They Called Her the Duke’s Unwanted Wife, Sold to Pay Her Father’s Debts — But When His Signet Ring Split Her Cheek, the Cold Duke Stood Between Them and Made Her Realize She Was Never Powerless Again

PART 6

“Your grace.” Albright began gently. “Are you a prisoner in your own home?”

“No, my lord.” Beatrice’s voice was clear, ringing off the oak panels. “I am the manager of it.”

Albright raised an eyebrow. “Explain.”

Beatrice reached into the deep pocket of her dress and pulled out a small black leather notebook. She placed it on the wooden rail of the stand.

“My father claims I am terrified and controlled. I am neither.” She opened the book. “When I arrived at Westford Abbey, I took over the household accounts. I renegotiated the coal contracts, saving the estate three hundred pounds a quarter. I audited the tenant farming yields. I managed the provisioning. I am not a prisoner. I am a working duchess. And I am here entirely of my own volition.”

Finch stood up quickly. “Objection, my lord. These are menial tasks likely forced upon her to justify her upkeep. It does not excuse the Duke’s violence or his breach of the financial arrangement.”

“My husband is not violent.” Beatrice’s voice sharpened, cutting Finch off completely. She turned her head, fixing her father with a dead, unblinking stare. “The only violence I have suffered in my twenty-two years was at the hands of the man who sold me.”

“Liar!” Harrington hissed, his face purple.

Beatrice ignored him. She looked back at Lord Albright. “My lord, my father is petitioning for the return of the Sussex land, claiming it is his rightful property. He asserts he was coerced.” She opened the notebook to a specific page. “May I submit a piece of evidence to the court?”

Albright nodded. “Proceed.”

“Before I left my father’s house, I managed his private ledgers. I had to — his solicitors kept resigning due to non-payment.” She looked at Finch, who suddenly looked very ill. “The Sussex land was never unencumbered. Four months before my marriage, my father secretly mortgaged the deed to a private, unlicensed lender in Cheapside to fund a fraudulent tin mining venture in Cornwall. A venture that collapsed a week before the wedding.”

Harrington froze. The blood drained from his face so fast he looked like a corpse.

“What is this?” Albright demanded, sitting up straight. “A secret mortgage?”

“Yes, my lord.” Beatrice’s voice was ice. “My father did not sell the land to the Duke to secure my future. He sold it to the Duke because the Cheapside lenders were threatening to break his legs. He allowed the Duke to clear his legitimate debts to Lord Roth, knowing full well the deed he transferred was already poisoned by illegal debt. He committed fraud.”

She stepped down from the stand, walked to the Vice-Chancellor’s bench, and handed over the black notebook.

“The dates, the sums, and the name of the Cheapside lender are listed on page forty-two. I verified them myself.”

Albright read the page in silence. The scratching of his quill as he turned the page was the only sound in the room. He looked up, his eyes hard and flat.

“Lord Harrington.” His voice was laced with absolute disgust. “Is this true?”

Harrington opened his mouth. Nothing came out. He looked at Mr. Finch, who was rapidly stuffing papers into his briefcase, desperately trying to distance himself from his client.

“You bring a grievance to my court.” Albright’s voice cracked across the chamber like a whip, and Beatrice flinched. “You accuse a Duke of coercion while committing gross financial fraud. You petition for the return of a property you had no legal right to sell in the first place.”

Albright looked at Arthur. “Your grace. I am referring this matter to the criminal courts. Lord Harrington is facing charges of fraud and attempting to pass encumbered property to the peerage. A warrant will be prepared for his arrest.”

He set his papers in order with a final, decisive motion. “Case dismissed. The marriage settlements stand. The land belongs to Westford.”

Arthur stood. He buttoned his coat. He did not look at the ruined man across the aisle. He walked over to Beatrice, offered his arm, and escorted her out of the suffocating room and into the cold, clean London air.

The rain started precisely as their carriage pulled up to the Westford townhouse in Mayfair. It was a torrential, driving downpour that washed the soot from the cobblestones. Inside the house was quiet. The staff had retired for the evening. Arthur dismissed the lone footman waiting in the hall and took Beatrice’s wet cloak himself, hanging it over a brass hook.

They walked into the drawing room. A fire had been banked in the hearth, casting long, flickering shadows across the walls.

Beatrice walked to the window, watching the rain lash against the glass. The adrenaline that had sustained her through the trial was crashing, leaving her legs feeling like lead. She had done it. She had destroyed her father.

She expected to feel triumphant. Instead, she just felt overwhelmingly, fundamentally exhausted.

She heard the clink of glass behind her. Arthur walked over and pressed a tumbler of whiskey into her hand.

“I don’t like whiskey,” she murmured, staring at the amber liquid.

“Drink it anyway.” His voice was soft. “It stops the shaking.”

Beatrice looked down at her hands. He was right. Her fingers were trembling so violently the glass was rattling. She took a deep breath and swallowed the liquor. It burned, but the heat spread outward, anchoring her to her own body.

Arthur stood beside her, looking out at the dark street. He had removed his coat and cravat. His white linen shirt was unbuttoned at the collar. Without the armor of his formal wear, he looked younger. Entirely human.

“You kept the Cheapside ledger a secret.” It wasn’t an accusation. It was an observation.

“I needed a killing blow.” Beatrice’s voice was hollow. “If I told you, you would have handled it. You would have paid the Cheapside lenders to make the problem vanish. I didn’t want the problem to vanish. I wanted him ruined. I wanted to cut off his legs so he could never crawl back to me.”

She looked up at him, expecting to see disgust at her ruthlessness. A proper lady did not orchestrate the financial and social execution of her own father.

Arthur was not looking at her with disgust. He was looking at her with a profound, quiet understanding.