“I will be direct,” he said. “I know about the pamphlets.”
Lady Stapleton’s expression did not change. “I am afraid I do not know what you mean, Your Grace.”
“The forged Lady Fairhart scandal sheets. The first, distributed at the Fenwick ball. The second was delivered three nights ago. Both printed with German ink on English paper, commissioned through a printshop in Leipzig that was conveniently emptied before my investigators arrived.” He held her gaze. “One of your delivery men was caught. He told us everything.”
The composure held for three seconds. Then it cracked. Lady Stapleton’s jaw tightened, and a word escaped under her breath that no Viscountess should have known, let alone spoken in the presence of a Duke.
“He was supposed to be discreet,” she said.
“He was supposed to be invisible. But you paid him five pounds and sent him out in the middle of the night. He was caught, and he talked.” Hugo took a step closer. “Did you think I would not find you?”
Lady Stapleton’s chin lifted. The fear that had flashed across her face hardened into something colder. Defiance.
“What I did, I did for my daughter. Beatrice deserved a chance to see Lord Wilfrey, and your fiancée was standing in her way. My ambitions are for my daughter’s future. You would do the same.”
“I would never fabricate scandal sheets and forge another woman’s name to trap an innocent person. That is not ambition, Lady Stapleton. That is malice.”
She opened her mouth to respond. Hugo cut her off.
“I have spent several days investigating you. Not just the pamphlets. Everything.” He reached into his coat and withdrew a folded sheet of paper. He did not hand it to her. He held it between his fingers, visible but out of reach. “I know about your husband’s debts to the gaming houses on Jermyn Street. I know about the forged letter of credit he used to secure the lease on this house. I know about the money he borrowed from Lord Harrington under false pretenses, and I know that Harrington has been looking for a reason to call in the debt.”
The color drained from Lady Stapleton’s face. Her hands, which had been clasped in front of her, dropped to her sides.
“If another pamphlet appears, if another forged word is printed under Lady Fairhart’s name, if so much as a whisper reaches me that you have attempted to harm Lady Lily or anyone connected to her, I will ensure that every detail on this paper reaches every drawing room, every gentleman’s club, and every newspaper in London.” Hugo’s voice was quiet. Controlled. Absolute. “Your husband’s reputation will be destroyed. Your family’s credit will collapse. And the doors that are currently open to Miss Stapleton will close so fast she will not hear them shut.”
Lady Stapleton’s breathing had changed. Her chest rose and fell with a rapid, shallow rhythm.
“You are threatening me.”
“I am informing you of the consequences.”
Silence stretched between them. The sitting room clock ticked. A carriage passed in the street outside, and the sound of hooves on cobblestones drifted through the window.
“What do you want?” Lady Stapleton’s voice was tight.
“You will remain in London until Miss Stapleton is married. You will conduct yourself with impeccable propriety. You will not approach Lady Lily, you will not approach the Readthorpe family, and you will not publish, distribute, or commission any material bearing Lady Fairhart’s name or any other pseudonym. Once Miss Stapleton is settled, you will leave London. Permanently.”
“Permanently? You cannot expect me to…”
“I can. And I do.” He held the folded paper up. “Unless you would prefer the alternative.”
Lady Stapleton stared at the paper. Hugo watched the fight drain out of her, watched the defiance collapse into bitter resignation.
“Fine,” she said.
Hugo reached into his coat a second time and withdrew an envelope. He set it on the table between them.
“Two thousand pounds. Added to Miss Stapleton’s dowry. It should help expedite finding her a suitable match.”
Lady Stapleton looked at the envelope. Then she looked at Hugo. Her expression held something complicated. Not gratitude. Not quite hatred. Something in between.
“Your Grace…”
“Miss Stapleton had nothing to do with this,” Hugo said. “She should not pay for her mother’s sins.”
Lady Stapleton’s throat worked. She reached for the envelope and pressed it against her chest.
“Goodbye, Lady Stapleton.” Hugo inclined his head, crossed the sitting room, and let himself out without looking back.
