Read Chapter 32: The Public Trial

The carriage lanterns had barely been extinguished when Clara heard the first murmur from the terrace—sharp, crystalline laughter that cut through the night air like glass. Ashworth House blazed with candlelight for the harvest ball, but this was no ordinary gathering. Word had spread through the village like fire through dry heather: Lady Eastleigh would make her announcement tonight.

Clara stood at the top of the stairs, Julian's arm warm beneath her gloved fingers. Below them, the ton had assembled in force—duchesses and dowagers, MPs and their wives, every soul whose opinion mattered in the drawing rooms of London. And at the center of it all, radiant in violet silk, stood Lady Eastleigh, her smile fixed and brittle as painted porcelain.

"Are you ready?" Julian murmured.

Clara squeezed his arm. "I have been ready since the day she threatened you."

They descended together, and the crowd parted like a sea before them. Lady Eastleigh's eyes tracked Clara's approach with predatory stillness. Her brother, Lord Moreton, stood at her shoulder—a thick-necked man with a soldier's bearing and a coward's eyes.

"Lady Ashworth," Lady Eastleigh said, her voice carrying with theatrical sweetness. "How brave of you to host a ball when your marriage's very foundation is—shall we say—unstable."

The music faltered. Conversations died. Every face turned toward them.

Julian's jaw tightened, but Clara stepped forward before he could speak. "How kind of you to interest yourself in our affairs, Lady Eastleigh. Though I confess surprise that you would wish to discuss annulments in public, given the circumstances."

Lady Eastleigh's smile sharpened. "Circumstances? You mean the unfortunate fact that Lord Ashworth's marriage to me was never properly dissolved? That the document he claims—"

"The document I claim," Clara interrupted, producing a rolled parchment from her reticule with theatrical deliberation, "is the original decree signed by Bishop Whitmore of Lincoln, dated March 1811, attesting to the full and lawful annulment of your marriage."

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Lady Eastleigh's composure flickered.

"A forgery," she said quickly. "My lawyers have—"

"Your lawyers have filed a petition with the ecclesiastical court based on letters claiming coercion." Clara unrolled the second document, her voice rising clear and steady. "Letters I suspect you forged. Because I have something you did not anticipate, Lady Eastleigh—my father's account of the events surrounding your annulment."

The silence stretched taut as piano wire.

"In March 1811," Clara continued, reading from the page, "Lord Moreton approached Julian Ashworth with accusations of gambling debts and an affair with a servant—both false, both manufactured by the Moreton family to force his signature on an annulment petition. In exchange for his compliance, the Moretons agreed to drop the false charges and pay a sum of five thousand pounds to settle his supposed debts."

Lord Moreton's face purpled. "This is—"

"Lord Moreton's own seal is at the bottom of this letter," Clara said, holding up a third document—the correspondence they had retrieved from the vault. "A copy of the agreement, which my father witnessed. The original remains in the Ashworth vault, and I have brought certified copies for anyone who wishes to examine them."

Lady Eastleigh laughed, but it rang hollow. "A dead man's conveniently discovered documents? How charmingly theatrical."

"Shall I call for witnesses?" Clara's voice was steel wrapped in silk. "I have three servants who remember Lord Moreton's threats. I have the rector of St. Michael's, who was present when the annulment was signed—he has already given a signed affidavit regarding the elder Lord Moreton's presence and the evident distress of the young Lord Ashworth."

The crowd's whispers grew. A dowager near the front pressed her fan to her lips, eyes gleaming with scandalous delight.

"You cannot—" Lady Eastleigh began.

"I can," Clara said quietly. "And I will. You sought to destroy my husband's reputation to avenge your wounded pride. You forged documents. You threatened his career, his freedom, his very name. But the truth has a way of surfacing, Lady Eastleigh—especially when it has been locked in a vault by a father who wished to protect his daughter's future husband."

Julian stepped forward, his voice calm but carrying to every corner of the room. "I was young when I signed that decree," he said. "I was frightened, and I was ashamed. But I did nothing wrong, and Lady Eastleigh knows it. She has spent six years nursing a grievance against a man who merely refused to be trapped in a marriage built on manipulation."

Lady Eastleigh's face had gone the color of old bone. Her brother caught her elbow, muttering something urgent in her ear, but she shook him off.

"This is not over," she hissed.

"It is," Clara said softly. "The ecclesiastical court convenes at noon tomorrow. I intend to file our response tonight, with copies of all evidence. By the time your petition reaches the judge's desk, it will be buried under proof of your family's coercion and fraud."

A steward appeared at Clara's side, a silver tray bearing a folded document. She took it without breaking eye contact with Lady Eastleigh.

"Consider this your formal notice," Clara said. "I would wish you a pleasant evening, but I believe the quality of your character speaks for itself."

Lady Eastleigh stood frozen, her reputation crumbling around her like ash from a burning letter. Lord Moreton tugged her sleeve, whispering urgently, and after a long, terrible moment, she turned and swept toward the doors, her violet skirts snapping like angry sails.

The room exhaled.

Julian turned to Clara, his eyes dark with something she could not name—gratitude, wonder, love—all tangled together in a gaze that made her breath catch.

"You," he said, his voice rough with emotion, "are the most formidable woman I have ever known."

Clara smiled, feeling the trembling begin in her hands now that the performance was done. "I learned from the best. You taught me that a contract is only as binding as the courage behind it."

The orchestra struck up a waltz. Couples began to move onto the floor, gossiping heads bent close, but Julian did not look away from her.

"Marry me," he said quietly. "Again. Properly. In a church, with witnesses, without any documents or clauses or conditions. Just you and me."

Clara's heart stuttered. "Julian—"

"If you want," he said, a smile tugging at his lips, "I will have my solicitor draw up a new contract. But this one will have only one clause: that we spend the rest of our lives together."

She laughed, the sound bright and unguarded, and let him pull her into the dance.