path I’ve chosen. The high road you seem to travel is far too lonely for me.” She drew closer, and drew her arm back, ready to strike with the machete.
But before she could follow through, Pippa threw a fist full of dry tree bark at Wife Six. She wailed, holding her forearm over her eyes. Blinded, for the moment anyway.
The once peaceful atmosphere of the orangery was filled with Six’s screeching, and it was as if the putrid criminal dirtied the familiar, uplifting aromas of the flowers just with the sound of her voice. The knot of fear tightened in Pippa’s stomach. She could taste the metallic tang of anxiety on her tongue, and the scent of orchids around her suddenly seemed pungent and overpowering as her other senses heightened. She heard the drip of the tap in the corner on her right and a bird’s call outside. She saw Wife Six wiping away the soil yet the way her fingers tensed around the handle of the machete. She’d wanted to discourage the woman, not enflame her ire. But then, the tiny spark of defiance in Pippa’s spirit grew into a fiery conflagration thatrefused to be extinguished. This was her mother’s orangery, and Wife Six was an intruder. This was Pippa’s territory. Her life.
Seizing the opportunity, Pippa kicked over the three-foot offshoot of the potted Eastern Cape giant cycad palm between them. It was her mother’s favorite and probably at least fifty years old. The large plant toppled with a crash, its leaves rustling and its pot shattering, sending shards of terracotta skittering across the polished marble floor. Without glancing backward, clutching Truffles close to her chest, Pippa turned and bolted. Her heart pounded as she darted through the narrow corridors created by her flower beds.
Her mother’s orangery, once a place of tranquility and beauty, had been transformed into a battlefield. But it was this battlefield that had just saved her life.
Behind her, there was a low thump followed by an agonized scream. The sound of Wife Six tripping over the fallen palm and hitting the ground was a sweet symphony to Pippa’s ears. She didn’t slow down, but the corners of her mouth twitched upwards in a triumphant smile. Fear had met feistiness, and for now, feistiness had won.
But Truffles needed help.
Pippa burst from the orangery, her heart pounding like a wild drum in her chest. The garden lay before her, bathed in the soft glow of the morning sun. It was a place of beauty and respite, but now it was just a path to escape. She ran, her satin slippers skidding on the dew-kissed grass, her silken gown catching on the thorns of roses she usually admired.
Her mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, but there was one beacon of clarity amidst the chaos—Nick. He was not an aristocrat; he didn’t have an ancestral estate, or a title passed down through generations. Yet, he had something far more valuable, something the people in her world often lacked—sincerity, kindness, and an unpretentious love for her. He was unique. And he had skills—the kind that could save her pet.
He was special in so many ways. And she didn’t want to spend another day without him. Unlike hers, his world was straightforward and uncomplicated, not filled with secrets, deceit, and a thirst for power.
She knew she wouldn’t have her father’s permission to marry, but she had vowed to save Nick from the risks she’d created for him. She was a daughter of the aristocracy, bound by rules, traditions, and expectations, and she’d defied them. But at that moment, as she ran through the garden and into the park, she realized there was nowhere else she would rather be than with him, even if it meant turning her back on the world she was born into. Nick had treated her with more respect, and love, and caring, than that filthy rich world of hers had over the past years.
Pippa commanded the driver of her father’s carriage to take her to 87 Harley Street. Seeing the rabbit and the blood on her dress, he made no protests. Pippa cradled Truffles with both hands; his breathing was shallow, and even without her glasses she could see that his eyes were glazing. Blood from his wound stained her hands red.
But as she rode in the carriage toward the safety and comfort of Nick’s presence, a chilling thought gripped her. Now that Wife Six’s plans had been revealed and thwarted, would she now move to kill her father?
“I won’t let any of this happen, Truffles,” Pippa whispered to her little friend.
Mr. Matthews and Wife Six wanted her money, her inheritance, even if it meant poisoning her father and killing her. It was Pippa’s fault that they’d even targeted Father. They’d ruin everything Nick and his friends had worked for; they’d take good doctors away from patients who needed them for what? Superficial and hypocritical self-enrichment? And still, it was allbecause of her. She was worse than a clumsy goose, she’d been blind and naïve, consumed with her own petty problems. No more!
Inadvertently, her family was jeopardizing the livelihood of the man she loved and thus, his life. And his sister’s! The realization hit her like a punch to the gut, the sense of doom spreading like poison.
The journey to Nick’s place was filled with dread, the looming threat of her family casting a long shadow over her happiness. Indirectly, she was paying for the man threatening Nick’s livelihood. It was a moment of reckoning, a moment that would decide the fate of their love. And Pippa was ready to fight for love.
Chapter Thirty-One
When she arrived,Nick was hunched over his desk, scribbling something on paper. He looked up as she stormed in, and his eyes widened. He scrambled to his feet, reaching out to her blood-soaked form and the bundle of bloodied fur she cradled in her hands.
“Pippa? What—are you all right? What happened?” He put his hands on her shoulders.
Out of breath, cradling Truffles in her hands, Pippa tried to find the right words, but she couldn’t stop crying.
“M-m-mushroom cap,” she managed to say.
“What?” He ran his hands over her body, and she knew he was searching for her wounds. But it was Truffles’s blood he saw, not hers. “Please talk to me!” he pleaded.
Pippa broke into tears, her shoulders shaking relentlessly. She was safe, finally safe. And yet, what had happened was all too cruel. All those years of caring for her mother’s plants. All the care for Sir Hoppington… she heaved a shuddering breath. What kind of a person injured a bunny just for effect? A malicious one, that’s who—a person bred out of evil, deceit, and charlatanerie.
“I heard the cries; what’s going on?” Alfie came into the room; as soon as he spotted her, his eyes flew open wide.
“I don’t know. She came here and is bleeding.” Nick examined Pippa and lifted the bunny from her arms.
