"You will learn." Edith's voice finally broke, rising into a shrill, panicked cry. "Lord Croft's solicitor sent a letter this morning. I didn't tell you because I didn't want to ruin your nerves. They are foreclosing on the Yorkshire estate on the 1st of November. We have 3 weeks, Rosalind. 3 weeks before we are living in a boarding house in Cheapside, sewing shirts for a penny a piece. He has to choose you."
Nora felt the blood drain from her face. 3 weeks. The walls of the room seemed to rush inward. She looked down at the mud on her hands. She thought of Nathaniel's face in the rain, the desperate intensity in his eyes. Let me worry about Lord Croft.
He didn't understand. A duke didn't understand the crushing, breathless terror of poverty. He could wave away a £20,000 debt because he had land to borrow against. The Montgomerys had nothing. If Nathaniel chose Nora, he chose a penniless girl with no dowry, and her family would be thrown to the wolves. Society would not tolerate a duke bailing out his mother-in-law's gambling debts. It was scandalous. It was social suicide.
"I will not go down to dinner," Nora said. Her voice sounded hollow, belonging to someone else. "I will not attend the ball tonight. I will pack my trunks. Tell him I left. Tell him I was a passing fancy."
Edith stopped pacing. She looked at Nora, a brutal calculation happening behind her eyes. "Yes," Edith said coldly. "You will stay in this room. You will not open the door. If he asks for you, you are severely ill with a fever. Tomorrow you will take the mail coach back to Yorkshire. Alone."
Nora nodded numbly. She walked to the washbasin, breaking the thin crust of ice that had formed on the pitcher's surface, and began to scrub the mud from her skin. The water stung her scrapes, but she welcomed the pain. It was grounding. It was real.
Downstairs, in the heavy oak-paneled sanctuary of the Duke's study, Nathaniel Reed was not thinking about the ball. He sat behind his massive desk, his wet hair dripping onto the leather blotter. He had not changed his clothes. The fire roaring in the hearth was doing little to combat the damp chill in his bones, but he didn't care.
Mr. Finch, his solicitor, sat opposite him, looking thoroughly distressed. Finch was a small, nervous man who thrived on order, and his employer was currently radiating chaos.
"You wish to do what? Your grace?" Finch asked, adjusting his spectacles as if he had misheard.
"I wish to purchase the debt of the late Lord Montgomery," Nathaniel repeated, his voice low and dangerous. "All of it. Held currently by Lord Croft."
Finch blinked rapidly. "Your grace, that debt is substantial. Croft has already initiated foreclosure proceedings on the Yorkshire property, and if I may be so bold, the Aldridge estate accounts are not exactly flush with liquid capital at this precise moment. We are trying to secure credit, not expend it on charitable ventures."
"It is not charity. It is an acquisition." Nathaniel pulled the green leather ledger toward him, picking up a pen. He didn't bother dipping it in ink. He just turned it between his long fingers. "Croft is a leech. He wants the Yorkshire estate for the timber. Offer him a 20% premium on the debt. Cash. He will take it."
"Cash from where? Your grace."
"Sell the London townhouse," Nathaniel ordered without hesitating.
Finch gasped. Actually gasped. "The Mayfair property? Your grace, that has been in your family for four generations. It is your foothold in London society."
"I despise London society," Nathaniel snarled, slamming the pen down on the desk. The sharp crack made Finch jump. "I despise the soot. I despise the gossips. And I despise the fact that I am sitting in a house full of people who are weighing my net worth while eating my food. Sell the damn townhouse, Finch. Buy the Montgomery debt, and draft a settlement."
"A marriage settlement?" Finch asked weakly, reaching for a fresh sheet of parchment. "For the eldest Miss Montgomery? Rosalind, I believe."
"No," Nathaniel said, leaning back in his chair. He looked toward the window where the rain was lashing against the glass. "For Nora."
Finch's pen paused. "The... the younger one?"
"The one who fell in the mud. The one who knows how to bail water," Nathaniel corrected softly. "Have the papers ready by 8:00 tonight."
The Aldridge Grand Ballroom was a spectacle of light and sound. Three immense crystal chandeliers cast a brilliant, warm glow over the polished parquet floor. A string quartet played a lively waltz from the gallery above. The women, having recovered from the afternoon's disaster, were resplendent in jewels and rich silks, their smiles firmly fixed back in place.
Lady Edith stood near the punch bowl, vibrating with nervous energy. Rosalind stood beside her in a breathtaking gown of deep crimson silk, looking like a queen holding court. She was flawless.
There was only one problem. The Duke was missing.
It was 9:00. The ball had commenced an hour ago, and the host had yet to make an appearance. Whispers were beginning to ripple through the crowd, hiding behind feathered fans and polite coughs.
Up in the north wing, the music was nothing but a faint rhythmic thumping through the floorboards. Nora sat on the floor near the window of the guest chamber, her knees pulled to her chest. She had packed her small trunk. It sat by the door, a tragic battered thing holding three worn dresses and a handful of books. The fire had died down to glowing embers. She hadn't bothered to add more coal.
She was tired. A deep, bone-weary exhaustion had settled over her, heavier than the physical ache of her bruised ribs and scraped knees. She had done the right thing. She had removed herself from the board. Rosalind would shine tonight. The Duke would realize his momentary lapse of judgment in the rain, and the natural order of the universe would be restored.
If I ask you to stay behind the curtain with me, will you stay?