Lady Arabella Whitmore approached them with the smile of a woman welcoming guests and the eyes of a woman measuring coffins.
“Your Grace.”
Allaric bowed slightly.
“Lady Arabella.”
Her gaze moved to Marin.
“Miss Ellery. How transformed you look.”
It was a perfect insult.
Marin smiled.
“Soap and adequate sleep can produce miracles.”
Arabella’s smile tightened.
Several nearby guests heard.
One gentleman coughed to hide a laugh.
“You must be enjoying Ravenshade House.”
“Very much.”
“I imagine comfort is especially impressive when one has known so little of it.”
Marin felt Allaric’s arm tense.
She answered before he could.
“Yes. Hardship does make gratitude easier.”
Arabella blinked.
Marin continued.
“I recommend gratitude. Hardship somewhat less.”
Someone laughed openly.
Arabella’s cheeks colored.
Allaric leaned closer to Marin.
“You require no protection at all.”
“Protection is still welcome.”
They entered the ballroom.
The evening became a careful war.
Women approached Marin with questions shaped like kindness.
Was her father truly dead in debt?
Had she really worked for wages?
How extraordinary to live under the same roof as an unmarried duke.
Was she supervised?
Was she hoping to become a governess again?
Every question carried a hidden blade.
Marin answered calmly.
“Yes, my father died in debt.”
“Yes, I worked.”
“Yes, wages are useful things. I recommend them.”
“No, I am not ashamed of earning money.”
By the third hour, she was exhausted.
Allaric noticed.
“Garden?”
“Immediately.”
They escaped through French doors.
Outside, lanterns glowed along the terrace.
Music softened behind glass.
Marin leaned against the stone railing.
“I understand why people become hermits.”
“I have considered it.”
“You own enough land.”
“I could disappear for decades.”
“You would still receive invitations.”
“I would burn them.”
Marin laughed.
For a while they stood quietly.
Then Allaric asked, “Why did you never marry?”
The question surprised her.
“I lacked a duke interviewing candidates.”
“I am serious.”
“So am I.”
He waited.
Marin looked toward the dark garden.
“I nearly did.”
Allaric’s expression changed.
“What happened?”
“His name was Edward Lane.”
“Do I know him?”
“No. His father had a modest estate in Sussex.”
“Did you love him?”
Marin considered lying.
“Yes.”
Allaric looked away.
The movement was tiny.
She noticed.
“We were engaged secretly at first because his mother disapproved.”
“Because of your father’s debts?”
“Mostly.”
“What happened?”
“When my mother became ill, I used what remained of my money for doctors.”
“As anyone would.”
“Edward disagreed.”
Allaric’s jaw tightened.
“He said marriage required practicality. His family wanted a wife who could bring something.”
“And you could not.”
“No.”
“So he left.”
“He married a woman with eight thousand pounds.”
Allaric’s voice became very quiet.
“Idiot.”
Marin laughed unexpectedly.
“That is a remarkably concise judgment.”
“Accurate judgments need not be lengthy.”
“He has three children now.”
“Poor woman.”
“Allaric.”
“What?”
“You know nothing about her.”
“I know she married an idiot.”
Marin shook her head.
He smiled.
Then the smile disappeared.
“Did he break your heart?”
“Yes.”
The honesty surprised them both.
“But hearts,” Marin continued, “are more stubborn than people think. Mine continued doing its work.”
Allaric looked at her.
“I am glad.”
The music changed inside.
A waltz.
Through the windows they could see couples moving.
Marin expected Allaric to suggest returning.
Instead he said, “Dance with me.”
She stared.
“You do not dance.”
“I am capable.”
“You refused three invitations tonight.”
“I did not want to dance with them.”
Marin’s heart began again with its foolish behavior.
“There is no music out here.”
“We can hear it.”
“There are no witnesses.”
“Better.”
He offered his hand.
Marin placed hers in it.
They began slowly.
Allaric was an excellent dancer.
Of course he was.
Dukes were apparently trained from infancy to do everything from waltzing to intimidating bankers.
His hand rested at her waist.
Marin looked up.
“This will cause gossip.”
“Everything I do causes gossip.”
“You seem proud of that.”
“No. Merely efficient.”
She smiled.
They turned beneath lantern light.
For the first time in years, Marin allowed herself not to think about money, position, next month, employment, or survival.
She simply danced.
Allaric’s eyes remained on hers.
Then the ballroom doors opened.
Lady Arabella stood there.
Behind her were several guests.
Perfect.
Marin stopped.
Arabella smiled.
“Forgive me. I did not mean to interrupt.”
“Yes, you did,” Allaric replied.
Arabella’s smile trembled.
