Page 22 of Much Ado About Margaret
Maggie didn’t like his tone and refused to peel away. Ahead of them by a few paces, Lane charged up the stairs. “Meaning what, exactly? You can’t actually believe that was Ann up there! Everyone is wearing masks! It could have been anyone.”
“Yes, and the woman was wearing Ann’s distinctive mask,” Darrow replied hotly. He took the stairs three at a time, and Maggie scrambled to keep pace, lifting her skirt. “Presumably, Ann herself.”
They reached one landing, then the next, the darkened corridor ahead leading to the family rooms. By then, she and Darrow had caught up to Lane as he raced through the estate.
“Ann is sick in love with you, Lane, she would never do something like this,” Maggie insisted, out of breath.
“It isn’t like her,” Lane agreed, grimacing, head down, charging like a bull.
“See?” Maggie arched a brow at Darrow.
“But I know what I saw,” added Lane with a huff. “That black hair, the mask, that lovely skin…”
“See?” Darrow shot back at her in an undertone.
Maggie stuffed the urge to stomp on his foot as they allreached the carpeted space just outside the antechamber of Ann’s private rooms. She ought to stomp on him for doubting sweet, devoted Ann, and for tricking Maggie—just for a second—into thinking he had namedheras a lady author he admired and respected. That gruff “you” he had whispered while gazing into her eyes had made her heart twist, only for the delight of it to be dashed an instant later. What he had meant by that “you” she would probably never know, because now they were going to war over no more than a misunderstanding.
Two red vases on enameled plinths flanked the double doors, flowers pouring out of the tops, and they shook, along with the floor, as Lane marched up to the doors and pounded on one with his fist.
“That headache,” Lane was muttering to himself. “She did seem in distress, but if it was all a ruse, just a convenient excuse…”
Boom—boom—boom!
Lane slammed his hand down harder on the door.
“I know Ann is within,” he called. “As her husband, I demand to see her.”
Maggie sniffed and stood to the side, crossing her arms.
“What?” Lane growled, glaring.
“Who would admit you inside after hearing that?” she asked.
“Fine.” Lane sighed, gesturing. “You try, cousin.”
Darrow towered over her, pinning her with a matching grimace. “My friend’s patience is wearing thin, and for good reason.”
“Oh, but you are both too hotheaded. Step back,” Maggie demanded, she herself going to the white doors and knocking delicately, barely brushing the wood. “Lane’s cousin is here. Margaret Arden. May I come inside? I only wish to see that Ann is well and hear what she would say.”
There was a brief pause, then the doors to Ann’s chamberopened a crack, a pair of arresting brown eyes peering out. They belonged to Ann’s sister, Emilia.
“You,” Emilia murmured, nodding toward Maggie. “You may enter.”
Before Lane could block the way, Emilia’s fierce little hand reached out and grabbed Margaret by the wrist, dragging her inside while the men blustered and protested.
“Let me in!” Lane thundered. “I should like to speak to my wife!”
“She heard you,” said Emilia tartly, slamming the doors shut and locking them.
Emilia was quite a bit younger than Ann, though they possessed the same radiant beauty. Long black loops of hair hung over Emilia’s ears, pinned to the larger mass with starbursts of gems and clusters of silk flowers. Maggie couldn’t help but wonder if Emilia was the one Lane had seen on the balcony, for she so resembled her sister. But she saw no fear or guilt in the girl’s eyes as she wilted back against the locked doors. All of Emilia’s ferocity evaporated; her lips drew down in a hard grimace.
“Ann was hoping you would come,” Emilia whispered. She passed a shaking hand over her face. “The windows are open, and we’ve all heard the uproar in the house. It’s horrid what people are saying about Ann.”
“Why me?” she asked as Emilia led Maggie deeper into the series of rooms. They were done in vibrant blue and purple, a profusion of leafy plants erupting from every corner.
A voice answered from the next room, interrupting Emilia’s reply.
“Because I require a friendly face,” called Ann. “Allies, you see, and those whose sympathies do not necessarily align with a man’s opinion.”
