“Indeed. My wife is very fond of Miss Morgenschein.” Alfie didn’t hesitate. “Her betrothed, Dr. Leafley, is as a brother to me. That makes me—” he allowed himself the faintest smile, “—an uncle, of sorts, to the young Marquess.”
Gasps stirred again, softer this time, like the chamber itself was recalibrating.
The chancellor leaned back, studying John with keen eyes. “So you would claim, sir, that you will stand as guardian in all but name? That you would manage his estate and grounds until he comes of age?”
“It would be my honor,” Alfie said firmly. His gaze slid to John and warmed, steady as an oath. “I would. Not to possess—but to preserve. Until he is fit to do so himself.”
John’s shoulders squared.
The chancellor let the silence stretch, then nodded once. “Then it seems to me the boy is surrounded—not by pretenders, but by men and women who have risked name and safety to see him grow to his inheritance.”
Maisie’s throat ached. She could hardly breathe.
The chancellor’s voice rang out, sure and solemn. “Any soul—man or woman, gentile or Jew—who protects a peer of the realm so faithfully should be honored, not punished.”
He raised the gavel. The crack echoed like thunder. “In light of the extensive evidence offered in support of the authenticity of the young marquess’ parentage and his devotion to the family he’s found, chosen and approved by his later parents, there is no need for extensive deliberation.” A hush washed over the bench and finally the other men nodded. “This committee finds no cause to remove the Marquess fromhis title.”
The chamber erupted—shouts, protests, the shuffle of robes and the clatter of canes.
List staggered, pale with fury, his mouth twisting like a blade. Maisie met his eyes through the storm. He wasn’t finished. She knew that.
But for this moment, they had won.
John’s arms clung tight around her. And Maisie let herself believe, just for a breath, that she had not failed him. That the nails still held.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The great oakdoors of Westminster Hall swung wide.
Maisie descended the steps with John’s hand clutched tightly in hers, the sunlight striking the courtyard into brilliance. Beyond the wrought-iron gates, the crowd surged forward—voices hissing, calling, judging. At the foot of the stairs, a line of riders waited in black coats and hats, horses pawing at the stones, reins taut.
Among them—Faivish.
His eyes found hers through the throng. Hat in hand, rain still on the brim, his gaze burning and unshaken. For a moment, Maisie could not breathe. He was not hiding in the shadows this time. He was here, standing in the open, surrounded by brothers who had chosen to stand with him.
Baron von List’s voice slashed through the noise. “Look at them! All dressed alike—rats in the same coat, indistinguishable, scurrying from their holes. You cannot tell one from another!”
The crowd rippled with cruel laughter.
Then, with deliberate calm, Dr. Nick Folsham stepped forward out of the line. He drew off his gloves and held them loosely at his side. “Tell me, Baron, is this what you feel each time you consult my work? When you accept my treatments for your health and your pride? Do I look like a rat to you then?”
A stir went through the gallery. List faltered, but only for a breath.
And then another voice rang out, rich and measured.
“Nor to me.” Prince Stan stepped forward from his place among the riders, his cravat immaculate, his bearing regal as he placed a hand to his breast. “As royal delegate and ambassador to Transylvania, I will inform my fellow diplomats that Baron von List cannot distinguish loyalty from treachery, nor justice from spite.”
The courtyard hushed, thunderstruck.
Maisie’s heart pounded. She turned—and Faivish was there, closing the distance. His hands reached for hers and it seemed that he had never belonged anywhere else. The world and its stares fell away.
She pressed close, her veil slipping as she whispered fiercely, “Lady Eleanor is no more. I step into the light now—as your wife.”
His breath caught, his forehead lowering to hers. “We stand in the light. All of us. Together.”
And she kissed him—before the eyes of London, before the Lords, before the crowd that would judge her. A kiss not of secrecy, but of claim.
Then—
