"Three days for what?" Norah demanded, stepping forward as the horse shifted.
"To tear it all down," Henry said. He turned the horse and spurred it into a gallop, riding back toward the estate he had just claimed he was going to destroy, leaving Norah standing alone in the dust.
The room at The Boar and Whistle smelled of beeswax, old smoke, and the faint sour ghost of spilled ale. It was small, tucked under the eaves of the roof, with a single window that looked out over the muddy main street of the village.
For two days, Norah had listened to the rain lash against the leaded glass. The innkeeper, a wide-hipped woman named Mrs. Higgins, had asked no questions when Norah arrived, dripping wet and shivering. The Duke's gold coin, handed to the woman by a taciturn groom an hour prior, had purchased absolute discretion and a tin tub of hot water.
But hot water did not wash away reality. Norah paced the slanted floorboards. Three steps to the wall, turn. Three steps to the bed, turn. She had washed her morning dress in the basin and hung it to dry, spending the first day wrapped in a scratchy wool blanket. She felt like a ghost haunting her own life.
Give me three days.
The words echoed in her skull, alternating between a promise and a cruel joke. Aristocrats did not tear down their lives for disgraced companions. They married their wealthy, vicious brides, secured their estates, and occasionally kept a mistress in a discreet townhouse. Henry was a man trapped in a gilded cage of his own making. He might have rattled the bars on the road, but men like him didn't break the locks. They had too much to lose.
By the morning of the third day, the rain stopped, leaving the village steeped in a thick, clinging fog. Norah dressed. The black gown was stiff from the soap, the collar scratching her neck. She walked downstairs to the taproom. The morning crowd was sparse: a few farmers drinking small beer, a merchant complaining about the roads. The chatter died the moment her boot hit the bottom stair. Norah kept her spine rigid. She walked to the counter.
"Mrs. Higgins, I require a seat on the mail coach to London tomorrow morning."
The innkeeper wiped a rag across the scarred wood, not meeting Norah's eyes. "Coach is full, Miss Lynfield."
"It is a Tuesday. The coach is never full on a Tuesday."
Mrs. Higgins sighed. A heavy, tired sound. She leaned over the bar. "Word came down from the Penhalagon estate yesterday noon. The steward himself rode through. 'Anyone who aids you, hires you, or transports you loses the Penhalagon business.' I took the Duke's coin for your room, and I'll honor the three nights. But I can't sell you a ticket. I have a family to feed."
The trap had sprung. Victoria had not merely fired her. She was starving her out. It was a sterile, bloodless execution.
"I understand," Norah said. Her voice did not shake. She would not give them the satisfaction of a tremor.
She turned and walked back up the stairs. In her room, she sat on the edge of the narrow bed and opened her canvas satchel. She counted her coins. She had enough to walk to the next county and buy perhaps four loaves of bread. She would leave at dawn. She did not need a carriage, and she certainly did not need a duke. She was Norah Lynfield. She had survived cold houses, cruel aunts, and the bottom of a lake. She would survive the road.
She spent the rest of the day packing her meager belongings, folding the damp towel, ignoring the hard, tight knot of betrayal forming in her chest as the sun began to set on the third day. He was not coming. She was angry at herself for ever believing he would.
Henry sat in the leather wingback chair in Lord Richard Penhalagon's private study. He did not lean back. His posture was impeccable, his expression entirely devoid of emotion. Across the mahogany desk, Richard's face was the color of a bruised plum. Victoria stood by the fireplace, her hands twisted in the silk of her skirt, her pale eyes darting frantically between her father and her fiance.
"You are breaking the contract," Richard spat, slamming a fist onto the desk. The crystal inkwell rattled. "Over a clumsy servant? Over a hysterical misunderstanding by a pond? You are making a mockery of both our houses, Rothford."
"I am breaking the contract," Henry said, his voice quiet, "because the contract stipulates that the Penhalagon estate holds unencumbered deeds to the Cornwall mines. My solicitors spent the last 48 hours examining those deeds. They are heavily mortgaged to a bank in Geneva."
Richard's face drained of color. The violent purple faded into a sickly, chalky white.
Henry steepled his fingers. He had not slept in two days. He had ridden his horse halfway to death, reached his own estate, summoned his men of business, and tore through the financial agreements with a vicious, meticulous hunger. He had been looking for a crack in the foundation. He found a sinkhole.
"You lied, Richard," Henry continued, his tone conversational. "You presented an illusion of immense wealth to secure a ducal title for your daughter. In reality, you are three bad harvests away from debtor's prison. The dowry you promised does not exist."
"Henry, please." Victoria stepped forward, her voice trembling. The aristocratic mask had shattered, revealing the desperate, frightened girl underneath. "It was a mistake. My father was going to tell you—"
"Do not speak to me," Henry said. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't even look at her. But the absolute zero temperature of his command struck Victoria like a physical blow. She recoiled, pressing her back against the marble mantelpiece.
"The servant," Richard choked out, trying to rally. "This is about the companion. You are using the mines as an excuse."
"The mines are the legal mechanism," Henry corrected smoothly. He stood up. He buttoned his coat. An agonizingly slow, deliberate movement. "The reason is that your daughter is a cruel, petty creature who lacks the basic humanity I require in a wife. She pushed a woman into a lake to drown because of her own profound insecurity."
"She is a nobody!" Victoria shrieked, the panic finally giving way to venom. "She is a penniless companion! You would throw away a dukedom's alliance for a gray mouse who cleans my shoes?"
Henry finally looked at her. "She looked death in the face and walked away with her spine straight. You would weep if you broke a fingernail. You are not her equal, Victoria, and you will certainly never be mine."