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T he flickering candlelight cast long shadows across the cozy sitting room, its warm glow a stark contrast to the cold determination etched into Beatrice’s features.

The scattered papers and notes before her painted a picture of meticulous planning, each detail honed to perfection.

Lavender lingered faintly in the air, a scent she had long relied upon to steady her nerves, though tonight it felt woefully insufficient.

Her gloved fingers brushed the edges of a shipping schedule, its creases worn from hours of scrutiny.

Dates and destinations were scrawled in neat lines, and she followed the familiar route with her eyes, committing it to memory once more.

The Earl of Lorne, Matthew, was destined to leave Brighton’s shores and find himself far from England’s comforts.

“Soon,” she whispered to the empty room, the word a promise to herself as much as a warning to him.

The mantel clock ticked steadily, marking the dwindling time. Beatrice leaned back in her chair, her gown rustling softly. Her gaze drifted toward the window, where the night stretched endlessly, its velvet darkness pressing against the glass.

For a moment, her reflection stared back at her—features taut with resolve, eyes shadowed by the weight of what she was about to do. Yet beneath her resolve, there was a flicker of uncertainty, a whisper of doubt that refused to be silenced.

Beatrice inhaled deeply, filling her lungs with the calming scent of lavender. “I cannot falter now,” she murmured, her voice steady though her heart wavered. “This is justice. It must be done.”

Her gaze fell on the note atop the pile of papers, its edges frayed from constant handling.

Mr. Simmons, one of Matthew’s footmen, had been thorough in his account, detailing every aspect of his master’s travel plans.

The coins she had offered for his cooperation had been well spent, though the knowledge of her manipulation brought her little satisfaction.

“Brighton,” she mused aloud, her lips curving into a bitter smile. “How fitting that your journey will end so differently than you planned.”

Her pen hovered over a sheet of parchment as she drafted a final letter to the man charged with executing her scheme.

Each stroke was deliberate, the ink drying as she read over the words that would set her plan into motion.

Yet as the candle flickered, doubt crept into her thoughts like an unwelcome guest.

What if he sensed something was amiss? What if he resisted? Her fingers tightened around the pen, and she forced the questions away. She could not afford failure.

A knock at the door shattered her reverie, and Beatrice hastily folded the letter, tucking it into her desk drawer before calling out, “Enter.”

The door opened to reveal Frances, her vibrant presence filling the room as she strode in, her powder-blue gown glinting in the candlelight. “Bea, darling, you look positively consumed by mischief,” she teased, her lips curving into a knowing smile.

Close behind her came Lydia, her steps more measured, her eyes wide with apprehension. “I do hope this plan of yours is not too reckless,” she murmured, though curiosity betrayed her concern.

Beatrice gestured for them to sit, smoothing her skirts as she returned to her own chair. “I trust you both will understand the gravity of what I am about to share,” she began, her tone measured but firm. “What I have planned requires your—discretion.”

As she outlined her scheme, the room seemed to hold its breath. Frances leaned forward, her expression alight with delight as Beatrice described the details of Matthew’s imminent abduction.

“Oh, Bea, how brilliant!” Frances exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “To think of him waking up aboard a ship where his title and fortune cannot help him—it is deliciously poetic.”

Lydia, however, wrung her hands, her brow furrowed. “But Bea, darling, if anyone discovers your involvement…”

Beatrice cut her off, her voice tinged with steel. “I have accounted for every possibility. My father scarcely pays any attention to my comings and goings and Matthew will never suspect my involvement. This is my only chance to make him pay for what he has done.”

Frances’ enthusiasm only grew. “You have my support, of course. But, Bea, do be careful. The Earl of Lorne is not a man to underestimate.”

As the conversation turned to logistics, Beatrice’s mind wandered briefly.

She pictured Matthew as she had last seen him—arrogant, charming, utterly convinced of his invincibility.

The memory stirred a mix of anger and something she refused to name, and she quickly refocused her attention on the task at hand.

Beatrice spent the following days on tenterhooks, her mind constantly whirring with doubts and contingencies.

As the day of Matthew's abduction drew closer, she grew more resolute, the fear of failure fading, replaced by a burning determination.

The day before his abduction, she donned her cloak and set out to finalize her plan.

The docks loomed ahead, their towering masts and shadowed hulls casting an eerie silhouette against the predawn sky.

Beatrice adjusted the folds of her cloak, pulling the fabric tighter around her shoulders as she descended the cobblestone path.

The briny air stung her nose, thick with tar and hemp, as she pulled her hood lower.

The man she had hired to orchestrate her plan awaited her at the edge of the pier, his weathered face unreadable as he stepped from the shadows. “Miss Sinclair,” he greeted, his voice gruff but respectful.

“Sir,” Beatrice replied, inclining her head. “Is everything in place?”

“Aye,” he confirmed, crossing his arms. “The passage has been paid, and my men know their orders. Your lordling will be aboard before he knows what hit him and will not be granted freedom until the ship docks in America.”

Beatrice hesitated, her pulse quickening as she searched his expression for reassurance. “And you are certain there will be no… complications?”

The man chuckled dryly, though the sound held no humor. “Complications come with the territory, Miss. But my men are capable. We’ll see it done.”

His bluntness gave her pause, her mind conjuring images of Matthew struggling against his captors, his sharp eyes flashing with anger.

She steeled herself against the flicker of doubt and forced herself to nod.

“Very well. Proceed as planned,” she said, handing him a velvet pouch that contained her final payment.

The man studied her for a moment, his gaze piercing. “There’s steel in you, Miss Sinclair. But I’ll warn you—vengeance has a way of cutting deeper than you expect.”

His words lingered as Beatrice turned and made her way back toward the city, her thoughts a tangle of determination and unease.

The journey home felt endless, each step heavy with the gravity of her actions. By the time Beatrice reached her townhouse, the streets were nearly empty, the faint glow of lanterns casting long shadows across the cobblestones.

Once inside, she shrugged off her cloak and made her way to the sitting room, where the fire still burned low in the hearth. The warmth should have been comforting, but it only seemed to magnify the unease curling in her stomach.

She poured a cup of tea, the clink of porcelain against wood breaking the silence. As she sipped, her gaze fell on the small locket resting on her desk. Its silver filigree glinted in the firelight, and she picked it up, her fingers brushing over the miniature portrait inside.

It was her mother’s face, serene and full of life, painted long before illness had stolen her vitality. Beatrice closed her eyes, the memory of her mother’s voice steadying her.

“I promised you, Mama,” she whispered. “I will make something of myself. I will not let him win.”

Resolve tightening in her chest, Beatrice set the locket down and reached for her notes.

The fire crackled softly as she reviewed every detail, ensuring nothing had been overlooked.

Yet even as she reviewed the details, an image of Matthew rose unbidden in her mind—his smile, so effortlessly charming, his voice warm with laughter.

She shook her head, frustration bubbling to the surface. “You will not distract me again,” she muttered, though her words felt hollow.

As the clock struck midnight, Beatrice folded her papers and extinguished the candle. Tomorrow, the Earl of Lorne would learn that some actions could not be forgiven, and Beatrice Sinclair would finally find the justice she had long sought.

With that thought, she climbed the stairs to her room, each step a countdown to the moment Matthew Everhart would face his reckoning.