Her Brother Traded Her to an Aging Duke to Pay His Gambling Debts — But on Their Wedding Night, He Handed His Terrified Bride a Key, £40,000, and the One Thing Her Brother Had Taken From Her: A Choice.

 PART 3

She woke to the sound of rain hammering against leaded glass.

For a long, disorienting moment she stared at the heavy velvet canopy above her, trying to place the smell of burning coal and lemon oil. Then her fingers brushed against cold iron beneath her pillow.

The key.

The memories of the previous night crashed into her — the letter to Davies, the trust fund, £40,000. She sat up abruptly, the chill of the bed chamber biting through her thin linen gown. She looked toward the small table by the hearth.

The leather portfolio was still there, exactly where she had left it. It had not been a dream. She had not been tricked.

She threw off the blankets, crossed the freezing oak floorboards, and picked up the portfolio, holding it tightly to her chest. It felt heavier this morning. It felt like armor.

A timid knock sounded at the door. Josephine shoved the portfolio into the bottom drawer of a heavy mahogany dresser, locked it with the key left in the lock, and slipped the key into her dressing gown pocket.

“Come in.”

A young maid entered carrying a brass jug of hot water and an armful of towels, her eyes glued to the floor. Behind her came an older woman clad in severe black bombazine, her gray hair pulled so tightly back it seemed to strain her features.

“Good morning, your grace.” The older woman’s tone was perfectly respectful, yet utterly devoid of warmth. “I am Mrs. Higgins, head housekeeper. His grace is already in his study. He requested you join him for breakfast in the morning room once you are dressed.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Higgins.”

Josephine did not shrink away. She did not offer a nervous smile. She knew how servants looked at a household that was falling apart — her brother’s house had been a chaotic mess of screaming creditors and drunkards. This woman was testing her, looking for the terrified, purchased child she expected to find.

Josephine walked to the washstand and poured the hot water into the ceramic basin herself.

“I will wear the dark blue wool this morning, and I prefer my tea strong without milk. See that it is ready.”

Mrs. Higgins blinked. A flicker of surprise broke her stoic facade. “Yes, your grace.”

Forty minutes later, dressed in a practical, unadorned gown that offered no concessions to bridal finery, Josephine navigated the sprawling corridors of the Clydesdale estate. Dark wood paneling, faded tapestries, and portraits of severe-looking men holding swords or scrolls lined the walls. It felt more like a museum than a home.

She found the morning room by following the faint smell of roasted oats and coffee.

Thomas Ashborne was seated at the head of a long polished table, heavily focused on a stack of ledgers. He glanced up as she entered. He did not smile.

“You slept?”

“I did, your grace.” Josephine took the seat at the opposite end of the table. The distance between them was vast. It felt appropriate.

“Thomas,” he said flatly, returning his eyes to his paperwork. “If we are to maintain this barricade, you must call me Thomas. ‘Your grace’ makes you sound like one of the scullery maids.”

“Very well, Thomas.”

The name felt strange on her tongue. Heavy.

A footman poured her tea. It was pitch black, exactly as she had ordered. She took a sip, letting the bitter heat steady her nerves. She watched him work — methodically striking lines through columns of numbers in a leather-bound book.

“My brother was a gambler,” Josephine said into the quiet room.

The scratching of the Duke’s quill stopped. He looked up, his pale blue eyes narrowing.

“I am aware he was a gambler — and a terrible liar,” she continued, setting her cup down carefully. “I spent the last five years dodging creditors, lying to the butcher, and managing whatever pathetic remnants of our finances were left after he visited the gin houses. I can read a ledger, Thomas. I can spot a discrepancy. If I am to run this house, I will not do it blindly. I want to see the household accounts.”

Silence stretched across the long table. The grandfather clock ticked. Josephine held his gaze, her heart hammering against her ribs, but her face perfectly still.

She was not asking for a favor. She was negotiating her position.

Slowly, Thomas closed the heavy ledger in front of him. He pushed it down the polished surface of the table. It slid to a halt inches from her plate.

“The estate manager is a man named Carson,” Thomas said, his voice a low gravel rumble. “He has been stealing from me for three years. Small amounts. Coal shipments routed to private buyers. I have not had the energy to root out the exact paperwork to sack him without a scandal.”

He picked up his coffee cup.

“Find it. Sack him. The household is yours, Josephine.”

She looked down at the ledger. The leather cover was worn from use. She opened it to the first page. The columns of numbers were neat, precise, and entirely familiar. It was a language she spoke fluently.

“I will have it done by Thursday,” she said.

A faint, almost imperceptible ghost of a smile touched the corner of Thomas’s mouth.

“Good. Because my nephew arrives on Friday — and he is a far worse parasite than Carson.”

She found Carson’s discrepancies within forty-eight hours, working through the ledgers at that same table each morning while Thomas watched over the rim of his coffee cup and said nothing. The estate manager had blustered, threatened, and ultimately crumbled when she presented him with the exact dates and tonnages of the stolen coal. He was gone by Thursday evening, exactly as promised.

Reginald Ashborne arrived precisely at noon on Friday, bringing with him the stench of expensive cologne and an overwhelming sense of entitlement.

Josephine stood by the tall windows of the drawing room, watching his carriage tear up the gravel drive. She wore a high-collared black silk dress, severe and unforgiving. Mrs. Higgins now looked at Josephine not with pity, but with a weary, rigid respect.

“He is early,” Thomas murmured from his armchair by the fire. He was wrapped in a thick wool blanket, his stiff leg propped on a velvet stool.

“Early implies he respects your time,” Josephine said, turning from the window. “He is simply eager to check if you are dead yet.”

Thomas let out a short, rough bark of laughter. It ended in a wet cough.

“You have a sharp tongue, Josie.”

“I have a realistic one.”

The heavy doors to the drawing room swung open. Reginald strode in as if he already owned the carpet he walked upon. He was in his late twenties — handsome in a weak, soft sort of way, dressed in a tailored riding habit that had never seen actual exertion.

“Uncle!” Reginald declared, throwing his arms wide. “I came as soon as I heard the joyous news. Though I must confess, the letter from your solicitor was quite a shock.”

His eyes slid past Thomas and locked onto Josephine. His smile did not reach his eyes. They were cold, calculating, and dripping with condescension.

“And this must be the new Duchess.” He stepped closer, looking her up and down, searching for the desperate, impoverished girl his uncle had bought. “Josephine, isn’t it? From the Harding family.”

He dragged out the surname, letting the unspoken reality of her brother’s ruined reputation hang heavily in the air.

“Your grace will do, Reginald,” Josephine said. Her voice was flat, devoid of any welcoming warmth.