Then Lord Whitmore appeared.
“Ravenshade. A word.”
They went inside.
Marin immediately sensed something was wrong.
The ballroom had quieted too quickly.
Guests were pretending not to stare at a table near the fireplace.
On it lay papers.
Lord Whitmore gestured toward them.
“I regret unpleasantness at my own gathering.”
Allaric said nothing.
Whitmore continued.
“But certain matters concern honor.”
Marin’s stomach tightened.
Arabella stood near the papers.
“I was informed this afternoon,” Lord Whitmore said, “that Miss Ellery may not be exactly what she claims.”
Marin stepped forward.
“What does that mean?”
He lifted a document.
“A letter allegedly written by your late father.”
Marin’s pulse jumped.
“What letter?”
“A confession of fraud.”
She stared.
Lord Whitmore read portions aloud.
The letter claimed Marin’s father had stolen investment funds from business partners shortly before his death.
It further claimed Marin knew of the theft.
The room erupted in whispers.
Marin felt cold.
“That is false.”
Arabella looked sympathetic.
“How dreadful.”
Marin turned on her.
“Where did this come from?”
“A gentleman who once dealt with your father.”
“Name him.”
Lord Whitmore answered.
“Mr. Malcolm Gray.”
Marin froze.
Allaric’s senior estate steward.
The man who had supervised Pritchard.
Everything connected.
Allaric took the letter.
He read it.
“This signature is false.”
Whitmore shrugged.
“Perhaps.”
“Not perhaps.”
“Then prove it.”
Allaric’s eyes became lethal.
“You brought forged accusations against a woman into your ballroom.”
“I brought information.”
“You brought theater.”
Whitmore’s face darkened.
“Careful.”
“No.”
The single word silenced the room.
Allaric folded the paper.
“This document remains with me.”
“It belongs to me.”
“It is evidence.”
Whitmore stared.
“Evidence of what?”
“Conspiracy.”
A voice came from the back.
“You cannot accuse Lord Whitmore of conspiracy simply because a letter embarrasses your companion.”
Marin recognized Sir Henry Blackwood, a magistrate friendly with Whitmore.
Allaric replied, “I did not accuse Whitmore.”
Everyone waited.
“I said the document is evidence.”
Marin understood.
Allaric would not make claims without proof.
Not even to defend her.
And strangely, that made her trust him more.
She stepped forward.
“My father made mistakes.”
The room quieted.
“He borrowed money badly. He invested badly. He trusted men he should not have trusted. When he died, my mother and I paid the cost.”
She looked around at the faces watching eagerly.
“But he did not steal.”
Arabella said softly, “How can you be certain?”
Marin turned.
“Because I kept his account books.”
Arabella’s smile vanished.
Lord Whitmore stiffened.
Marin continued.
“I was seventeen. My father was ill during his final six months. I recorded every payment he made.”
Allaric looked at her.
“Do the books still exist?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“In storage with a solicitor in Bath.”
Allaric immediately addressed his secretary.
“Send a rider tonight.”
Lord Whitmore laughed.
“You intend to retrieve ten-year-old account books?”
“Yes.”
“For the sake of a paid companion?”
Allaric looked directly at him.
“For the sake of truth.”
Something moved across the room.
A shift.
People who had arrived ready to enjoy scandal suddenly recognized they might be witnessing a trap closing around someone else.
Arabella sensed it too.
She approached Marin.
“Surely you do not believe I arranged this.”
“I do not know what to believe.”
“That is cruel.”
“No,” Marin said. “Cruel is accusing a dead man when he cannot defend himself.”
Arabella’s expression sharpened.
“You think one clever answer to one question makes you equal to us?”
There it was.
The truth beneath months of manners.
Marin looked at her calmly.
“No.”
Arabella seemed surprised.
Marin continued.
“I do not think answering the duke made me your equal.”
A cruel smile started on Arabella’s lips.
Marin finished.
“I believed I was your equal before I entered the room.”
The ballroom went silent.
Arabella’s face turned white.
Allaric stared at Marin as if the rest of the room had vanished.
Then a footman rushed through the doorway.
“Your Grace.”
Allaric turned.
The man looked breathless.
“A messenger from Ravenshade House.”
“Speak.”
The footman hesitated.
“It concerns Thomas Reed’s father.”
Marin’s heart stopped.
“They found him.”
“Alive?”
The footman swallowed.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Relief flooded Marin.
Then the servant continued.
“But badly injured.”
“Where?”
“A cottage near Westmere. He says he did not abandon his children.”
Allaric’s face hardened.
“What does he say happened?”
The footman looked across the crowded ballroom.
“He says Mr. Gray tried to kill him.”