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Sibella stared up at the ceiling, trying to focus on the patterns in the crown moulding instead of the anxiety rising in her chest. It was becoming impossible to ignore, even more so as she came down from the high of an orgasm. “Monty?”
“Yes, my darling?” He pressed a kiss to her ankle, untying the ascot that restrained her to the bed. The bedroom games had been supposed to distract her, but they seemed to be ineffective in the long term.
She craned her neck to look at him as he began to free her other ankle. “You’re absolutely sure that there’s no evidence?” Sibella couldn’t help but gnaw at the inside of her cheek, another attempt to calm her nerves. Although she couldn’t put a finger on precisely what it was, she had noticed a change in Phoebe in the two weeks she had lived at Highhurst. She was jumpy, especially around Monty, she would disappear for hours on end, and her nails were so bitten that they had nearly started to bleed. Sibella thought that everything with Lionel had been settled; she hoped it, at least. And if this wasn’t about Lionel, then Phoebe had to have found something. Something about the D’Ysquiths.
“If she found anything, we would know,” said Monty, sitting down beside her on the bed as he untied her wrists from the headboard. His tone was as tender as his touch, yet Sibella detected a slight hesitation behind his words. It seemed that Monty was reassuring himself just as much as he was reassuring her. “Anyways, there’s nothing that—“ He paused suddenly, hands stilling on the knot.
“What?” Sibella questioned, glancing up at him. He was as white as a sheet.
“Oh God.”
“Monty, what is it?” she demanded, struggling to wriggle her hands out of the ties. If there was something unaccounted for, she needed to know. She had just as much of a stake in this as he did now; if Monty was implicated in the D’Ysquith deaths, it was all too likely that the truth about Lionel’s death would rise to the surface too. Her heart was starting to race, not at all helped by the fact that she could not get her hand out of that blasted ascot. “You’re frightening me.”
“My memoirs.”
Sibella sighed, throwing her head back against the headboard. She wanted to berate him for how stupid it was to keep them, but realized that just a few weeks ago, she had made the same mistake. He should have burned them the moment he was acquitted, just as she should have destroyed her diary along with every other scrap of evidence of what they had done to Lionel. “Where are they?”
Fingers shaking, Monty returned to untying Sibella. “In my study,” he stammered, finally loosening the ascot enough for her to slip her hand out. “They’re locked away, she wouldn’t—“
“When did you see her last?”
As quickly as they could manage, Monty buttoned his shirt and trousers back up, and Sibella threw on a nightgown and robe. They raced down the stairs as if the building was on fire, desperate to destroy Monty’s memoirs before Phoebe could ever read them. But when they reached the study, it was already too late.
“Phoebe, it’s—“
“Don’t come any closer!” Phoebe’s bloodshot eyes darted up to where Monty and Sibella stood in the doorway, clutching the leather-bound journal to her chest as if to shield herself from them. She was shaking like a leaf, her face wet with tears.
“It’s not what it looks like.” Monty finished his sentence, although it did nothing to calm Phoebe. He stepped further into the room. Sibella leant on the doorframe.
“Is this true?” Phoebe asked tearfully, holding up the manuscript. She had read the entire thing, unable to stop despite how sick to her stomach she felt; like a horrid train-wreck she couldn’t tear her eyes away from. Ever since Monty had confessed to killing Lionel, it felt like waiting for the other shoe to drop. This was worse than anything she could have imagined. Not only had Monty killed her brother, he had killed five other relatives and an innocent chorus girl. And detailed it all in this ghastly memoir. Like he was proud of it.
It was too late. Monty felt anger bubbling up inside of him; anger at Phoebe for snooping in his personal effects, anger at himself for keeping the bloody thing, and anger at the D’ysquiths for putting him in this position. If they had never disinherited his poor mother, none of this would have happened. They were the ones to blame. For all of it.
“Did you kill the D’Ysquiths?” Hot tears ran down her cheeks, staring like a wounded animal at her husband. This was the man who had vowed to love and protect her, and yet all she felt when she looked at him was disgust and disdain.
Monty could muster no response. He knew that Phoebe would never— could never forgive him, and admission of guilt would be the final nail in the coffin. He glanced back at Sibella, who had not taken a single step more into the study. Her nails dug into the wood of the doorframe. Do something, her eyes seemed to say. Easy enough for her to say, thought Monty. He was still clueless as to how she was able to convince Phoebe to keep quiet about Lionel. Turning back towards Phoebe, he was still at a loss for words.
