A torn silk gown makes almost no sound in a hall packed with four hundred aristocrats. But the silence that followed Beatrice Somerset’s ruin was suffocating — and while her enemies smiled, high in the gallery, the Duke of Westmire was already rising from his chair and making his way toward her.

 PART 4

The Somerset townhouse in Bloomsbury was a monument to decaying wealth. The wallpaper in the entryway peeled in long, sad curls; the chandelier was missing half its crystal drops — sold off quietly over the years, drop by drop, to cover a bad hand of cards.

Eight in the morning. Beatrice was already awake. She sat in the cold drawing room in a plain high-necked wool day dress, staring at the dead ashes in the fireplace. Arthur’s coat lay folded on the settee beside her, exactly where she had placed it the night before.

She had not slept. She had spent the night pulling the number apart the way a surgeon pulls apart a wound: forty-two thousand. And a man willing to pay it — for her spine, he had said. Because you have no illusions. We understand each other perfectly.

The knocker pounded. Her father stumbled down the stairs in his dressing gown, gray-faced, smelling of stale gin and terror.

“Who is it?” he hissed at the lone footman. “If it is a collector — tell them I am in the country. Tell them I have the typhoid.”

It was not a collector. A sharp-featured man in an immaculate gray suit stood on the step with a thick leather portfolio. Behind him, two massive, silent men waited on the pavement.

“Lord Somerset,” the man said, stepping into the hall without an invitation. “I am Mr. Harding. I represent the Duke of Westmire.”

Thomas Somerset froze. “The Duke? I — I assure you, I have no quarrel with Westmire. I have never even spoken to the man.”

“Indeed,” Harding said crisply, and walked past him into the drawing room. He saw Beatrice, bowed deeply, and set his portfolio on the dusty mahogany table. “Miss Somerset. His grace sends his regards. The documents are ready.”

Thomas hurried in after him, frantic. “Documents? What documents? Beatrice, what have you done?”

Beatrice stood. She looked at her father: the trembling hands, the bloodshot eyes, the absolute absence of a spine. Any lingering guilt she felt over Arthur’s terms vanished entirely.

“I have secured our future, father. Sit down and be quiet.”

Thomas gaped at the venom in his quiet daughter’s voice and sank into a chair.

Harding unclasped the portfolio. “Let us be efficient. Lord Somerset — this document represents the immediate transfer of forty-two thousand pounds from the Duke of Westmire to your various creditors. By noon today, you will owe nothing to anyone in London.”

Thomas made a ragged sound, half sob, half laugh, and reached for the paper. “My God. The Duke — he is paying it. But why —”

“Do not touch it yet.” Harding slapped his hand flat over the parchment. “It is contingent on the second document, which dictates your immediate, permanent relocation to a hunting lodge in Inverness. You will depart within forty-eight hours. You will receive an allowance of two hundred pounds a year, dispersed quarterly by my office. You will not contact your daughter or your wife except through my firm. If you incur a single penny of debt in Scotland, the allowance stops.”

Thomas’s face went purple. “Inverness. That is a frozen wasteland. I am a peer of the realm. I will not be banished like a common criminal —”

“Your title may make you a peer, Lord Somerset.” Harding’s voice stayed deadpan. “It does not make you solvent. If you prefer, I can return these drafts to the Duke — and I will personally provide the Cheapside lenders with your current schedule. I believe they favor breaking fingers before they move to the knees.”

Thomas slumped. The fight left him like air from a punctured lung.

Harding turned to Beatrice, his tone softening only marginally. “Miss Somerset. The marriage settlements.” He slid a separate document toward her. “His grace has settled an independent income of five thousand pounds a year on you, entirely separate from the estate accounts. You are granted full administrative authority over the Westmire properties in Yorkshire. In the event of his death, you retain the primary dower house and an annuity of ten thousand.”

Beatrice read the figures. It was an obscene amount of money — the kind that bought absolute, unshakable freedom.

“And the stipulations?” She picked up a pen.

“Fidelity, naturally. And discretion. You will not generate scandal. You will manage the northern estates effectively. You will be available for public appearances when summoned.”

Clean. Clinical. Exactly what Arthur had outlined in the carriage.

She dipped the pen in the inkwell. She did not hesitate. The scratch of the nib was loud in the silent room.

“It is done,” she said, and pushed the paper back.

Harding nodded and handed Thomas a quill. “Sign, my lord. The carriage to Scotland arrives tomorrow morning at eight.”

Thomas signed, weeping silently. Beatrice did not watch him. She walked to the settee and picked up Arthur’s heavy black coat, running her thumb over the thick wool. The contract was signed. Her family was saved.

She belonged to the Iron Duke now.

By Wednesday afternoon, every drawing room in Mayfair buzzed with the same shocking rumor: the Duke of Westmire was marrying Beatrice Somerset — the girl who had shown up to the Crown in rags. The girl Arabella Croft had publicly humiliated.

At the Croft townhouse on Grosvenor Square, Lady Arabella paced the morning room, twisting a lace handkerchief until her knuckles ached.

“It cannot be true. She is destitute. Her father is a known degenerate. The Duke would not look twice at a creature so profoundly beneath him. He was merely avoiding a scene at the palace.”

Her father sat heavily in his armchair, staring at the wall. “It is true, Arabella. A special license has already been secured. They are to be married on Tuesday. Lord Somerset’s debts were cleared yesterday morning. All of them.”

Arabella stopped pacing. A cold knot of genuine fear formed in her stomach.

“Then she manipulated him. She played the victim —”

Lord Croft slammed his fist on the table. The teacups rattled. “You foolish girl. Do you think Arthur Pendleton can be manipulated? He is a shark. He does nothing without calculation.” He dragged a hand down his face. “And you stepped on her dress.”

“It was an accident.”

“It does not matter what it was. Westmire saw you.” His voice dropped. “The entire room knows he saw you. We are exposed.”

The invitation arrived that evening, on thick cream paper with a scarlet seal.

Lord Hastings’s private dinner. Two days hence.

And a note in a hand Arabella recognized with dawning, animal dread:

His grace the Duke of Westmire will attend. With his betrothed.