A collective intake of breath rippled through the room as anticipation and dread swelled.
Dobson cleared his throat. “That is the principal clause, Your Grace, yes.”
“And if I refuse?” William kept his voice steady, but his knuckles turned white against the linen beneath them.
Dobson winced. “The Trust would revert to your cousin Thomas, as the next male heir. The legal mechanism is?—”
“I know the mechanism,” William interrupted, his tone flat. “What I wish clarified for everyone present is the precise nature of the stipulation.” He looked down at the memorandum, its text etched in his memory. “The marriage must be to a woman of unimpeachable character, specifically not to any woman with a previous attachment or alliance.”
A murmur traveled the length of the table, recognition and calculation washing over them. Even those who claimed indifference leaned forward, sensing the potential for scandal.
Mother spoke, her voice thin but sharp. “You need not spell it out, William. We are all acquainted with the gossip.” She glanced at the legal minds. “Perhaps the professionals here would advise my son on the value of the Trust, and the consequences of forfeiture.”
Dobson nodded, reluctantly complying. “It is a considerable sum, Your Grace. Not merely monetary, but the land…ancient and unlikely to return to the House once ceded. One could say it is the future, as well as the present, at stake.”
William regarded the solicitor with something like pity. “What you mean, Mr. Dobson, is that my entire life has been mortgaged to the whims of a man already dead.”
Dobson remained silent.
William took a breath and spoke again. “I decline the stipulation.”
A silence enveloped the room, as if even the air had paused.
Uncle George was the first to recover. “You cannot be serious, William. The Pembroke Trust is the backbone of?—”
“It will be the backbone of Thomas’s estate, then.” William fixed his gaze on the old man, daring him to continue.
A vein throbbed in George’s temple. “Do you understand what you are sacrificing? For the sake of what? A dalliance? A mistress? An unsuitable—” He caught himself, but the words hung in the air.
William did not blink. “I understand better than anyone here.”
Dobson, to his credit, tried again. “If I may, Your Grace, there is the matter of public perception. The announcement of your withdrawal from the Trust may create opportunities for speculation. There are already rumors of?—”
“I have heard them.” William straightened, shoulders squared. “Let it be known that I am not pursuing a match with any debutante. My attentions are not, nor have they ever been, offered to Lady Harrington, or Penelope, or any of the others on your list. I renounce the Trust. Let the record show it.”
The younger solicitor fumbled for his quill, scratching furiously to capture the language verbatim. William noticed the tremor in his hand.
Mother’s voice was faint but cutting. “And what of Lady Fairfax, William? Do you wish to proclaim her virtue next?”
He turned to his mother, meeting her eyes. “Lady Fairfax is irrelevant to this discussion. I will not have her name used as a weapon. If anyone in this room utters it again, they will do so at the cost of my regard.”
The room froze, the threat palpable. William let the moment linger, then nodded to Dobson. “Anything further?”
Dobson licked his lips, eyes darting between those present. “Only the formalities, Your Grace. If you would sign the declaration of intent, we may proceed to notarization.”
William picked up the pen, finding it heavier than expected. He signed with a flourish, the Atteberry hand cold and final. He slid the document across the table, watching as the junior solicitor sanded and blotted the signature with trembling efficiency.
He did not wait for applause or recrimination. He gathered the second set of papers, dismissed the assembly with a nod, and left the room through the side door, closing it with a click that echoed in his mind like the lid of a coffin.
* * *
His study was a world away. Smaller, lined with books, a single chair at a plain writing desk. The sun here was grey, filtered through the city’s haze. William set the signed declaration on the blotter, then unlocked the bottom drawer and withdrew two documents he had prepared the night before.
The first was addressed to his factor, Mr. Mallory. An explicit instruction that no alteration or dispersal of Lady Fairfax’s accounts was to occur without her written signature. He read it over twice, refining a clause, tightening a line. When satisfied, he signed and sealed it with the Powis crest, the red wax burning his thumb.
The second was a draft of a post-nuptial agreement. A contract stipulating that, in the event of his marrying Lady Fairfax, all her holdings, present and future, would remain her sole property, irrevocable, untouchable by any future Duke or legal maneuver, and she would have full control. He hesitated over the phrasing, unsure if it was too direct, too much an admission. He left it unaltered.
He leaned back in the chair, eyes closed, letting exhaustion wash over him. His mind replayed her voice saying, “I cannot be your property, or your project, or your problem to solve.” He wondered if this gesture would read as contrition or as another form of control. He decided it did not matter. What mattered was that she would see the contract, signed in his own hand, and know exactly what he was offering—or refusing.