“Did you kill Henry?”
“Phoebe…” He took another step closer to her, heart sinking as she recoiled from him.
“Just tell me,” she pleaded. He had confessed to everything in the memoirs, laying out in gruesome detail how he had committed each murder. But she needed to hear the words from his lips, needed him to look her in the eyes and admit what he had done.
“Yes.”
“You monster,” Phoebe cried, throwing the manuscript to the ground. “You horrible, evil—“
Sibella barely had a moment to react as Phoebe fled from the room, bumping her shoulder as she passed by. Monty was standing in disbelief, surrounded by pages upon pages of his crimes. Decisively, Sibella went after Phoebe. There was no sign of her in the foyer, but the front door was wide open. It was below zero, the ground covered in a layer of fresh snow, frost blustering in the wind. Her eyes fell upon a trail of footprints, and she followed them into the woods. Sibella could see her breath in the air, her slippers immediately wet and cold.
“Phoebe!” she shouted, catching a glimpse of blue amongst the expanse of white snow. “You’re going to catch your death.”
Phoebe whipped around to face Sibella as she caught up. “That’s probably exactly what you and Monty want, isn’t it?”
“Me?” Phoebe was a mess; tear tracks ran down her cheeks, her eyes red and her cheeks pink from the cold. Her hairstyle was falling apart, loose curls tumbling every which way. Sibella had never seen such a look in her eyes; betrayal, frigid as the surrounding landscape. How had she come to see her as an enemy? Everything she had done had been to Lionel, Phoebe had nothing to do with it at all. Surely she understood that. What had Monty written?
“You knew,” she cried, her face contorted in such anguish that she hardly looked like herself. It was awful enough to learn that her husband was not the man she thought he was, but her dearest friend knowing and not saying a word was salt in the wound. They were both liars, and dangerously good at deception. Phoebe’s trust in both of them had disintegrated.
Stammering out her words, Sibella tried desperately to deflect. She could not stand Phoebe looking at her like this, like a deer in sight of her scope, her big eyes welled with tears. “Of course not, I—“
“Don’t lie,” she snapped. “I saw it on your face. You knew.”
Sibella swallowed hard, any attempt at words catching in her throat. She felt terrible, truly she did, but the more Phoebe said and the more erratically she behaved, all she could think about was how dangerous this was. Phoebe was much too clever to be lied to, Sibella realized that now. Everything would be ruined if she were to expose their crimes, no amount of wealth or position could solve that. Damn him, she thought, shivering in her nightgown. Did she really have to do everything herself? “He told me when…” she mumbled, the truth leaving an awful taste in her mouth, “…when Lionel died.”
Phoebe’s lips trembled, a few more tears trickling down her cheeks. “You knew he killed Henry, and you said nothing!” Her voice broke as a sob escaped her lips. “You’re just like him!” She turned away, unable to look at Sibella any longer, then set off, not back towards the house, but deeper into the woods of the property.
As determined as Phoebe was to be rid of her, Sibella vowed to not let her leave her sight. If Phoebe left Highhurst in such a state, there was no way of knowing what she would do. The risk of Monty’s secret being exposed was too great. “Phoebe, where are you going?”
She wouldn’t look at Sibella, her eyes fixed on the uncertain path ahead. “Away from here. To the police. Oh God, it’s happening all over again.” She crumpled into herself, the memory of Monty’s trial still fresh and threatening to repeat itself. Burying her face in her hands, she began to weep. For Henry, for the rest of her family, for the betrayal of the two people left who she loved most. Her life would never be the same.
“Don’t be rash,” said Sibella softly, reaching out to place a consoling hand on her shoulder. Phoebe brushed off her touch, but stayed put where she was. All was not lost. “Listen to me, Monty loves you. We both do. He would never do anything to hurt you.”
“Because I wasn’t before him in the line of succession,” Phoebe sniffled, wiping the tears from her eyes. “I read what he wrote.”
