The seven-year-old girl who'd promised to marry a duke would finally get her wish. Just not in any way the world expected.
January 11th, 1857. Morning. Charles arrived at the Harrington Townhouse at precisely 9:00. Early enough to be insulting. Late enough to be deliberate. He had barely slept. Had spent the night pacing his study, rehearsing what he'd say, how he'd say it, preparing for the explosion he knew was coming. But with dawn had come clarity. He was done pretending.
The butler showed him to the morning room where Beatrice sat having breakfast, looking perfectly composed in pale pink silk. She smiled when she saw him, a smile that didn't reach her eyes. Charles, this is unexpected. We're not scheduled to meet until Thursday. We need to talk. He remained standing, his posture rigid. Privately, Beatrice's smile tightened. She waved a hand, dismissing the servants. The door clicked shut, leaving them alone.
Well, she said, her tone light but wary. You look positively grim. Has something happened? You went to Emma. Beatrice's expression didn't change. Ah. So she told you. No. You did. Yesterday. To Ben. You told him you'd solved my little problem. Charles's hands curled into fists. You offered her money to leave.
I offered her an opportunity. Beatrice set down her teacup with deliberate care. A chance to start fresh somewhere she wouldn't be reminded daily of what she can't have. I thought it was generous. You thought it was manipulation. I thought it was practical. Beatrice stood, moving around the table toward him. Charles, be reasonable. That girl has no place in your life. She's a distraction. A complication. I was trying to spare you both unnecessary pain by bribing her to disappear.
By offering her a dignified exit? Beatrice's eyes hardened. What did you expect me to do? Stand by while you pined after some childhood fantasy? While you made us both look ridiculous. I was never asked you to interfere. You didn't have to. I could see it in your face every time you looked at her. Every time you thought I wasn't watching. Beatrice stepped closer, her voice dropping. You're in love with her. Don't insult my intelligence by denying it.
Charles met her gaze steadily. I'm not going to deny it. Something flickered in Beatrice's expression. Surprise perhaps. Or the first hint of genuine emotion he'd seen from her. I see. Beatrice, let me guess. You're here to break the engagement. Her laugh was sharp. Bitter. How predictable. The noble duke sacrificing duty for love. It's positively theatrical.
It's not theatrical. It's honest. Honest. Beatrice's voice turned cold. You want honest, Charles? Here's honesty. You're a fool. That girl can't give you what you need. She has no fortune. No connections. No ability to save your crumbling estate. She's pretty, and she makes you feel things, but feelings don't pay debts.
The debts are being investigated. Beatrice froze. What? My father's gambling debts. There's evidence of fraud. Systematic cheating over years. If proven, many of those debts become void. That's, that's impossible. My father reviewed those ledgers personally. Then perhaps your father should have looked closer. Charles's voice remained calm. Controlled. Lord Thornhill is handling the investigation. We have solicitors. Witnesses. Documentation. It will take time, but the case is strong.