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E leanor had always known that pride was Lord Redgrave’s greatest weakness. He believed himself untouchable, a man of influence and power who could bend the world to his will. But no longer. She would make certain that he fell… hard.

She sat at the ornate writing desk in her chambers, the flickering candlelight casting shadows against the parchment before her. With slow, deliberate strokes, she penned the invitation:

Lord Redgrave,

The more I ponder over our courtship over a year ago, the more I realize how foolish it was to refuse you. I would like to speak with you privately—without my brother’s interference, without Sinclair’s watchful eye. You were right. I owe you a conversation, at the very least.

Meet me in the west parlor at midnight. Come alone.

Lady Eleanor Ashford

She folded the letter, sealed it, and handed it off to one of the footmen with clear instructions to deliver it discreetly. And then she waited.

The west parlor of Ashworth Manor was draped in low candlelight, casting a golden glow against the tall bookcases and velvet curtains. A mahogany desk sat untouched, a tea tray resting beside it. The faint scent of jasmine lingered in the air.

It was the perfect setting for Redgrave to believe he had won.

Eleanor sat near the window, her gown a deep emerald, her hair long and flowing over her shoulders and back. She was ready.

And she was not alone. Behind the hidden passage in the bookshelf, Graham, James, her father, and the constable waited. Silent. Listening.

Tonight, they would end this.

The door creaked open. Eleanor turned, forcing a hesitant smile as Redgrave stepped inside. He was exactly as she expected—smug, self-assured, arrogant. A man who believed he had already won.

His gaze swept over the room before settling on her. “Eleanor,” he greeted her. “I was pleased to receive your letter.”

He closed the door behind him, stepping deeper into the room. Eleanor forced herself to stay seated, to not flinch as he neared.

She folded her hands neatly in her lap. “I thought about what you had said.” She lowered her gaze, feigning uncertainty. “About how I owe you. About how… perhaps I have been too rash in my refusals.”

He smiled victoriously. “I knew you would come to your senses.”

She bit her tongue to keep from laughing. Fool.

He moved to the desk, leaning against it as though he already owned the room. “You should have accepted me years ago, Eleanor. It would have saved us both so much trouble.”

She tilted her head. “Us?”

He chuckled. “Well. Perhaps just you.”

“What do you want from me, Redgrave?”

He straightened, stepping closer, looking down at her, his lips curling. “You know what I want.”

She held her breath. Wait for it.

He crouched slightly, leveling his gaze with hers. “You wounded me, Eleanor. You nearly ended me. And yet, here I stand. A better man for it. But do you know what I realized after all these years?”

She remained silent.

“That you were never truly sorry.”

Her stomach roiled in disgust, but she kept her expression carefully neutral.

“So I thought,” he continued, “that perhaps I should make you understand what it feels like to lose everything.”

“You have lost everything?” she asked.

“Indeed. My coffers are depleting, and I need a bride who has a large inheritance. I chose you, not only for your dowry, but because you are the loveliest woman I know. That is why I worked so hard to get you, and I will not relent until you and I are married.”

There it was. The confession they needed.

Eleanor’s breath quickened. “And how would you do that?”

His fingers traced the edge of the desk. “Oh, my dear. You don’t think I returned to England without a plan, do you?”

She tightened her hands in her lap, but remained still. Let him talk.

“I have been… cultivating relationships. Whispering in the right ears. You know how Society is, Eleanor. It is always hungry for scandal.”

Her heartbeat thundered.

“I have friends in high places—men who, shall we say, would not hesitate to spread a certain story.” His smile widened.

“A story about you. Imagine the whispers, the rumors,” he mused.

“The poor, fragile Lady Eleanor. Losing her virtue, alone in a garden with a man she rejected, then nearly killing him to cover her shame.

“And your dear Sinclair,” he added, chuckling.

“I imagine he would be… ruined as well. A reckless scoundrel defending a woman with such an ugly past. Tell me, Eleanor, how do you think he will fare when the whole of London turns against him? And then the poor, defeated man will eventually take his own life from the shame of it all.” He sighed heavily.

“That does make the most talked-about scandal, does it not?”

Eleanor dug her fingers into the fabric of her gown. She had what she needed. But she was not finished.

She let out a slow, trembling breath. “So, that is your game?” she whispered. “You would ruin me out of spite and then kill the duke?”

“Not spite. Retribution. And I wouldn’t kill His Grace.”

“No,” she said. “You would pay someone else to do your dirty work.”

His grin stretched. “You know me well, my dear.”

Eleanor stood slowly. “Well then,” she murmured, “I suppose there’s only one thing left to say.”

Redgrave tilted his head. “Oh?”

She snarled. “You are a fool.”

Before Redgrave could react, a door burst open.

Graham stepped into the room, his expression thunderous.

James was right behind him, his gaze lethal.

Her father stepped forward next, his face a mask of cold fury.

Then the constable emerged from the shadows, his uniform stark against the candlelight.

Redgrave stiffened. “What is this?”

Eleanor smiled fully now, stepping toward him. “Did you really think I would invite you into my home without setting a trap?”

Redgrave’s face paled.

James crossed his arms. “We heard everything.”

“Your threats are meaningless now.” Her father’s voice was like steel.

Redgrave whirled toward Eleanor. “You—”

“I what?” she cut in. “Outplayed you? Outsmarted you?” She leaned in. “ Destroyed you?”

Redgrave glanced from one person to the other, trapped.

“You’re finished, Redgrave.” Graham’s voice was ice.

The constable stepped forward. “Lord Sebastian Redgrave, you are under arrest for attempted coercion, extortion, and grievous threats against Lady Eleanor Ashford, not to mention a plot to murder the duke.”

Redgrave’s face contorted in rage. He lunged toward Eleanor, grasping for her—but Graham struck first. His fist collided with Redgrave’s jaw, sending him sprawling to the floor. A groan, a cough. Then the constable, her father, and James seized Redgrave, forcing him up, shackling his hands.

It was finally over.

As Redgrave was dragged from the room, screaming about vengeance, Eleanor felt the weight of years lift from her shoulders. She turned—and Graham was there. His hand found hers, squeezing gently.

“You did it,” he murmured.

She smiled, breathless, victorious. “No,” she whispered. “We did.”