Mariam

Lady Mariam Lifford despises her husband. So much so, she plans to kill him. Her delicate fingers, dry from the bitter cold of early December, twirl the stem of her wineglass. In silence, she watches the ruby-red liquid slush and sway with each waver she makes. "Do you have what I asked for?" she says finally, raising her gaze to the brunette sitting opposite.

Miss Catherine du Maurier, the sixth daughter of Gerard du Maurier, peers at her from the rim of her own glass. Emerald eyes sharpen like daggers. "Yes, I do," she replies hesitantly, an elegant eyebrow raised. "I still don't know what you're planning to do with it."

Mariam turns to the burning hearth, watching the flames lick at the stone of the fireplace. "What else does one do with poison?" Her tone is loud enough to gain a few curious glances, but none come, at least not towards her–no one would ever dare.

Catherine gapes, surveying the crowded room in haste, and looks out for anyone who might have overheard them. "You really ought to be more discreet," she seethes, the tips of her fingers anxiously tapping on the golden brocade. "If anyone hears you..."

A shrug and a nonchalant wave of her hand is all Mariam gives back. "Trust that not one of the patrons here is paying much mind to our business."

"The gossip mill is not to be underestimated, Mary," the brunette fires back. "Word travels fast, especially with your status." She leans against the velvet backrest, gesturing towards Mariam's monogrammed handkerchief with her crystalline wineglass.

"Of course," Mariam says, a cruel smile curling the corners of her lips. "But who would risk opposing me?" She takes a sip of her wine, and is relieved by the warm sensation as it courses through her veins, chasing away the frigid winter air. "My reputation precedes me, you know."

Catherine rolls her eyes. "Perhaps so, yet even the most frightful figures have enemies."

"No doubt about that," Mariam replies. "Which is why I need your help." She leans forward, cocking her head so that her crepe bonnet conceals them from the other patrons. "I'll pay you in full after the deed is done and the will is distributed."

"Are you certain he's leaving you the estate?" Catherine asks, her sharp nails rasping against the tablecloth. "Doesn't he have a brother? And that bastard child?"

Mariam grits her teeth as horrid memories cloud her mind: a maid, one dreary night, and her faithless husband. "The bastard is dead," she spits. "And his brother has been in Germany since our wedding night five years ago. He's abandoned the family name and now lives on a farm with no intention of ever returning, a hefty gift in his brother's will or otherwise."

Catherine shrugs, averting her gaze to the platter of olives and fresh baguette. "You never know. He might end up giving the entire treasury to his latest lover."

"Ethan has loyalties as fickle as the weather, but he is no fool," Maryam says. "He knows the women he has his many affairs with are just looking for his money." She sighs, leaning back again. "Though I wouldn't be surprised if that bastard left it all for one of them just to spite me." A grimace falls upon her features.

Lord Ethan Lifford, of Lifford, is a man who indulges on many pleasures, including a slew of women that never seem to compare to her. He's hardly ever home at their manor in Northampton, preferring to sleep at various other estates across the country. When she had questioned him one night a year prior, he'd said it was all merely business. Those trips started with a night out to a gentleman's club, then turned into three nights away for society balls, which quickly became a week out of town. Now, she sees more of their recluse neighbour Mrs. Kennington than she does her own husband. Not that she particularly minds anymore. It is the humiliation she endures from the gossip that truly irks her. Blasted man is on the verge of ruining her and everything she's built over the years.

Just as her thoughts puff away in a pocketful of smoke, the door to the café opens, a whistling breeze rustling the red velvet curtains.

A man in a suit and top hat arrives, arm in arm with a girl half his age. His cloak billowing out into the night, he closes his umbrella and props it by the door, as they each take a seat a few paces away from the two women.

In the absence of sunlight, the crystal chandelier bathes the two in candlelight, yet even so, there's no mistaking him.  As soon as Mariam sees the broad structure and familiar chiseled face, she flutters her satin fan open and places it right under her eyes. "He's here," she whispers, resentment leaking into her voice.

Catherine furrows her eyebrows in confusion, then steals a look over her shoulders. Although the man in question takes a moment to peruse the modest building, his attention remains transfixed on the blonde attached to his side, much to Mariam's relief.

"Quickly, finish the transaction, dear," she urges, fixing her friend with a stern stare.

Catherine looks reluctant. She flicks her gaze between Mariam and back to the man, paralyzed in her seat. However, when a server blocks the two out of view, she draws out a velvet pouch from her petticoats and rests it on the table in between them. "Poison Hemlock, just as you've asked," she says, her focus still on her periphery that stays on the same spot across the small café. "Keep the doses minimal. You'll be done with him in less than an hour."

Mariam swipes the pouch, her grin extending far beneath the bone and fabric of her fan. "That sounds perfect," she says, unable to resist the small grin stretching across her face.

Catherine does not comment on her friend's crude answer. After years of friendship, the girl has come to learn of Mariam's cold, blackened heart quite well. Not only is the baroness of Northampton a cruel woman, but an incredibly intelligent one too. A manipulator of the mind. A master of articulating social graces to suit her needs. Mariam does not deny it, nor the rumours that come with her reputation, but instead, prides herself on these qualities. They help in getting her what she most desires, and in a world full of hatred and betrayal, these attributes are exactly what she needs.

She wasn't always like this. Before her father shipped her off from France to marry a complete stranger, she was a vulnerable doe, not even able to lock eyes with anyone other than her own reflection. Right when she stepped off the ship at Southampton and onto the soils of this foreign land, she was met with a new life that, at the time, she would never have thought would bring her here–planning to assassinate her own husband. The husband that, right at this very moment, sits a few feet from her. With a girl that is not her.

It never really is.

"Have you heard about the circus?" Catherine asks, thrusting her out of her reverie. "The one opening back up in Westminster."

Despite the flicker of annoyance at her interrupted thoughts, Mariam decides to humour her friend. "No," she says, her answer drowned out by the pianist's now lively ballad. "What Circus? And why would I care?"

Eyes full of mirth, Catherine graces a small smirk under the cover of her glass flute. "Yasmeen Al-Layl."

The name rolling off the girl's tongue sours the wine spilling down the baroness' throat. It burns in her chest, spreading like a wildfire in mid-August. Shooting a palm to her décolletage, she chokes, coughing and sputtering. Then glares back up, her mischievous smile but a memory. "Pardon me?"

"They're back," she says with amusement at Mariam's surprise. "He's back."