“Phoebe—“
“He’s a murderer, Sibella! Aren’t you horrified?” Sibella said nothing, her expression unchanging. Phoebe felt a pit in her stomach, thinking back to when she met Sibella for the first time. The dinner party had been terribly tense; at the time she thought it was all Adalbert and Eugenia, but now she knew the truth. All the clues had been right in front of her, the shock in Monty’s eyes when he saw her in attendance, Sibella’s strange expression when the engagement was announced, how they stayed back when the rest of the party had gone through to the dining room. There had always been something different about the way he looked at her, the hold she had on him was unlike anything Phoebe had ever seen; it seemed as if he would cut off his own arm if she asked him to. Killing the D’Ysquiths had not been solely to avenge his mother or to rise above his station, he had made that much clear in his memoir. His desire to marry Sibella had created in him a bloodlust like no other. And now, with Lionel dead, Phoebe began to fear that she would be next. “No. Why would you be? He killed them for you.”
Sibella scoffed. “What difference does it make?” Her curiosity in what really was in those memoirs was rapidly increasing. She was hungry to read his words. Had he killed the D’ysquiths for her too? Now she was certain, absolutely certain that Monty would do anything for her. And yet, he had still married Phoebe after she had expressly forbid it.
Wringing her hands, Phoebe’s eyes darted wildly around the woods as she tried to decide what to do. Should she run? Should she disappear like Sibella had tried to, never to be seen again? She couldn’t, not for her own sake but for Henry, for the other D’Ysquiths, even for Lionel. Monty had to be brought to justice. “He can’t get away with this,” she muttered, setting off in the direction she was sure led into town. “I’m going to the police. He’ll be hanged, he—”
“Who will believe you?”
Phoebe froze. The calm, even tone of Sibella’s voice sent a shiver down her spine. “What?”
“Monty has probably burned the memoirs by now,” she said, taking a few steps closer to where Phoebe stood. Her attempt at playing to her emotions had not worked and now she was switching tactics. She couldn’t make Phoebe pity Monty; there was nothing she could say to justify what he had done, especially to her brother. Seduction wouldn’t be nearly as effective as it was on Monty; she had spent years perfecting that particular technique. Phoebe could be rational, at least. Sibella could work with that. “You’ve no other evidence.”
Phoebe met her eyes again. She wasn’t stupid, she knew it was her word against theirs, and after Sibella’s triumphant return and Monty’s display of generosity, the court of public opinion wouldn’t be so easily swayed. “I’ll tell someone,” she insisted, though her voice was smaller than before. “I can’t let him—”
“Do you want to be ruined, Phoebe?” Sibella asked, watching the determination melt from her face. “Everyone will think you’re mad.” Phoebe glanced down at her feet, her shoes covered in snow, her stockings soaked through. She was cold, frightened, and heartbroken. She desperately needed comfort, and the horrible thing was, the two people she wanted it from most could not be trusted.
Sibella tilted her head, looking at her with a sad smile and holding out her hand. “Come back inside. We can have a civil conversation about this.” Phoebe’s eyes met hers, her gaze entirely different. There was no longer betrayal in her eyes, but relief. Gratitude.
Looking at Sibella and her outstretched hand, Phoebe felt an overwhelming desire to take it, to return to Highhurst and have things go back to how they were before. She didn’t want to forgive Monty. She didn’t even want to look him in the eye. But Sibella was right; who would believe her, what other choice did she have?
Sibella’s eyes glittered as she watched Phoebe place her hand in hers, the smile on her lips widening the tiniest bit. She pulled her into a gentle embrace, feeling Phoebe’s body relax against hers, holding her as she sobbed into her shoulder. Sibella needed to be her shoulder to cry on, a true friend, a pair of loving arms to fall into after Monty had betrayed her. This was how she would fix everything. Monty had been in the palm of her hand for years, so now her focus had to shift to Phoebe. Sibella imagined peeling off her wet clothes, running her a hot bath, tucking her into bed, maybe even pressing a kiss to her cheek. Phoebe had to see that she cared. She would continue to dote on her, and eventually all would be forgotten. In time she would come around to Monty, perhaps she could even forgive him. Regardless, the Earl and Countess of Highhurst would be caught in Sibella’s sway; persuaded by her pretty eyes, her charming smile, the promise of her affection.
The two walked hand in hand back to the estate. Phoebe sniffled softly as she clung to Sibella. “How could he?”