Wicked Forest (DeBeers 2)

Whitney saw herself so high up on a pedestal of her own making that she had no fear of being challenged, and had too much arrogance to ever feel shame or defeat. I thought.

"What kind of stupid, filthy logic is that. Whitney? I'm Thatcher's wife, This is your family now, too. You should be protecting us, not helping spread disgusting gossip.

"I don't spread gossip," she snapped. She looked away for a moment, then turned back. her face not so much red as brassy, her eyes blazing. There were forces in her I couldn't even begin to fathom. I thought. "I am always looking out for my family.'"

"Looking out for your family? First you tried to ruin our relationship by concocting that stupid story about Kirby Scott, and now that we've married, you're doing something even worse."

"You can't blame me for trying to open Thatcher's eyes. You came into our lives like some northwester, blowing even-thing onshore. Who but Thatcher would marry someone with all the baggage you carry?"

"You still think you're so superior that you know what's best for everyone?"

She smiled coldly, her eyes so gray she looked like someone without a soul,

"I see you're not denying the stories."

"Of course I'm not denying them. I don't intend to give them the dimity of even being considered seriously. Who but someone sicker than my brother would tell people such things?"

She winced, but didn't change expression. "I have pictures," she said,

"Pictures? What pictures?" I asked. All the air seemed to have come from my lungs.

She smiled again and lay back on the chaise,

"You should have realized that the people who worked for the Eatons all these years developed some sense of loyalty to us. Maybe not Jennings so much, but the maids you kept-- and don't you dare go home and fire anyone!" she warned, her eyes wide with fury,

The blood had drained from my face.

"What are you talking about?" I asked, hoping she was talking about something else.

She smiled again.

"The disgusting photographs you permitted your sick brother to take of you." She thrust her body toward me. "You posed nude for him, too, didn't you?"

"No. I did not. I can't believe you had one of the maids do such a thing. Spying on us. It's so

despicable. I can't even find the words to do it justice."

"I'm only protecting my family," she said dryly, and sipped her drink again, "Now that you have had the nerve to bring this to a head. I must insist you have your brother committed."

"What?"

"I want him out of that house," she ordered. "It's the best thing for Thatcher. This way he won't be harmed by any perversions that could go on there. His reputation is everlastingly bound to my parents' and my own reputations. No one lives in a vacuum here. What you do now reflects on me and my parents. too.'

"What about what you do?"

"I doubt." she said with that crooked smile again, "that you will hear one substantiated piece of filth as dirty about me as people are spreading- about you.

"You come from a family of disturbed people. What frightens me the most, if you want to know, is what sort of children you might have. I hope Thatcher gives that some thought and goes to a reputable adoption agency when the time comes to have children, if it comes. If your marriage survives."

She sat back. confident,

"I told you once before how I have had to come to Thatcher's aid to save him from one romantic disaster after another."

I shook my head, the words of anger choking in my throat.

The faces of the women of the Club d'Amour flashed before me. How right they were when they warned me about Whitney and the Palm Beach Game.

But I refused to be as helpless as everyone thought, especially as Whitney thought.