Page 48

" H ear ye! Hear ye! The Court of Chancery is now in session, the Honorable Lord Chancellor Hesketh presiding. All persons having business before this honorable court draw near and give your attention."

Lord Chancellor Hesketh adjusted his spectacles and surveyed the room.

"I see Mr. Tate appearing for the petitioner, Baron Frederic Hollan, and Mr. Jonathan Bellamy representing the respondents, the Duke and Duchess of Eyron.

This matter concerns the guardianship of Mary Ann and Heather Redchester. Mr. Tate, you may present your case."

The courtroom hushed as Mr. Tate stepped forward, his black robe trailing behind him like a funeral cloth.

The sound of his footsteps seemed unnaturally loud on the polished floor, each tap like a countdown toward something terrible.

Abigail forced herself to sit perfectly still, her spine rigid against the hard wooden chair, though her insides were a churning mess.

"Your Worship," Tate began, his voice grave but calm, "we come before you today not to cast aspersions on character without cause, but to present a series of facts too grave to ignore—facts that bear directly on the fitness of the current guardian to continue in his role."

A bead of sweat trickled down Abigail's back beneath her ruined gown. She wound her skirt around her fingers to keep herself from fidgeting.

I don’t think a few more wrinkles can hurt it.

Tate paused, letting the silence stretch like a hangman testing his rope. His eyes flicked briefly toward Graham, then back to the magistrate, just long enough to let the implication settle. The calculated gesture made Abigail's stomach clench.

For the next thirty minutes, Mr. Tate provided a calm recitation of the Duke’s credentials—his service, his education, his rank—before slowly turning the same accolades against him.

He described the shadows of war trauma, the incident at Bow Street, the forced commitment to Hallowcross.

Each detail was presented as if reluctantly, cloaked in concern, calculated to appear objective.

The insinuation was clear—the Duke of Eyron was a man fraying at the seams, and no child should be tethered to such instability.

At Mr. Tate’s summons, Ms. Norwood rose from her place, smoothing the skirts of her sensible gown. She moved with practiced composure through the hush, pausing to offer a measured curtsey before taking her seat in the empty chair near the magistrate’s bench.

Lord Chancellor Hesketh regarded her with an air of courteous gravity. “You understand, Miss Norwood, that you are called to give evidence before this court and must answer all questions clearly and to the best of your recollection.”

Miss Norwood folded her hands in her lap. “I do, my lord.”

Tate’s questions came with the crisp detachment of legal inquiry. “Miss Norwood, recall for the court the occasion when Heather Redchester expressed a preference to reside with Baron Hollan.”

Ms. Norwood’s reply was level and unembellished.

As her account unfolded, murmurs of sympathy for the ‘poor child’ rippled through the gallery.

Abigail saw their judgment—eyes drifting toward Graham, condemning him for denying a loving relative access to his kin, as Mr. Tate so colorfully framed it.

The Lord Chancellor Hesketh’s pen, poised mid-air, stilled when Ms. Norwood described Heather’s distraught behavior. He watched Ms. Norwood not with skepticism, but with a grave and growing weight in his expression.

Abigail sat rigid, her jaw clenched, each word from Ms. Norwood landing like a stone in her chest. She avoided looking at Graham as she silently seethed—not just for the damage the words did, but for the quiet courage it cost Ms. Norwood to deliver them.

The governess kept her eyes from meeting Abigail’s, her stiff composure a silent apology.

As Ms. Norwood’s account concluded, the pause that followed felt endless, the silence of the room dense with the unspoken knowledge that, whatever the circumstances, those words could not be unsaid.

Mr. Bellamy rose just before Mr. Tate dismissed the governess.“If I may, Your Worship, just a few brief questions for Miss Norwood?”

At the magistrate’s nod, he asked,“Have either of the girls expressed any desire to leave since that day?”

“No, sir. Quite the opposite,” Ms. Norwood said without hesitation.

“And in your professional estimation, are they well cared for?”

“They are safe. Settled. And happier than I’ve ever seen them.” Ms. Norwood paused and her gaze finally found Abigail’s.“Their family wraps them in love and laughter every day.”

Bellamy nodded.“Thank you, Ms. Norwood.”

The magistrate dismissed her, and as she returned to the gallery, Abigail gave her a grateful smile, though the governess seemed to struggle to answer it.

