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 8

The ground was too frozen to dig a proper grave. Thomas Ashborne was intombed in the stone crypt beneath the estate’s private chapel, laid to rest alongside generations of men who had built the Clydesdale fortune.

The ceremony was incredibly brief. The vicar rushed through the liturgy, his breath pluming in the freezing air. Josephine stood at the head of the stone bier. She wore a dress of heavy black bombazine, a thick veil obscuring her face. She did not weep. She simply watched the heavy stone lid slide into place, sealing away the man who had bought her life and ended up saving it.

Reginald and Lady Agatha stood on the opposite side of the crypt. They did not look at the tomb. They looked at Josephine.

The reading of the will took place the following afternoon in the grand library. The fire was roaring, but the room felt glacial.

Reginald sat in one of the wing-back chairs, his legs crossed, projecting an air of bored triumph. Agatha sat beside him, nervously twisting a lace handkerchief. They had brought their own solicitor from London — a thin, sharp-featured man named Mr. Finch — who sat beside the estate’s primary solicitor, Mr. Davies.

Josephine entered the room precisely at three. She had discarded the heavy veil. Her dark dress was immaculate, high-collared and unadorned. She walked to the large oak desk and took the leather chair behind it — Thomas’s chair.

Reginald sneered. “Playing the duchess to the very end, Josephine. I suppose we can allow you a few final moments of delusion before you pack your bags.”

Josephine ignored him. She folded her hands on the polished wood. “Mr. Davies, please begin.”

The old solicitor adjusted his spectacles, broke the wax seal on the heavy parchment, and began to read. The first two pages were standard. They outlined the entailment. The title of the Duke of Clydesdale, the Yorkshire estate, and the surrounding tenant farms passed directly to the closest male heir, Reginald Ashborne.

Reginald leaned back, a smug smile spreading across his face. He glanced at his mother, who let out a long, audible sigh of relief.

“Now,” Mr. Davies said, his voice dropping slightly as he turned to the third page. “To the matter of the unentailed assets. Liquid capital. Private holdings. I read the late Duke’s specific addendum — drafted and witnessed in London four months prior to his passing.”

Mr. Finch leaned forward, his brow furrowing. “Unentailed assets? The bulk of the wealth is tied to the duchy. The land is tied to the duchy.”

“The mining company, however, was legally separated from the estate by the late Duke’s father,” Mr. Davies corrected smoothly. “It operates as a private enterprise, as do the railway contracts, the London townhouse, and the cash reserves in the Bank of England.”

Reginald’s smile vanished. “What are you saying?”

“I am saying,” Mr. Davies continued, reading from the parchment, “that all shares in the Clydesdale Mining Corporation, all railway dividends, the deed to the property in Mayfair, and the entirety of the liquid cash reserves are left in their absolute entirety to her grace, Josephine Ashborne, Dowager Duchess of Clydesdale.”

The library descended into ringing, absolute silence.

Reginald sat frozen, the blood completely drained from his face, leaving him looking like a wax figure. Agatha dropped her handkerchief.

“That is a lie,” Reginald finally choked out, gripping the arms of his chair, his knuckles turning white. “That is impossible. The mines are the estate. The estate is mine.”

“The stone walls of this house are yours, your grace,” Mr. Davies said, not looking up from the document. “The moors are yours. The title is yours. But the money belongs to the Dowager Duchess.”

“I will contest it!” Reginald shouted, leaping to his feet. He pointed a trembling finger at Josephine. “She manipulated a dying old man. She poisoned his mind. Mr. Finch, tell them we will drag this through the courts until she is penniless.”

Mr. Finch slowly took off his spectacles. He looked at the documents on the desk, then at Reginald with a mixture of pity and professional detachment.

“My lord, if the mining company was indeed separated from the entailment before your uncle’s marriage, and this addendum was signed while he was plainly of sound mind, four months before he died…” He paused. “A court battle would take years, and you do not have the capital to fund it. She does.”

Reginald stared at his solicitor, the reality of his situation crashing down on him. He had inherited a massive, crumbling stone fortress and an empty bank account. He owned the fireplace — but Josephine owned the coal.

He turned his terrified, furious eyes back to Josephine.

She sat perfectly still behind the massive oak desk. She did not smile. There was no joy in this victory. It was simply the final, necessary placement of a heavy iron barricade.

“I am leaving for London in the morning,” Josephine said. Her voice was calm, cutting through the heavy air of the library. “I have no desire to freeze in this house for another winter.”

She stood up. The heavy black silk of her morning gown rustled softly.

“You may keep the Yorkshire estate, Reginald. You may play the Duke. But understand this: the maintenance of this roof, the wages of your servants, and the food on your table will be paid for by a monthly stipend issued from my office in Mayfair.”

She looked him dead in the eye.

“If you ever raise your voice to me again, I will cut the stipend. If you ever attempt to contact my brother, I will cut the stipend. You will live quietly in the country, Reginald. You will not bother me. And in return, I will allow you to survive.”

She did not wait for his answer. She did not look at Lady Agatha, who was now weeping silently into her hands. Josephine walked past them, her spine straight, her footsteps echoing sharply against the hardwood floor.

She stepped out into the grand hallway. The heavy library doors clicked shut behind her.

She reached into the pocket of her black gown. Her fingers closed around the cold, heavy iron key to the master bed chamber.

She did not need it to lock the world out anymore.

The world belonged to her now.