“I was not—”
“You were,” Worthington interrupted, blunt as ever. “And poorly, I might add.” He sighed. “This is what shall happen. Our engagement remains—I have already announced it and detest being made a fool. You shall return to London tomorrow. The house party will proceed without you. You will spend the coming months in quiet preparation for the wedding, and afterwards you will behave as a dutiful duchess ought—no more intrigues, no more scheming.”
“You cannot—” Venetia began in a shriek.
“I can. Unless you’d prefer I call in your debts immediately? I purchased them all yesterday. Fascinating how eager your creditors were to sell.” His smile was winter cold. “Choose quickly, my dear. Comfortable captivity or social and financial ruin?”
Venetia looked around the room wildly, seeking support, but found only averted eyes and uncomfortable silence. Even her creatures, like Thompson, had stepped back, distancing themselves from her downfall.
“This is not finished,” she hissed at Marianne.
“It is,” Marianne said quietly.
At that moment, something remarkable happened. Lady Thornton stepped forward, then Mrs Thompson, then a handful of other guests, creating an unspoken ring of support around Marianne and Catherine. No declarations were needed—their solidarity spoke plainly: Venetia stood alone.
“I believe you have packing to supervise, my dear,” Worthington observed mildly. “The carriage will be ready at first light.”
Venetia fled, her skirts a swish of fury. The room waited a heartbeat, then burst into excited chatter.
“Well!” Lady Thornton fanned herself with theatrical relish. “Much more diverting than cards, I dare say.”
“Your Grace,” Mrs Thompson approached Marianne, voice small with contrition. “We ought to have spoken sooner. We all knew what she was, but we were too timid to confront her.”
“Standing against someone with influence is never simple,” Marianne replied, measuring her words while noting, with the keen mind of a strategist, who had been willing to watch her burn and who had eventually offered support.
“Duchess.” Worthington hobbled over, his face creased in what might have been amusement. “I owe you gratitude. You’ve shown me exactly what I am to wed. Better to know now than be surprised later.”
“You’ll still marry her?”
“Oh yes.” He tapped her hand with a papery finger. “Though now we proceed with eyes open. At my age, even a viper in the bed is preferable to an empty one—at least it’s interesting.”
Before Marianne could compose an answer to that disconcerting philosophy, Adrian was at her side.
“We’re leaving,” he said quietly. “Tonight.”
“Adrian—”
“Please.” The word was rough, urgent. “I need to get you and Catherine away from here.”
She looked into his eyes and saw the storm there—not merely anger, but a tide of protection and shame and barely controlled ferocity.
“One hour,” she agreed. “Let me help Catherine pack.”
The next hour became a blur. Sarah and Adrian’s valet worked at astonishing speed, trunks filling as if by enchantment. Catherine moved like someone still half in a dream, repeating over and over, “I stood up to her. I actually stood up to her.”
“You were magnificent,” Marianne assured her, folding a lavender gown. “You found your voice at the right moment.”
“Adrian will be horrified,” Catherine fretted. “Everything spilled—our family affairs, our past.”
“Adrian is proud of you,” Marianne said. “Both of us are.”
As they prepared to depart, various guests approached with quiet words of support or approval. Lady Thornton pressed Marianne’s hand with genuine warmth. Even Colonel Morrison offered gruff congratulations on “routing the enemy.”
But it was Worthington who provided the final surprise. As their carriage was being loaded, he appeared with a leather portfolio.
“Harrowmere,” he said to Adrian. “I believe you should have these.”
Adrian opened it, his expression darkening as he scanned the contents. “These are—”
