The Rebel's Plot

Chapter 17

I watch Pierre finish off my food, a faint, almost imperceptible smile tugging at my lips, until the front door creaks open. In an instant, everything around me halts. A cold wave of dread unfurls inside me, quickly overtaken by a blistering anger. My fist tightens reflexively, and I freeze, feeling the blood in my veins heat to boiling point. It's as if the world has dimmed, and I'm only half-aware that I've risen, intent on moving towards them, until I feel Pierre's hand on my elbow. He stands, his touch firm but steady, and runs a hand down my back, his calmness at odds with the storm roiling within me.

"You can do it, love." His anger is palpable, but it's contained, composed—far more professional than I could ever be. Perhaps that's the difference between us—he knows how to hold it together, while I feel as though I'm barely keeping my balance. And in the midst of it all, beneath the anger, there's a sharp ache. A deep hurt, or maybe disgust—whichever it is, I can't seem to shake it.

"What do you want to eat, baby?" I hear the girl he's with ask, all sugary sweetness and flirtation, as Pierre and I pass their table. I blink, my breath catching in my throat, the anger rising so sharply it feels like it could snap at any moment. I swallow hard, the pressure in my chest tightening, and my nails bite deep into my palms, leaving crescent-shaped marks that would no doubt draw blood if I didn't stop myself. The burning rush of ire shows no sign of easing anytime soon, causing my temples to throb. If we hadn't already stepped out of the restaurant, I'd have smacked his face right off, no question. The sheer casualness of it—the way she speaks to him, the way he answers her, like it's all perfectly fine—bloody maddening. I've half a mind to turn around and march back in there, but I don't, not yet.

"Feeling better now, love?" Pierre intertwines our fingers as we sit by the pond in Holland Park, watching the ducks drift lazily on the water and the swans glide by with quiet grace. I glance down at our hands and remember something I once read: that the spaces between our fingers are meant to be filled by our other half. It's a bit of a romantic cliché, I suppose, a sentiment often tossed around in films and books, but there's a certain elegance to it, a quiet inevitability, as if this was always meant to happen—and I rather want to believe it.

"I am. You?"

He nods.

"I was under the impression he was at Oxford—at least, that's what his cousin mentioned."

"Tom?"

"That's the one," I reply.

"Is that why Ava's playing your part now, with Tom at your father's place?"

I meet his gaze, "When did you find out?"

He disregards the question. "Are you up to something, Maude?"

"I am," I admit, wanting to be just as honest with him as he's been with me. "The plan was for Tom to come with me to Oxford, but I've decided to change it."

Tom's far better off left at a distance, fawning over his little darling where I can keep a watchful eye without the headache of dragging him to Lady Margaret Hall. God forbid he gets ideas there—I know he'd turn against me the second I let my guard down. 'Keep your friends close and your enemies closer,' they say, but Tom? He's more a liability than a friend or a foe. Besides, with Ava firmly under my thumb in the States, he's on a leash, like a good little lapdog. The way he looks at her, all moonstruck and doe-eyed, and then glares at me as if I've personally wronged him—it's enough to make me sick. If he had any spine, I'd almost admire it, but he's a fool through and through. Still, I know where he's vulnerable. Whatever enchantment she's woven around him won't last if I decide it's over. I could ruin them both if I chose; it would hardly take much. Let him try something clever—just once—and see how quickly I can pull the rug out from under them.