Another sin to lay at Hollan’s door.

Mr. Tate adjusted his cuffs with deliberate care before stepping away from the magistrate's bench. His movements were unhurried, confident—he no longer looked like a man attempting to defend a cause—he looked like a man sharpening a knife.

"It would be remiss," he continued, "if we did not only consider the Duke of Eyron, who, for the moment, sits before us in sound body and mind, but also, the woman who occupies the seat beside him."

The shift was so abrupt, so calculated, it took Abigail a breath too long to catch up. The room swam around her as if suddenly unmoored. She hadn't expected this—hadn't armored herself for it. Even Bellamy straightened, suddenly alert, a flash of surprise crossing his normally impassive features.

Tate turned, not toward her, but toward the gallery, playing to his audience with the skill of a seasoned actor.

"The Duchess of Eyron was not born to that title.

She was born Abigail Finch—daughter of an Earl whose scandalous behavior is not forgotten.

She is a woman of no fortune, no station, and, as society remembers quite vividly, no scruples. "

Heat rushed to Abigail's face, a burning tide of humiliation and rage. Her skin felt too tight, too hot. From the corner of her eye, she saw Marjory half-rise from her seat, only to be restrained by Richard's hand on her arm.

Her heart pounded in her ears, drowning out the shuffling and whispers from the gallery. Bellamy moved as though to object, but Tate hurried on.

"Oh, I do not accuse her of crime. I merely ask the court to examine character. After all—are we not here to consider the environment in which two young noblewomen are to be raised?"

Tate's eyes slid over Abigail, appraising her like a piece of questionable merchandise. Her ruined gown, her hastily arranged hair, the dark circles beneath her eyes—all of it cataloged and dismissed. The assessment left her stripped bare, her every flaw and failure laid out for public dissection.

He returned his gaze to the magistrate now, tone silken.

"We need not revisit Her Grace’s scandalous past. Everyone in London is aware of it.

” He paused to accommodate several chuckles from the gallery.

“But we cannot forget her lack of decorum that occurred mere weeks ago when she was seen wandering the street in the company of a man not of relation, a man she then ensnared into marrying her. "

Graham's hand tightened around hers. He vibrated with suppressed fury. The wood grain beneath her fingers blurred as tears threatened. She blinked them back fiercely. She would not cry. Not here. Not now. Not in front of Hollan's smirking face.

A low murmur swept through the gallery—the hungry desire to see more of her humiliation.

Jackals, the lot of them.

Tate moved closer to the bench, lowering his voice just enough to force the room to lean in, to become co-conspirators in her undoing.

"And then there is Beacon House—a charity the Duchess manages with her sister, the Duchess of Sherton.

Hard questions have been asked of late after an audit of the bank records at the charity.

Several key donors have withdrawn their pledges in recent days. "

Abigail felt the shift happening around her. The gallery, the magistrate, even Bellamy beside her—they were all reacting, reassessing. Not because they believed Tate, but because he was making them doubt. Planting seeds of suspicion that might blossom into judgment.

She couldn’t do it anymore. Couldn’t keep her head high. Her shoulders slumped under the weight of it all.

“Chin up, soldier,” Graham murmured against her ear and pressed his thigh firmly against hers.

She forced her spine straight, though she longed to curl under the table until they all went away, until the world forgot she had ever been there.

"The Duchess of Eyron has surrounded herself with women who have known ruin.

Convicts. Debtors. Prostitutes. And she invites these influences into the orbit of two young girls meant to one day take their place in noble society.

We do not question her intentions," Tate added piously. "We question her discernment."

Abigail could barely feel her own body. Her limbs were lead, but her heart fluttered with panic.

Tate turned one final page in his notes. His voice dropped into that awful register—measured, reasonable, and merciless.

"And lastly, we must ask what influence the Duchess exerts over her husband.

A man who has, in the past weeks, threatened members of the press, filed lawsuits against respected publications, and—by some accounts—nearly killed a man in an altercation on her behalf.

He is at best a victim of her manipulations, at worst complicit in them.

This is not the picture of a healing household.

This is the picture of a match struck to dry tinder. "

He stepped back with a slight bow.

"Thank you, Your Worship. I place my trust in the court's wisdom."