"My father was Arthur Harrington," Beatrice said, her voice rising, trembling with a fury she could no longer contain. She stood to face him, refusing to yield an inch of ground. "He was a good man. A proud man. He borrowed a modest sum to improve our tenant farms, a debt he could easily manage. But the Lombard syndicate bought that debt. They changed the terms. They buried him in legal threats and impossible demands until his heart simply gave out from the terror of it. You killed him, Duke. You and your syndicate murdered my father just as surely as if you had put a pistol to his chest."
Richard looked at her, his expression unreadable. For a long moment, he simply stared into her blazing hazel eyes. Then he looked down at the ring on his finger.
"Arthur Harrington," he repeated softly, testing the weight of the name. He looked back up, his winter-storm eyes locking onto hers. "I did not kill your father, Miss Harrington."
"Do not lie to me!" she hissed, stepping closer. "I saw the letters! I saw the wax seals! That ring—"
"That ring," Richard interrupted, his voice cutting through her rage like a steel blade, "belongs to a man I have spent the last eight months hunting across the length and breadth of this wretched country. It is the seal of a traitor."
Beatrice froze, the breath catching in her throat. She stared at him, bewildered. "What?"
Richard let out a harsh, bitter laugh. He tossed the heavy leather satchel onto the oak table. It landed with a dull thud.
"You believe I am the architect of your ruin," he said, stepping into the dim pool of candlelight. "But the truth, Miss Harrington, is far more dangerous. Open the satchel."
Beatrice looked from the Duke's hardened face to the heavy leather bag resting on her table. Her heart pounded a frantic rhythm against her ribs. The storm outside seemed to crescendo, a violent accompaniment to the tension vibrating in the small room.
With trembling fingers, she reached out and unfastened the brass buckles. Inside were stacks of thick parchment bound in red ribbon. She pulled out the top bundle and unfolded the crisp pages.
The names written there made her gasp. They were high-ranking members of Parliament, wealthy magistrates, and powerful industrialists. Next to their names were staggering sums of money and detailed notes regarding the purchase of foreclosed estates, including Oak Haven.
"I am not the head of the Lombard syndicate," Richard said quietly, standing close behind her. His presence was a solid, undeniable weight in the room. "I am its executioner. Three years ago, my former steward and a faction of corrupt investors stole my secondary seal. They used my wealth and my name to build a shadow empire, ruining innocent families like yours to consolidate land and power across the north. They are using this stolen wealth to fund the very Luddite rebellions the Crown is desperately trying to crush. They are manufacturing a war to profit from the ashes."
Beatrice stared at the documents, her mind spinning. The man she had hated for years, the phantom who had haunted her nightmares, was not Richard Fitzroy. It was a faceless cabal that Richard himself was trying to destroy.
"The warrants in that satchel," Richard continued, his voice grim, "are authorized by Viscount Castlereagh himself. They are the death warrants for the leaders of the syndicate. I was en route to York to deliver them to the military garrison when the carriage crashed." He paused, and the silence stretched tight. "Only..." Richard murmured, his eyes narrowing as he looked toward the heavily bolted door, "...I no longer believe the crash was an accident."
Beatrice turned to him, the parchment crinkling in her grip. "What do you mean? Your coachman is a veteran of the Peninsular War. He is the finest driver in London."
"The axle of my carriage did not simply snap under the strain of the mud," Richard said, his tone deadly calm. "It was sawed halfway through before we left the posting inn at Leeds. We were sabotaged. They knew I had the warrants. They knew my route."
A sudden, sharp chill washed over Beatrice that had nothing to do with the drafty farmhouse. If the Duke's carriage had been intentionally sabotaged, it meant the syndicate's men were following him. It meant they were out there in the storm.
As if summoned by the very thought, Barnaby, the elderly mastiff, suddenly let out a low, vicious growl from his spot by the hearth. The dog's hackles raised, his blind eyes fixed on the heavy oak door.
Beatrice and Richard froze.
Beneath the roaring wind and the driving rain, another sound emerged. It was faint, but distinct: the heavy, rhythmic crunch of boots on the gravel path. Several pairs of boots.
"They have found us," Richard whispered, his hand instinctively dropping to his hip, only to find empty air. His pistols were still in the overturned carriage. He was entirely unarmed.
The Duke of Stanhope, a man who commanded armies of political influence, was suddenly reduced to a defenseless target in a remote farmhouse. He cursed viciously under his breath, looking around the humble room for a weapon—a fire poker, a carving knife, anything.
He turned to Beatrice, expecting to see a woman paralyzed by terror. Instead, he saw the sovereign of the moors.