"They are terrified of you," Rowan murmured, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear as he led her onto the floor for the opening Viennese waltz.
"They are terrified of the unknown," Beatatrice corrected smoothly, her body swaying in perfect, hypnotic rhythm with his. "They thought you bought a victim. They are realizing you married a sovereign."
The dance floor cleared a path for them. Rowan felt a fierce, unexpected surge of pride. He was a man who conquered everything he touched. Yet here he was, willingly surrendering to the dark gravity of a girl who had held a blade to his throat, metaphorically and physically.
As the music faded, Lord Richard Danbury approached them. Danbury was a notoriously arrogant man, a political rival who despised Rowan's influence in Parliament. He held a glass of champagne, a sneer playing on his flushed face.
"Alvington," Danbury drawled loudly, ensuring the surrounding aristocrats could hear. "What a surprise to see you here, and with the lovely Winthrop girl. Tell me, Your Grace, did Lord Winthrop's creditors accept your gold gracefully, or did you have to pry them off his neck yourself?"
A collective gasp rippled through the onlookers. It was a direct, unforgivable insult aimed at Beatatrice's scandalous lineage. Rowan's jaw clenched, his hands balling into fists, ready to publicly break Danbury's jaw. Before Rowan could move, Beatatrice stepped forward. Her voice was like crushed ice.
"My father's debts are a matter of public record, Lord Danbury," Beatatrice said smoothly, smiling a terrifyingly calm smile. "Unlike your private ventures along the Cornish coast. Tell me, does the crown know you are moving untaxed French brandy through the hidden coves of Penzance? Or should I ask the magistrate to inspect the holds of your merchant vessels currently docked in Bristol?"
Danbury's sneer vanished instantly. The champagne glass trembled in his hand, spilling pale liquid onto his polished shoes. He turned the color of old parchment, stammering incoherently before bowing stiffly and practically running toward the exit.
Rowan stared at his wife, a dark, primal heat flooding his veins. She had not just defended him; she had eviscerated his rival, using intelligence gathered from the darkest corners of the underworld. He grabbed her hand, pulling her away from the prying eyes, dragging her out onto the moonlit stone balcony overlooking Hyde Park. He pinned her against the cold stone balustrade, his chest heaving, entirely abandoning his aristocratic restraint. He leaned in, his lips hovering dangerously close to hers.
"You are a magnificent, terrifying creature, Beatatrice. How did you know about Danbury's smuggling?"
Beatatrice looked up at him, her dark eyes flashing in the moonlight. "Gable's network sees everything, Rowan. I told you I was not idle in the slums."
Suddenly, the heavy glass doors of the balcony opened. A liveried footman stepped out looking deeply uncomfortable. He carried a silver tray. Resting on the polished metal was a single thick black envelope sealed with dark crimson wax. The seal bore the impression of a labyrinth.
Beatatrice's breath hitched. It was the first time Rowan had seen her lose her iron composure. The blood drained from her face as she stared at the envelope. Rowan took the letter, flipping it over.
"Who gave this to you?" he snapped at the footman.
"A beggar boy at the kitchen doors, Your Grace. He said it was a matter of life and death for the Duchess."
Rowan tore open the seal. Inside was a single piece of heavy parchment and a tarnished brass coin, the currency of the Spitalfields rookeries. The handwriting was sharp and violently aggressive.
"Did you truly think I would let my greatest masterpiece walk away without paying her rent? The West Indies shipping manifests are a lovely secret, Your Grace. I want half the profits by the end of the month. Or the crown gets the ledgers and I take my girl back to the shadows. - J. Gable."
Rowan's blood turned to ice. He looked up from the letter to see Beatatrice gripping the stone balustrade, genuine fear finally fracturing her mask. The shadow king of London had not just forged her into a weapon. He had kept the leash. Josiah Gable was coming for both of them.
Rowan stepped forward, abandoning his anger. He reached out, taking Beatatrice's trembling face in his large, warm hands, his storm-gray eyes burning with a fierce, dangerous, protective instinct.
"He thinks he can take you from me," Rowan whispered, the realization cementing a terrifying, unbreakable bond between them. "He thinks he can break my empire. He doesn't know what happens when you corner a Montgomery."
Beatatrice looked up at him, the hardened survivor from the slums, finally finding an equal predator. "Then we are going to war, husband."