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“Is Miss Bradford a bad influence?” he asked.

“She is a disobedient wench,” the nun’s disdain came out in a venomous sneer. “Her mother placed her in our care from the day she was seven years old, telling us that she was a stubborn child, and to this day she has never lost that trait. She had no regard for piousness or the transformation of prayer.”

Frederick leaned towards Sister Agnes, interlaced his fingers under his chin and held her eyes with his. “How old is she?”

“Three and twenty,” the nun replied.

“Who is her mother, and why did she leave her there?” he pressed.

Sister Agnes’s face twisted with displeasure at being pressed. “As much as I can see your interest, Your Grace, her mother has no bearing on this matter, and neither does the reason she was left at the convent. What matters here is that the girl is a skilled manipulator and she is not to be believed.”

“I see,” Frederick sat back in his chair, the quill in his hand a mere distraction to quell the rising storm within him. “Were you at St. Catherine’s when Lady Helen Wyndham was sent there?”

Recognition flickered in Sister Agnes’s eyes before she concealed it behind a mask of indifference. “No, Your Grace. I do not recall the name.”

An obvious lie.

“Helen Wyndham was my sister,” Frederick said, his voice laced with restrained anger. “She was sent to your convent sixteen years ago after falling in love with a man deemed unsuitable by my father. She carried his child.”

Sister Agnes’s lips thinned. “A scandal indeed. How unfortunate for your family to have been burdened by such impropriety.”

His fingers tightened around the quill, nearly snapping it in two. “Impropriety?” he repeated icily. “My sister sought refuge and understanding, but instead, she was met with neglect, cruelty,and a death that should never have occurred. When we came for her, we found her body cold on a cot—and not a word of explanation from your convent.”

The nun offered a slight shrug, her tone dismissive. “Women like her are weak, Your Grace. Perhaps the weight of her sin hastened her end.”

Frederick rose from his chair so swiftly that it scraped against the floor.

“My sister was not weak,” he growled, his voice low and cutting, “She was failed—by the nuns who should have cared for her, by the father who sent her to that wretched place, and by a system that denied her happiness. And you, Sister Agnes, have the audacity to speak of her sin? I tell you now, the only sin greater than hers was the cruelty she suffered at your hands.”

Sister Agnes adjusted her skirts, her rosary clutched in her hands like a shield.

“I am sorry you feel that way, Your Grace, but my concern is for the living, not the past. If this Bradford girl crosses your path, I urge you to return her to us. Jezebels like her have no place in society,” she said.

Hell will freeze over before I send anyone back to that place.

Frederick’s jaw clenched as fury surged through him.

“You are no longer welcome here,” he responded, each word precise and venomous. “Consider this your last visit to Blackridge. If you or anyone from St. Catherine’s sets foot on my land again, you will find yourselves escorted off by force.”

Her cheeks flushed red, but she held her head high as she stood. “May God have mercy on your soul, Your Grace,” she said, her tone dripping with false piety.

Frederick stepped aside, his gaze cold as ice. “I will not need it, Sister. Not from the likes of you.”

He watched as she descended the stairs, her unmarked carriage waiting outside. The door slammed shut behind her, and he stood at the window, ensuring her departure.

The moment the carriage disappeared from sight, he turned away, his fists clenched.

He would never allow another soul to endure what Helen had suffered—not while he lived.

“Are you comfortable here, my dear?” the Dowager asked gently, her voice breaking the silence.

Gemma could feel the Dowager Duchess’ eyes on her as they sat across from each other in the breakfast hall.

The clatter of silverware against porcelain had been the only sound between them, the atmosphere calm but laced with unspoken questions.

The Dowager reached for her tea, taking a small sip, her gaze never leaving Gemma’s face.

Gemma hesitated, her fork hovering over her plate as she offered a polite but distant smile. “Yes, thank you. It is… it is a vast improvement on where I used to be.”