She set down the pen, read the letter through blurring vision, folded it carefully, her hands shaking, and then she burned it. The paper caught quickly, flames consuming her words, turning confession into ash. Emma watched it blacken and curl, watched her goodbye disappear into smoke, because she couldn't send it. Couldn't make that choice for him, no matter what she'd written. Couldn't rob him of his own agency the way the world had robbed him of everything else.
A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. Miss Emma? Sarah the maid peeked in. You have a caller. He says it's urgent. Emma's heart lurched. Who? Lord Thornhill, Miss. Not Charles. His friend. Emma's stomach knotted. Show him to the drawing room. I'll be down in a moment. She composed herself quickly, washing her face, pinning up her hair, trying to erase the evidence of tears.
When she descended, she found Benjamin Thornhill standing by the window, his expression grave. Lord Thornhill, Emma said quietly. This is unexpected. He turned. His kind eyes studied her carefully. Miss Ashford, thank you for seeing me. Is Charles, is he all right? Physically, yes. In every other way, Thornhill's expression darkened. No, he's not all right at all.
Emma's hands twisted in her skirt. What happened? He came to me last night, barely coherent. Said he couldn't do it anymore. Couldn't keep pretending. Couldn't, Thornhill stopped, his jaw tightening. He asked me to help him find a way out. Out of the engagement. Out of the debts. Out of the trap his father left him in.
Thornhill moved closer, his voice urgent. Miss Ashford, I've known Charles since we were boys. I've never seen him like this. He's breaking. And he's breaking because of you. The words hit like a physical blow. Emma stumbled back slightly, catching herself on a chair. I didn't mean, I never wanted, I know. Neither of you wanted this, but here we are.
Thornhill's expression softened. He loves you desperately. Completely. In a way I didn't think he was capable of loving after what his father did to him. That doesn't change reality, Emma whispered. Love doesn't pay debts. Doesn't feed tenants. Doesn't, what if it could? Emma looked up sharply. What?
What if there was another way? A solution that didn't require him to marry Beatrice. Hope. Dangerous, terrible hope sparked in Emma's chest. That's not possible. The debts are too large. The dowry is the only, is it? Thornhill pulled a document from his coat. I spent the last 3 days investigating the Winterborne finances. And I found something interesting.
He spread the paper on the table. Emma leaned forward, scanning the columns of numbers and names. What am I looking at? The debts. Or more accurately, where the debts came from. Thornhill's finger traced a line of entries. Charles's father was a gambling man, but he wasn't just losing at cards. He was being cheated systematically by the same group of men for over a decade.
Emma's eyes widened. That's fraud. Yes. Which means the debts aren't legally enforceable. Or at least not all of them. Thornhill looked at her intently. If we can prove the fraud, we can challenge the debts. Reduce them significantly. Maybe even eliminate some entirely. And then, and then Charles wouldn't need the Harrington dowry. He could break the engagement without destroying everyone who depends on him.