Her father almost toppled her over the threshold of Renslow House, and she did indeed trip on the doormat as he thrust her inside, ignoring his wife’s pleas and her tugs on his sleeve.
At last, having burst into the large parlour with somewhat less than their usual ceremony, Lord and Lady Renslow stared at their daughter. Who stared back, chin up and shoulders square.
A momentary thought flashed through her mind. This must have been what it was like to face a firing squad.
But before the first rifle could be fired—and that would be her father’s—Lady Renslow once again grabbed her husband’s arm. “Stop. Renslow, stop this. Didn’t you see? Your daughter and Lord Ashcombe?”
Dorothea tried to recall where she’d heard the name. “Mama, that wasn’t any lord. That was the Forge-Marshal, Silas Gray.”
“Well, dear, that may be the name he gave you, but I can assure you that he’s Lord Silas Ashcombe.”
“But...” Dorothea walked to a chair and dropped into it, at a complete loss.
“How did you meet him, dear?”
Shooting her mother a sideways glance, Dorothea narrowed her eyes. “Why?”
“Well, because, you foolish girl, he’s the heir to one of the largest fortunes in Arcvale. Haven’t you ever heard of the Ashcombe Grove estates?”
“No.”
Lady Renslow rolled her eyes. “It’s huge. Twice the size of anyone else’s.”
“That’s nice for them. But they’ve got nothing to do with Silas.”
Lord Renslow sighed. Loud enough to attract the attention of his wife and daughter. “She’s right, Dorothea. The Ashcombe family fortune is...substantial.”
Dorothea stared at him. “More substantial than ours?”
“At least double,” he replied.
“Oh.” She stood and paced the length of the room and back again. “I didn’t know.”
“Why would you? The scandal is five or six years old now, and steps were taken to make sure it was quickly forgotten.”
“What scandal?”
“Dorothea...” Randolph Renslow burst into the room. “You’re back. Where the...”
“Randolph.” His mother stopped him in mid-sentence. “We’ve done all that. You’re much too late to bestow any kind of reprimand. And instead, you should be congratulating her. The clever thing is going to wed Lord Silas Ashcombe.”
“Now just a minute,” Dorothea leapt to her feet, but was quickly pushed back down into her chair by her father’s firm hand.
“You truly did not know that man you were...er...behaving quite inappropriately with is Lord Ashcombe?”
She shook her head. “To me, he’s Silas Gray, Forge-Marshal.”
“Then you’re unaware of the scandal attached to his name.”
“Papa,” said Dorothea, shocked. “No, that’s impossible. Not Silas.”
Randolph seated himself nearby. “I’m afraid it is quite possible, sister. Silas Ashcombe is the son of Lord Sylvester Ashcombe, who was...let me think, High Warden for close on fifteen years.”
“I don’t ever remember that...” She shook her head.
“You were too young, darling,” smiled her mother. “Far too busy with your schooling and your friends to pay attention to such matters.”
“Ah.” Dorothea hadn’t, of course. But she had been very busy learning all she could about the workings of mechanicals. However, she saw no need to enlighten her Mama at this point in time. “So, what happened?”
