"Richard," Genevieve said. Her voice cut through the dim room, steady and hard.
Richard held his cousin-in-law pinned, his knuckles turning white from the strain. He looked at Genevieve over his shoulder.
She stepped out of the shadows, the heavy velvet gown sweeping across the floor. She walked until she was mere inches from Gregory's pale, sweating face. She did not look like a victim. She looked like a judge.
"You paid a man to cut the helmsman's throat," Genevieve stated. She reached out and grasped Gregory's chin with her rough, calloused hand, forcing him to look at her. He flinched at the abrasive texture of her skin. "I saw the blood. I smelled the smoke before the hull splintered. You wanted me to burn before I drowned, didn't you? So there would be no recognizable face if I washed ashore."
Gregory was shaking violently. "No, no, I—"
"Who did you pay?" Genevieve interrupted, her grip tightening on his jaw, her thumb pressed deliberately into the soft flesh of his cheek. "Tell me his name, or Richard will break your neck right here in the foyer, and Caldwell will bury you in the woods. No one knows you are here. No one will ever look for you."
"Your men," Gregory babbled, looking frantically at Hail. "He has men outside—"
"Your carriage driver took a pouch of silver from my steward 10 minutes ago and rode off on one of the carriage horses," Hail said gruffly, not lowering the pistol. "You are entirely alone, Lord Gregory. Now answer the Duchess."
The last remnants of Gregory's aristocratic pride fractured. The reality of the cold, dark estate, the locked gates, and the sheer, unadulterated violence radiating from Richard finally broke him.
"It was a dockmaster!" Gregory shrieked, tears of sheer panic welling in his eyes. He squeezed them shut. "A man in York! His name was Cobb! I gave him a thousand pounds! He said he would handle the crew! He swore it would look like the storm took the ship! I didn't want you to suffer, Genevieve, I swear it! I just needed the debts cleared!"
Silence fell over the drawing room. Only the howling of the wind outside filled the void.
Hail slowly lowered the hammer of his pistol with a dull click. "A thousand pounds to murder an entire crew and your own cousin. That is a confession of conspiracy, Lord Gregory, heard by a magistrate of the crown."
Richard stared at the sniveling man in his grasp. The urge to close his hands around Gregory's throat and squeeze until the life left his eyes was a physical ache in his chest. It would be so easy. A few seconds of pressure and 7 years of agony would be avenged.
He felt a hand on his arm.
Genevieve was standing beside him. She wasn't looking at Gregory anymore. She was looking at Richard. Her hazel eyes were wide, pleading silently. She hadn't survived a shipwreck and 7 years of brutal labor just to watch her husband hang for murder.
Richard exhaled a long, ragged breath. His hands relaxed. He stepped back, letting Gregory slump against the door, coughing and gasping for air.
"Get him out of my sight," Richard said softly.
Hail gestured to the dark corridor. The two massive gamekeepers stepped into the light. They grabbed Gregory by the arms, dragging him to his feet. He did not fight them. He was entirely limp, weeping openly as they hauled him toward the back of the house to wait for the constable's wagon.
The heavy doors clicked shut, leaving Richard and Genevieve alone in the drawing room.
The adrenaline evaporated, leaving behind a profound, bone-deep exhaustion. Genevieve swayed slightly. The heavy velvet gown suddenly felt like a suit of armor she could no longer support. She walked back to the wing chair and collapsed into it, staring blindly at the dying embers in the hearth.
Richard moved to the mantelpiece. He picked up his forgotten glass of scotch. His hand was trembling. He drank it straight down, relishing the burn in his throat.
He looked across the dim room at his wife. The ghost was gone. The scullery maid was gone. What remained was a woman forged in salt water and sheer will. She was scarred. She was hardened. And she was the most breathtaking thing he had ever seen.
He walked over and knelt beside her chair, just as he had hours before. This time he didn't grab her hands. He gently pushed a stray lock of dark hair behind her ear. His fingers traced the jagged line of the scar on her jaw, reverent and slow.
"It's over," he whispered.
Genevieve leaned her cheek into his palm. A single tear slipped down her face, cleaning a clean line over the scarred tissue. She let out a breath she felt she had been holding for 7 years.
"I am so tired, Richard."
"I know."
He gathered her carefully into his arms, lifting her from the chair. She buried her face in the crook of his neck, her hands gripping the lapels of his coat, exactly as they had when they were first married. He carried her out of the shadows, walking toward the stairs.
"Let's go home."
The ghost of Ashbourne Hall was finally laid to rest, not in an empty mahogany casket, but in the ashes of Gregory's ruined pride.