Chapter 3 - The Mask of Innocence
The wrought-iron gates of the Cain estate were flung open by guards who barely cleared the path before Wesley’s car roared into the gravel courtyard.
Wesley threw the door open before the vehicle had fully stopped. He walked through the grand foyer, shedding his damp coat with a violent flick of his shoulders, his long strides taking three stairs at a time. Behind him, Lucas and four armed guards followed silently, their hands hovering near their holsters.
When Wesley reached the second-floor hallway, the scene was eerily subdued.
The door to Norah’s room swung wide. Standing in the doorway was Celeste Vance. Her eyes were rimmed with tears, a delicate lace handkerchief clutched to her chest.
"Wesley! Thank God you’re home!" she cried, rushing toward him and attempting to throw her arms around his neck. "It was horrifying! Norah had another sudden seizure—she choked on her water, and then this manic maid came in and knocked her medication across the floor!"
Wesley did not return her embrace. He stepped sideways, his gaze bypassing her entirely, fixing upon the bed inside.
Norah was propped up on three pillows. Ruth Delaney knelt beside her, a cool, damp linen pressed against the girl’s forehead, constantly monitoring her shallow pulse. On the floor lay shattered glass and puddles of water. The room smelled of spilled alcohol and tension.
Norah saw her brother. A muffled whimper rose in her throat, her chest heaving as tears spilled over her pale cheeks. She reached out with trembling, skeletal arms, her fingers opening and closing in frantic patterns.
Wesley was beside the bed in an instant, dropping to his knees. He took Norah’s icy hand into his large, warm palms. "I’m here, Norah. I’m here. Breathe. Look at me."
Celeste hurried to the other side of the bed, her face a portrait of maternal despair. "I tried to give her the evening sedative Dr. Alistair prescribed, but she became combative. You know how volatile her moods have been since the fever, darling. And then Ruth barged in, shouting nonsense, disturbing her—"
"Quiet," Wesley said. The single word was not loud, but it cut Celeste off as cleanly as an executioner’s axe.
Wesley looked up at Ruth. Ruth’s apron was stained with spilled medicine, but her gaze was dead level, unafraid of either the mafia lord or his high-born fiancée.
"Tell me," Wesley commanded.
"Miss Vance did not give her a sedative, Mr. Cain," Ruth stated clearly, pointing toward the nightstand. "She gave her twenty drops of concentrated nitrate solution on top of an unmeasured dose of digitalis. Miss Norah’s heart rate plummeted to forty beats per minute. Miss Vance knew exactly what she was doing. She mocked your sister while she was choking, telling her no one would ever believe a mute."
Celeste gasped, clutching her throat. "Wesley! That is an outrageous lie! She is an uneducated maid trying to cover up her own clumsy mistake! How dare she accuse me?"
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Wesley’s eyes moved from Ruth’s unwavering face to Celeste’s immaculate handkerchief, and finally down to his sister. Norah was clutching his coat lapel with a strength he didn’t know she possessed, shaking her head vigorously, pointing a trembling finger directly at Celeste Vance.
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