Beatrice sank slowly onto a chair, her triumph turned to ruin, while all around her, the county she had ruled with such cold certainty looked upon her at last and saw exactly what she was.
The capital glittered with frost. Months might have been needed to arrange such a thing, but Arthur had wasted none of them. Within the week, he had ridden to town, laid the ledger before three lords of the highest standing, and secured an invitation to the grandest gathering of the winter season.
The great gala was held each year in the marble halls of the assembly rooms, where all of fashionable society came to dance beneath a thousand candles. Lord Sterling would be there; Sterling was always there. For ten years, he had moved through these rooms as one of their brightest ornaments: rich, admired, his fortune the envy of every house. He did not know that his fortune had a name written against it in a dead man's hand.
Genevieve entered on Arthur's arm. She wore no longer the gray wool of a maid, but a gown of deep midnight blue—plain in its cut, yet fine in its making. And at her wrist, where once the frayed cuff had hidden it, the silver larks and thorns of Crestwood were embroidered openly for all to see.
Heads turned as she passed. Word had traveled from the county, as such word did, and the room buzzed with it: the ruined house, the hidden daughter, the ledger that had surfaced after ten years of silence.
Sterling was holding court near the great fireplace, a glass in his hand, a circle of admirers about him. He was a large, florid man of fifty, with a loud laugh and an easy manner, and he had grown so comfortable in his stolen prosperity that he had quite forgotten to be afraid.
Arthur crossed the floor toward him, Genevieve at his side, and the crowd seemed to part before them. A hush spread out in rings, conversations dying as people turned to watch.
"Lord Sterling," Arthur said.
"Your Grace!" Sterling inclined his head, smiling. "A pleasure. I had heard you were in town." His eyes fell upon Genevieve, and something in his smile faltered, for she had her father's face, and he had known her father well. "And this lady... forgive me, have we met?"
"You knew her father," Arthur said. "Lord Crestwood."