It was a death sentence. In three sentences, the Marquis had entirely obliterated Arlo's political career. The dream of Paris, the government stipend, the respect of the ton — all of it turned to ash.
"Genevieve," the Marquis said, his tone softening instantly as he turned back to her. He took her hand once more. "My dear, if this house ever becomes too small for your brilliance, there is a permanent suite waiting for you at Versailles. France does not forget her saviors."
"Thank you, Henri," she replied softly. "I will remember that."
The dinner ended abruptly. The dignitaries departed without shaking Arlo's hand. Lord Fitzroy didn't even look at the Duke as the footman handed him his coat. The humiliation was absolute, total, and irreversible.
When the massive front doors finally clicked shut, echoing through the empty marble foyer, Arlo snapped. He spun around, his face purple with rage, marching back into the dining room where Genevieve remained calmly seated at the head of the table, sipping the last of her wine. Sue lingered in the doorway, too terrified to enter, but too curious to flee.
"You witch," Arlo hissed, his voice shaking with a terrifying, unhinged fury. "You set this up. You made a fool of me. You let me believe you were an idiot just so you could humiliate me in front of the Prime Minister's secretary."
Genevieve set her crystal glass down. The soft clink rang out in the quiet room. She stood up, her midnight-blue velvet gown pooling around her. She didn't look like a country mouse anymore. She looked like a predator.
"I did not make a fool of you, Arlo," Genevieve said, her voice eerily calm. "I merely allowed you to display your own foolishness to the world. You set the trap with your mistress. You invited the guests. And you attempted to humiliate me. I simply refused to be the victim of your pathetic little play."
"You are my wife!" Arlo roared, slamming his fist onto the table, making the silverware rattle. "You are my property. I will send you to the farthest, rotting corner of Yorkshire. You will never see London society again."
Genevieve tilted her head, a cold, calculating smile playing on her lips. She walked slowly around the table, stopping just inches from him. Arlo was taller, but in that moment, he felt entirely dwarfed by the sheer force of her presence.
"You really are remarkably dull, Your Grace," she whispered. "Did you actually read the marriage contract your solicitor signed? Or were you too blinded by my father's money to look at the fine print?"
Arlo's breath hitched. A cold sweat broke out on the back of his neck. "What are you talking about? My father — my father knew exactly what kind of man you were."
Genevieve said smoothly, "A desperate, bankrupt aristocrat with a taste for gambling and painted mistresses. He bought your title for me, yes. But he did not give you his fortune." She reached into the bodice of her gown and extracted a folded piece of heavy parchment, dropping it onto the table in front of him. "The three hundred thousand pounds is held in a trust," Genevieve explained, her eyes locking onto his with ruthless precision. "A trust controlled entirely by me. The contract stipulates that your debts are paid and your estate is maintained. But your personal allowance, your gambling money, your club memberships, the rent on Lady Sue's townhouse — all of it is dispersed solely at my discretion."
Arlo stared at the parchment, his heart pounding a frantic, terrified rhythm against his ribs. He looked at Sue, who had suddenly gone very still in the doorway.
"You thought you were the master of this house," Genevieve continued, her voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "You thought you could mistreat me, mock me, and flaunt your mistress in my halls because you possessed a title. But a title is just ink on paper, Arlo. Gold is power, and I hold all the gold."
She turned slightly, casting a freezing glance at Lady Sue. "Lady Sue, you have until noon tomorrow to vacate the townhouse my money pays for. If you are still in London by nightfall, I will personally buy the promissory notes of every debt your late husband left behind, and have you thrown in the Fleet prison."
Sue let out a choked sob, turning and fleeing down the hallway, her silk skirts rustling frantically.
Arlo fell back into his chair, the remaining color draining from his face. He was ruined — not just politically, but financially. He was a prisoner in his own dukedom, entirely at the mercy of a woman he had relentlessly tormented.
"What — what are you going to do to me?" Arlo whispered, the arrogant duke completely broken, reduced to a terrified debtor.
Genevieve walked toward the double doors, pausing just beneath the grand crystal chandelier. "I am not going to send you to Yorkshire, Arlo," she said without looking back. "I am going to keep you exactly where you are. You will attend the balls, you will smile, and you will play the part of a devoted, respectful husband — and you will do it on a very, very tight budget." She opened the door, her silhouette framed by the dimly lit hallway. "Oh, and Arlo," she added, her tone dangerously light, "tomorrow you will arrange for a French tutor. It is terribly embarrassing for a duke to butcher the language so violently."
With that, the "uneducated" Duchess of Somerset walked away, leaving her husband sitting in the ruins of his pride, in a house he no longer truly owned.
And that is how a simple country girl orchestrated the greatest social execution in Regency history. Genevieve didn't just survive the venom of London's elite — she completely dismantled the Duke's life and took over his entire estate without shedding a single tear.