She knew what she was doing was improper. Three weeks was far too soon — she should have remained inside for at least another two months, veiled, kept out of public view, and permitted to see only members of her family. But after her fiancé abandoned her, she married London’s most feared Duke to save her family — only for a hidden ledger to reveal the heartbreaking reason he had chosen her from the very beginning.

 PART 6

London had not changed. Beatrice had.

When the Ashborne carriage pulled up outside the Harkort townhouse in Mayfair, the murmurs started before the footman had even reached the door. The carriage was black and unadorned except for the silver crest on the panel. It looked like a hearse arriving at a festival.

Beatrice stepped down onto the cobblestones.

She was not wearing the muted, apologetic half-mourning greys expected of a woman in her situation. Gideon’s modiste in York had worked miracles in a week. She wore a gown of deep saturated midnight blue silk that shifted like a bruised sky when she moved. Around her neck sat the Ashborne sapphires, heavy and cold and dripping with an ancient, terrifying wealth.

Gideon stepped down behind her. He wore stark black evening dress, and tonight he did not carry the cane. He stood tall — a monolith of dark intent — and offered her his arm.

“Shoulders back, Duchess,” he murmured, his breath brushing her ear.

“My shoulders are perfectly straight, Ashborne,” she replied, taking his arm.

“I know. But I enjoy reminding you.”

They walked up the steps and into the crowded ballroom.

The major-domo struck his staff against the marble.

“His Grace, the Duke of Ashborne — and the Duchess of Ashborne.”

The music did not stop. But it faltered.

Three hundred members of the ton turned as one. Fans paused mid-flutter. Conversations died in throats. Beatrice felt the weight of their stares — the frantic mental calculations running behind every pair of eyes — and remembered, with a clarity that made her stomach turn, standing in this same kind of room a month ago, ruined and discarded, holding a glass of lemonade she could not drink.

Now she returned wearing a king’s ransom in jewels, on the arm of a man who could buy and sell everyone in the room before breakfast.

She saw Lady Kalpa turn pale and drop her gaze to the floor.

Something vicious and deeply satisfying curled in Beatrice’s stomach.

“Do not smile yet,” Gideon instructed softly, guiding her through the parting crowd. People were stepping back, giving them a wide berth. “Let them sweat.”

“I am merely admiring the architecture,” Beatrice lied smoothly.

They reached the edge of the dance floor.

And the crowd parted, and Simon Harkort was standing there.

He looked exactly the same — golden, polished, wearing a coat of immaculate green velvet. But the smug confidence that had always radiated off him had completely evaporated. He stared at Beatrice as though she were a ghost holding a loaded pistol.

Beside him stood his father. Lord Harkort was an older, heavier version of Simon, with a florid face and sharp, calculating eyes. Those eyes moved from the sapphires at Beatrice’s throat to the jagged scar on Gideon’s face, and the older man understood the danger immediately.

Simon, however, was a fool.

He detached himself from his father and stepped forward, pasting a stiff, artificial smile onto his mouth.

“Beatrice.” He caught himself. “Your Grace. This is an unexpected surprise. We had not heard you had returned to town.”

Beatrice let the silence stretch.

She looked at him. Really looked at him. She saw the weak line of his chin. The panicked sweat gathering at his temples.

He was not a golden god. He was a coward who had built his life on stolen money.

“Mr. Harkort,” she said, and her voice carried clear and ringing into the quiet around them. “I do not believe I owe you my itinerary.”

Simon’s smile strained. He tried to project an air of tragic intimacy — the wounded lover, the man who had suffered too.

“I understand you are angry, Beatrice. The circumstances of our parting were difficult. But surely we can remain civil.” His eyes flicked dismissively toward Gideon. “I see you have found a comfortable arrangement.”

It was a mistake.

Gideon did not raise his voice. He did not move abruptly. He simply shifted his gaze to Simon, and the temperature in their small circle seemed to drop ten degrees.

“Mr. Harkort,” Gideon rasped. The sound was a shovel dragging over gravel. “You address my wife as Your Grace. If you forget her title again, I will have your tongue removed and nailed to my carriage door.”

Simon physically recoiled, his face draining of blood. He took a stumbling step backward.

Lord Harkort hurried forward, his florid face tight with panic.

“Ashborne, please. My boy misspoke — a lapse in manners. We are honoured to host you and the new Duchess in our home.”

Gideon looked at the older man.

The hatred in his pale eyes was so absolute, so ancient and frozen, that Beatrice felt it radiating through the heavy broadcloth of his sleeve.

“Enjoy your ball, Harkort,” Gideon said softly.

He turned on his heel, drawing Beatrice smoothly with him.

“It will be your last.”

They did not stay for supper. They had made their appearance. The snare was set.

In the carriage on the way home, Gideon said nothing, and Beatrice watched the lamplight slide across his face and thought about how carefully a man must hate, to keep it alive for ten years without letting it dull.

On Tuesday it rained.

It was a miserable grey London morning, matching the mood inside the private offices of the Harkort Bank in the City. Beatrice sat in a high-backed leather chair with her hands folded neatly in her lap. The damp chill of the room barely registered.

Across the wide mahogany desk sat Lord Harkort.

Simon stood by the window, staring out at the rain, chewing the edge of his thumbnail.

Gideon stood behind Beatrice’s chair. He did not sit. He simply loomed — an immovable shadow.

“I must admit, Ashborne, I am confused by this meeting,” Lord Harkort began, adjusting his cuffs with false bravado. “If you are looking to secure a loan, our terms are quite competitive. But given the suddenness—”

“I am not here for a loan.”

Gideon reached into his coat and withdrew the leather-bound ledger. He tossed it onto the desk. It landed with a heavy, final thud.

“I am here on behalf of my wife, to whom Arthur Croft left the right to recover what was taken from his estate. I am here to put terms to you.”

Lord Harkort stared at the book. A bead of sweat broke out on his forehead.

“I do not recognise that ledger.”

“You should,” Beatrice said.

She leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on the armrests.

“It belonged to my father. Arthur Croft.”