Caldwell, wearing his stiffest formal livery, opened the heavy front doors. Through the ajar drawing room door, Richard heard the sharp, imperious voice he had despised for years.
"I demand to see the Duke immediately," Gregory snapped. He sounded wet, cold, and profoundly irritated. "Do you have any idea what time it is, man? Take my coat."
"His Grace is expecting you in the drawing room, Lord Gregory," Caldwell replied, his tone perfectly flat.
Footsteps echoed on the marble floor. The drawing room door swung open, and Gregory strode in.
He was a slender man in his early 40s, dressed in the height of London fashion, though his coat was currently dripping water onto the Persian rug. He had a sharp, ferret-like face, pale skin, and restless eyes that immediately began darting around the dim room.
"Richard," Gregory said, attempting a smile that did not reach his eyes. "A terribly dramatic summons, and an awful night for travel. I must say your letter was entirely baffling. A vagrant claiming to be poor Genevieve. Really, Richard, you shouldn't entertain such crude extortion attempts. You should have simply handed her over to the local constable."
Richard did not move from the fireplace. He swirled the scotch in his glass. "I prefer to handle it myself, Gregory, given the nature of her claims."
Gregory scoffed, pulling off his damp leather gloves. "Claims? What possible claims could a madwoman make? She wants money, obviously. These people always do. Tell me you have her locked in a cellar somewhere. I brought two of my own men to escort her to the asylum. It's the most humane solution."
"She is not in the cellar," Richard said softly.
"No." Gregory stepped closer to the fire, shivering slightly. "Well, where is the wretched creature? Let us look at her. I assure you, I can identify my own cousin's corpse-like imitator in a matter of seconds. Then we can be done with this absurd business."
"I am right here, Gregory."
The voice came from the deep shadows of the corner. It was calm. It was raspy. It carried the unmistakable, biting cadence of the St. Claire family.
Gregory froze. The color drained from his face so rapidly he looked like a wax figure. He slowly turned his head toward the wing chair.
Genevieve leaned forward, the dying light of the coals illuminating her face. She did not smile. She looked at him with the cold, dead eyes of a ghost.
"Hello, cousin," she whispered.
Gregory stumbled backward, his heel catching on the edge of the rug. He grabbed the back of a sofa to steady himself. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. He stared at the dark velvet gown, at the shape of her face, and finally at the jagged pink scar cutting across her jawline.
"It's a trick," Gregory choked out. His voice was shrill, panicked. He looked wildly at Richard. "It is a trick! You found a whore in the stews who looks like her! You dressed her up!"
"I assure you, I am quite real," Genevieve said, standing up slowly. The heavy velvet rustled in the quiet room. "Though I suppose it is a shock. You paid a premium to ensure I wouldn't survive that voyage to York. The helmsman's throat was cut quite expertly."
Gregory's breath was coming in short, erratic gasps. His eyes darted toward the door, evaluating his escape.
"You're mad," Gregory stammered, pointing a shaking finger at her. "Both of you. She drowned. I read the inquest."
"She survived," Richard said, his voice dropping to a lethal register. He set his glass down on the mantelpiece. "She survived, and she walked the coastline, and she hid from you for 7 years. Tell me, Gregory, how much did it cost? How much to sabotage a ship and murder a crew just to clear your gambling debts?"
"I did nothing!" Gregory shouted, his aristocratic veneer shattering entirely. He backed away towards the door. "This is extortion! I will have my solicitors destroy you! I will have you both committed!"
He spun around to leave, reaching for the brass door handle.
The library door suddenly burst open. Magistrate Hail stepped out from behind the velvet drapes, a heavy flintlock pistol held steadily in his right hand.
"I don't think you will be seeing your solicitors anytime soon, my lord," Hail said, cocking the hammer. The sharp click echoed in the silence.
Gregory stopped dead, his hand hovering over the doorknob. He looked at the magistrate, then back at Richard, who was now walking slowly toward him. The trap had closed.
Gregory pressed his back flat against the heavy oak door. The brass handle dug into his spine. He stared at the dark, yawning barrel of Magistrate Hail's pistol, then shifted his terrified gaze to Richard. The Duke of Ashbourne was not holding a weapon, but the look in his flat, slate-gray eyes was far more lethal than the flintlock.
"You have no proof," Gregory whispered. His voice was a pathetic, greedy squeak. "A magistrate hiding in the curtains. It is a farce—the word of a disgraced noble and a madwoman against a lord of the realm. No court will hear it."
"I am not interested in a court, Gregory," Richard said. He closed the distance between them in two long strides. He did not yell. He did not strike him. He simply reached out, grabbed the lapels of Gregory's sodden, expensive wool coat, and slammed him against the wood.
The impact rattled the hinges. Gregory let out a sharp gasp, his polished boots scraping uselessly against the marble floor as Richard lifted him an inch off the ground.