She Walked Away Silently After Broken Engagement — Minutes Later, Duke’s Royal Carriage Came After..

Chapter 9

Three days after the ambush at Blackwood Crossing, the Duke and Duchess of Alistister returned to London. They did not slink back under cover of darkness. They arrived at King’s Cross Station in broad daylight, surrounded by a phalanx of guards, yet moving with an air of untouchable calm. Maximilian’s arm was in a black silk sling, a visual reminder of the attack, though the bullet had merely grazed his bicep. He wore it like a badge of honor.

They chose the most public, most theatrical stage possible for their counterattack: the Royal Opera House. The performance was Verdi’s Aida — a tale of war and betrayal that felt fitting for the evening’s agenda.

Genevieve wore white. Not the innocent white of a debutante, but a stark, blinding ivory silk that looked like armor. Around her neck, the Alistister sapphires were gone. In their place sat a choker of blood-red rubies that looked like drops of frozen fire against her pale skin.

“You look ready to execute someone,” Maximilian murmured, watching her from the opposite seat in the carriage.

“I am,” she replied. “I am done being the prey, Maximilian.”

He reached out, taking her gloved hand in his good one. “Good. Because tonight, we hunt.”

The arrival was pandemonium. As they ascended the grand staircase of the Opera House, the crowd parted. The hush that fell over the lobby was absolute, broken only by the rustle of Genevieve’s heavy silk train. Eyes widened. Fans snapped shut.

“They survived.”

“Look at his arm.”

“She looks different. Harder.”

Genevieve held her head high, meeting the gazes of the women who had whispered about her broken engagement months ago. They looked away first. She felt a surge of power. The frightened girl who had walked away from Oak Haven was dead. The woman who had shot a man in the snow had taken her place.

They entered the royal box, the velvet curtains parting to reveal them to the entire auditorium. Maximilian stepped forward to the railing, Genevieve at his side. He did not wave. He simply stood there, scanning the sea of faces below like a general surveying a battlefield.

“He is here,” Maximilian said, his voice a low rumble against her ear. He raised his opera glasses, not looking at the stage, but at the boxes opposite. “Third box, tier two. Lord Callaway. He is drinking heavily. He did not expect to see us alive.”

Genevieve raised her own mother-of-pearl glasses. She found Callaway immediately — the Minister of Procurement, a man she had once hosted at her dinner table. He looked ill, his face flushed, his collar too tight. But it was the man sitting in the shadows behind him that made her blood run cold.

Thomas War. He looked haggard, his sandy hair unkempt, his eyes darting around the theater like a trapped animal.

“Thomas,” she breathed.

“The leak,” Maximilian confirmed, his jaw tightening. “Callaway needed my itinerary. Thomas needed money. It was a transaction.”

She felt a cold fury settle in her chest. “He sold our lives for a promise of capital.”

“He did not know they would try to kill us,” Maximilian said, and she was surprised by the absence of anger in his voice. “He is too weak for murder. He thought they would just frighten me.”

“Weakness is more dangerous than malice,” she said quietly, repeating his own words back to him.

He looked at her with something like pride. “You were listening.”

The lights dimmed. The overture began. But neither the Duke nor the Duchess watched the stage. They sat in the darkness of their box, plotting the final move.

During the second intermission, Maximilian whispered, “We will not go to the salon. I have sent a note. They will come to us.”

The antechamber behind the royal box was small, lined with red damask, smelling of old dust and expensive perfume. It was a private space, usually reserved for royalty to take tea. Tonight, it was a courtroom.

Genevieve stood by the fireplace, the flames casting long dancing shadows across her ivory dress. Maximilian sat in a high-backed chair, his injured arm resting on the table, a revolver placed casually beside a crystal decanter of brandy. He did not touch the brandy. He did not need it.

There was a knock. “Enter.”

The door opened. Lord Callaway walked in, trying to affect an air of indignation and failing miserably. Behind him, Thomas War shuffled in, looking at the floor.

“Alistister,” Callaway blustered, “I must protest — summoning a minister of the crown like a servant. And during the opera. It is highly irregular—”

“Sit.”

Callaway sat. Thomas remained standing near the door, wringing his hands.

“I have a story to tell you,” Maximilian began, pouring himself a glass of water with his good hand. “It is about a carriage accident in Derbyshire. The official report says it was ice. A tragedy.” He looked up, his gray eyes boring into Callaway. “But we know the truth, do we not? It was not ice. It was dynamite. And four men with Winchester rifles.”

“I—I have no idea what you are implying,” Callaway stammered, sweat beading on his forehead.

“Do you not?” Maximilian reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small charred black notebook. It smelled of smoke. “We found this on the body of the leader. The man my wife shot through the heart.”

Genevieve watched Callaway’s eyes fixate on the notebook. It was a prop — a blank journal she had bought at a stationer’s on the way to the opera and singed with a candle. But to a guilty conscience, it looked like a death warrant.

“It contains names, Callaway. Dates. Payment amounts. It links the Iron Circle directly to the War Office.”

Callaway went ashen. “That — that is impossible. No such records were kept.”

“Ah.” Maximilian smiled, a shark-like baring of teeth. “So you admit there was a conspiracy. You just dispute the record-keeping.”

Callaway froze. He had walked into a trap and he knew it.

“The Commissioner of Police is waiting in the lobby,” Maximilian continued, pressing his advantage. “I can hand this notebook to him. You will be arrested for treason and conspiracy to murder a peer of the realm. You will hang, Callaway. Publicly.”

“Please,” Callaway whispered, his bravado shattering. “I have a family.”

“So do I.” Maximilian slammed his hand on the table, making the revolver jump. “And you tried to burn them alive in the snow.”

“What do you want?” Callaway asked, defeated.

“Your resignation. Tomorrow morning, you will cite ill health. You will dismantle the Iron Circle’s contracts. And then you will leave England. I suggest Argentina. The climate is agreeable for exiles.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Then you hang.”

Callaway nodded slowly. He stood up, looking aged by twenty years. “I will write the letter tonight.” He turned and fled the room, not daring to look back.

That left Thomas.