They stood like that as darkness fell. Two people against the world, refusing to surrender. Outside, London raged. Inside, they held each other and prepared for the battle still to come.
February 14th, 1857. 6 weeks after the broken engagement. The courtroom was packed. Every seat filled with nobility, journalists, curious onlookers hoping to witness the Duke of Winterborne's public humiliation. The air was thick with judgment and the rustle of expensive fabric.
Emma sat in the gallery beside Margaret, her hands folded tightly in her lap. She wore dark blue. Somber. Respectable. Chosen carefully to avoid giving scandal sheets any ammunition. Her blonde hair was pinned severely back. No jewelry except her mother's simple pearl earrings. She looked like someone prepared for battle.
Charles sat at the front with Thornhill and the solicitors, his posture military straight. He hadn't looked back at her once. Couldn't. Probably couldn't afford the distraction when everything hung in the balance.
The judge entered. Lord Justice Carmichael. Elderly and stern. With a reputation for despising fraud almost as much as he despised social disorder. Emma's stomach knotted. This man would decide their future. All rise, the clerk intoned. The courtroom stood as one, then settled back into tense silence.
Lord Harrington sat across the aisle with his legal team. Six barristers to Charles's three. A show of force meant to intimidate. He looked confident. Entitled. Like a man who'd never lost anything in his life. Beatrice sat beside him, her face a mask of composed sympathy. She'd been brilliant in the press. The jilted bride. Gracious in her heartbreak. Worried for Charles's deteriorating mental state. The perfect victim.
Emma's hands curled into fists. Your honor, Peton stood, his voice carrying clearly. We are here today to present evidence that the late Duke of Winterborne was systematically defrauded by Lord Harrington and 11 associates over a period of 13 years. That fraud resulted in debts totaling £47,000. Debts that are legally void due to the criminal nature of their origin.
A murmur ran through the courtroom. £47,000. A staggering sum. Lord Harrington's barrister, a silver-haired man named Whitmore, rose smoothly. Your honor, this is nothing more than a desperate attempt by the current Duke to escape legitimate debts. The late Duke was a gambler. A poor one. These losses were incurred fairly. And my client has documentation proving every transaction.