A sleek black carriage with a gold crest painted on the door pulled to a stop before the main entrance. A footman in pristine livery jumped down, opening the door. Out stepped a man who looked entirely out of place against the backdrop of Harrow Gate. He wore a tailored charcoal topcoat, a silk cravat, and polished leather boots that immediately sank half an inch into the mud. He looked around the decaying manor with a sneer of pure, unfiltered disgust.
This was Lord Charles Kenway.
Arthur emerged from the stables a moment later. He was carrying a pitchfork, his shirt sleeves rolled up, dirt smeared across his jaw. When he saw the carriage, he stopped dead. His grip on the pitchfork tightened until the wood groaned.
"Arthur!" Kenway called out, his voice sharp and carrying across the courtyard. He didn't walk toward Arthur; he expected Arthur to come to him. "Good God, man. I heard the rumors, but I assumed they were exaggerated. You look like a field hand."
Arthur handed the pitchfork to a bewildered stable boy they had hired two weeks prior. He walked slowly toward the carriage, his posture shifting, the relaxed, grounded man of the past few months instantly locking away.
"Charles," Arthur said, stopping a few feet away. "To what do I owe the displeasure? You are a long way from Mayfair."
"I was visiting my sister in York," Kenway said, pulling a silver cigar case from his pocket. "I thought I would survey my latest investment. I purchased the last of your promissory notes from the bank, Arthur. The debt is entirely mine now." He gestured lazily at the house. "I came to offer you a way out. Sign the estate over to me. I'll clear your name, give you a small stipend to live quietly in Scotland, and I'll tear this monstrosity down to build a proper summer home."
Beatrice felt the blood drain from her face. She stepped out from the shadows of the garden wall. Kenway caught the movement. His eyes snapped to her, dragging up and down her muddy dress, her apron, her unpinned hair. A slow, deeply unpleasant smile spread across his face.
"Ah," Kenway drawled, his tone dripping with venomous amusement. "I see you haven't lost all your appetites, Arthur, though your standards have plummeted. Tell me, does she charge by the hour, or do you just let her sleep in the house for the novelty of it?"
The silence that followed was absolute.
Beatrice braced herself. She waited for Arthur to look away. She waited for the Duke to emerge, to distance himself from the dirty housekeeper, to protect whatever shred of pride he had left in front of his peer. She had seen men cave to the pressure of society a hundred times before.
Arthur didn't look away. He didn't flinch.
He moved so fast that Kenway didn't even have time to step back. Arthur closed the distance between them, grabbed Kenway by the lapels of his expensive topcoat, and slammed him backward into the side of the carriage. The wood cracked. The horses whinnied in panic. The footman leaped forward, but froze when he saw the look in Arthur's eyes.