“Sign it, Lady Presholm,” Ambrose repeated, his voice dangerously low. “It is better than letting the truth of her parentage out. That she is your late husband’sdaughter. This is my compromise. Take it or leave it, but I do suggest that you take it,” he said through gritted teeth.
“This is absurd. How do you know all of this?”
“I employ men with an eye for detail, you could say. I have eyes everywhere, Lady Presholm. You wouldn’t be able to imagine in your wildest dreams all that I know. Sign it.”
“I said it before, and I will say it again. I. Will. Do. No. Such. Thing.”
“Really? If not, by sunset, every scandal sheet in London will have a copy of your current husband’strueledgers.”
“What do you mean bytrueledgers? You are talking in riddles?—”
“I am talking plain, Lady Presholm. I am talking about the gambling debts that have nearly swallowed this house, which were saved only by the allowance you stole from Miss Lewis from her late father.”
“You have gone too far for a little wretch that does not matter! She has only ever been a tarnish on this world?—”
“I also have the names of the three mistresses Lord Presholm keeps in Cheapside. Here are documents verifying the fact that you’ve been selling off the Presholm heirlooms just to keep up appearances. You are wise enough to do it outside of London proper, but my sources have this on good authority. Your position is tenuous at best, Lady Presholm. Is it not?”
The Countess’ face went white at those last words, as if the whole of her charade had been revealed. The porcelain cup rattled against the saucer as she began to stutter. “You-you-you wouldn’t dare stoop to such lows. It is unseemly to sully such a name as Presholm!”
“Watch me.”
“You would destroy your own social standing by associating with such filth! I am calling your bluff, Your Grace!”
“I have nothing left to lose, Lady Presholm. You’ve already played a role in taking the only thing that has ever mattered to me, besides my family.” Ambrose leaned over the table, his shadow looming over her. “And I would be lying if I didn’t say your crude attitude toward my nephews hasn’t fueled my fire!”
“For any comments toward your young wards, I perhaps… I do… I do apologize, Your Grace. I will play the part of the good neighbor, but as for that girl… I cannot… I will not…”
“If you sign this, you keep your house and your dignity. If you refuse, I will personally ensure that you are so ruined that people won’t even utter your name in a whisper. You will be a ghost, wandering a city that has forgotten you ever existed.”
Julia looked at the pen he held out, then back at his blue eyes. She saw no mercy there, as there was none. The only thing he held in his heart was the raw, unbridled power of a man who had been pushed to the edge. With a hand that trembled withpure, unadulterated hatred, she gripped the pen and scrawled her name across the bottom of the document.
“There,” she spat, flinging the pen onto the floor. “I hope you enjoy your commoner duchess. Thetonwill never accept her. I need not stoke that fire; she will ruin herself all on her own. Along with your name.”
Ambrose snatched the paper, checking the signature before tucking it securely into his coat. “Thetonwill accept what I tell them to accept. And as for you, Lady Presholm… you are leaving London. Tonight.”
“I beg your pardon? I have had quite enough of your charade, Your Grace.”
“You will pack your things and retreat to your estate in the north. In perpetuity.”
“But… Your Grace, I cannot!”
“If I see you at a ball, a theatre, or even a park within fifty miles of my Imogen, I will release those ledgers,” Ambrose said, his voice like a gavel striking wood. “You are finished here. You have lost. And it is done.”
The Countess didn’t speak. She stared at him; her mouth twisted in a silent snarl of defeat. She was no longer the grand gatekeeper of society. She was a woman caught in a trap of her own making.
“I will let you relay this information to your husband when he returns from Cheapside, in whatever version you so choose. So long as you leave, I don’t care what happens to you. That is more than you deserve for the pain and suffering you inflicted on a poor, helpless girl who only ever wanted to be loved! She did not deserve your cruelty for actions that were not of her making. Good evening.”
Ambrose turned on his heel, the heavy wool of his coat snapping behind him like a dark cape in the sudden gale as he strode out of Presholm House. He had what he needed. He had a ship to catch before the tide turned against him forever.
He sprinted toward his waiting carriage, his boots skidding on the slick cobbles of Mayfair.
“To the Blue Bell Inn!” Ambrose bellowed, his voice raw against the wind as he shook the driver awake from a catnap. “And don’t spare the whip, man! Move!”
The driver was a weathered man, wrapped in layers of damp oilskin. He looked down from the box with wide, startled eyes. “Your Grace, the streets are a riot of mud at this hour after all that cold rain! Why! We’ll snap an axle if we go too fast!”
“Then let it snap! That is an order,” Ambrose roared, hauling himself into the carriage. He leaned out the window, his knuckles white as he gripped the frame. “If you make it to the Blue Bell Inn in less than five minutes, I will double your salary for the rest of your time in my household. Will that do?”
The driver didn’t need to hear more. With a sharp crack of the whip that echoed like a shot through the narrow alleyway, the carriage lurched forward.
