The Blake chit nodded. “Yes, the old me is dead. The scared, timid me. I used to pretend to be bold. But now I truly am bold.”
The duchess shook her head in disbelief, backing away from Miss Blake. “I had you killed,” she snarled, diving forward.
Valingford caught his wife’s wrist and snapped her back against his side. “Shut up, you fool!” He enjoyed the sting of his backhanded slap across her cheek.
His duchess shrunk even further into herself.
“Well done, sis.” Mr. Blake slid closer to his sister. “I’d hoped for a confession from the duke, but one from his wife is lovely as well.”
Lady Bennington crept up beside his wife, offering her a helping, comforting hand.
The duchess jerked away from the touch, leaning closer into him. She was a fool, but a well-trained one.
“I assume this elaborate charade was created to elicit exactly this sort of outcome,” Valingford sneered.
“Naturally,” the old earl admitted.
“Europe or the Americas for your exile, Valingford?” Lord Rigsby asked. “Do you find power in those choices?”
“If I were a dramatic man, I’d damn you all to hell. But you have nothing to hurt me with.”
Lord Rigsby arched an eyebrow. “Oh? There is Stubly’s confession. Your wife’s own words as well.”
Valingford clenched the rising emotions threatening to reveal his discomposure. “No one will believe you. I’m the most respected man in the country. I have power you can’t imagine. Do you truly expect the words of a drunken sot like Stubly to outweigh my own? I’ve heard he’s left the country, already illustrating his guilt over mine. And my wife will never speak against me. She’ll deny everything. I’m sorry, gentlemen,” he sneered. “But I’ve the upper hand. Come along, duchess. We have a wedding to arrange.”
“A wedding?” Lady Bennington asked, her voice as soft as the shadows flickering on the walls. “There will be no wedding once we tell everyone what we’ve heard here today.”
“Need I repeat myself?” Valingford asked, allowing a weary sigh to escape. “No one will believe you.”
Lady Bennington had steel in her eyes. Unexpected from such a quiet wallflower. She had the posture of a queen. Remarkable. Infuriating. “I don’t gossip,” she said. “The entire ton knows I only speak truth. My word is quite credible.” She tilted her head to the side. “I wonder who this new potential bridegroom is. Will he wish to align himself, his family, with a murderer?”
Valingford snapped, surging forward. “I’m no murderer.” He checked his steps as Lady Bennington stood her ground and waved toward Miss Blake. “The girl stands alive before you, madam.”
“But you would not have it so. And I’ll alert everyone I know. And I must admit, Your Grace, though I be quiet, I be fierce.”
That undeniable truth, more than anything this afternoon, gave him pause. How could this feeble old woman hold such power?
“Besides,” Devonmere said, “if murder is too unbelievable, there’s always news of your financial situation to share. I’m sure the potential bridegroom you’ve cultivated for your daughter would love to know how your coffers sit empty.” He straightened his waistcoat. “I, too, have exceptional credibility among the ton.”
“And need I mention,” the young Mr. Blake—infuriating coxcomb!—drawled, “the ton has never needed evidence or truth to believe a juicy tale.”
Valingford’s duchess trembled. “We’ll be ruined. Willow will never be married.”
Mr. Blake inspected his fingernails, as if he’d grown tired of the scene that played. “Unless,” he said, “it’s to an aging adventurer stupid enough to think marrying a title means marrying money.”
Valingford was damned tired of it all as well, exhausted, really. “We’re leaving.” He grasped his wife’s wrist and dragged her forward. “Where to?” the Earl of Bennington inquired lazily. “Europe or the Americas?”
“No!” the duchess wailed.
“Wait.” The not-dead girl’s voice rose clear and strong as a church bell over his wife’s wailing. The girl shook her head, the candlelight melting her mussed curls into liquid gold. “This isn’t right. We want to punish the duke and duchess, but it seems we’re only punishing their daughter.”
The darkness of the room deepened in silence, and Valingford’s mind whirred on possibilities. Did the Blake girl offer him an out of this debacle? These fools seemed to pity his daughter. For what, he had no clue. She was doing as she was bred to do, or rather, failing to do as she’d been bred to do—marry well. But perhaps the fools’ sympathy for his daughter could be his refuge, his escape. They might very well abandon their plan to ruin him in order to save her. Interesting. Weaknesses always showed through.
“I like Lady Willow,” the not-dead girl said.
A soft heart, Valingford mused, a weakness that made her easy to manipulate.
The Blake girl continued. “I’m certain she had nothing to do with her parents’ scheme. And I don’t want her to be hurt. She deserves a chance at happiness.”
