Read Chapter 13: A Reversal of Fortune

The clock on the mantelpiece had barely chimed the half hour when Vane was announced. Eleanor had prepared herself for a battle of wits—an hour of circling, of parry and thrust, of extracting reluctant truths from between his carefully chosen words. She had the pendant in her pocket, a physical weight that reminded her of Francis Rathbone, of her mother, of the debt that bound them all together. She had her questions arrayed like infantry.

Vane walked in, and the expression on his face was not the one she had rehearsed against. There was no sardonic amusement, no glint of a hunter toying with his prey. He looked tired. Resigned. As if he had already fought this battle and lost something he valued.

“Lord Vane,” she said, rising from her seat by the window. The storm she had predicted was still hours off, but the air in the room felt charged with it, static and heavy.

“Miss Ashworth.” He did not take a seat. He stood by the door, his greatcoat still on, gloves in hand. He was a man who intended to leave quickly. “I have come to inform you that I am withdrawing my suit.”

Eleanor’s mind, trained to parse the infinitesimal shifts in a negotiation, went blank. She waited for the qualification, the clever reversal. When none came, she said, “I beg your pardon?”

“The engagement is at an end. I shall make the announcement myself, this evening. You will be spared the scandal of a broken betrothal, and I will take whatever whispers attach themselves to my name. It will be said that I found you too headstrong, too unconventional. That I withdrew rather than face a lifetime of having my household managed by a woman with a lawyer’s tongue.” He said it without rancor. It was simply a statement of fact.

She opened her mouth, then closed it. The wager. The month. The search for a legal loophole. All of it had been rendered moot by a single sentence. “Why?” She managed to keep her voice level, but her heart was hammering against her ribs. This was too easy. It had to be too easy.

Vane finally moved, crossing to the window and looking out at the iron-gray sky. “Because it is no longer worth it. The cost of this engagement has risen beyond what I am willing to pay.”

“The cost,” she repeated. “You mean my mother’s pendant. The debt. Francis Rathbone.”

He turned, and something flickered in his eyes that she could not name. Surprise, perhaps. Or was it relief? “You have been busy, Miss Ashworth.” A pause, and then the ghost of a smile. “I have underestimated you. I shall not do so again.”

“That is not an answer.”

“It is the only one I intend to give you.” He walked back toward the door, pausing with his hand on the handle. “You are free, Miss Ashworth. The contract is void. I suggest you take your freedom and make the most of it.” A beat, and then, almost too soft to catch, he added, “Before it costs you more than you can pay.”

He was gone before she could respond, leaving her standing in the middle of the room, the silence ringing in her ears. She had won. That was what she wanted. She had spent a week digging through her mother’s letters, sneaking into gentlemen’s clubs, and building a case, and the entire edifice of her victory had been handed to her on a platter. So why did she feel as though she had just been outmaneuvered?

She did not have to wait long for the answer.

It arrived an hour later in the form of her father’s butler, carrying a tray with a cream-colored envelope on it. Eleanor tore it open with a premonition curling cold in her stomach. The stationery was fine, the hand sharp and legal. It was from a firm of solicitors she had never heard of, on a street she had never visited, and the letter was painfully brief.

*Dear Miss Ashworth, Please be advised that as of this date, the debts of the Ashworth estate have been acquired in full by the Vane holding company. The terms of this acquisition require the current debts to be settled in three months’ time, or the estate’s assets—including Vane Hall, which has been held in trust as security for the original settlement—will pass to the Vane family in discharge of the same. We trust this information is of use to you. Etc., etc.*

Eleanor read it twice. The third time, she read it aloud, as if hearing the words would make them less absurd. They did not.

She had not been given her freedom. She had been thrown a bone. The engagement was gone, yes, but Vane had built himself a new cage around her, one made of paper and ink and the crushing weight of debts he had snapped up like a hungry man taking the last loaf in the shop. She could not marry him, but she also could not stay free. The Ashworth estate was failing. Her father had borrowed against Vane Hall, against the future, against everything, and now all of that borrowing had been funneled into a single, devastating vessel: Vane’s hands.

She was dependent on him. More dependent than if she had simply married him. If she married another man, his wealth might discharge the debt—but only if that man was willing to buy her from her former betrothed. And what man would take a bride whose very existence was a lien against his fortune?

Eleanor sank into the chair by the window, the letter still clutched in her hand. She thought of Vane’s face when he had told her she was free. The tiredness. The resignation. He had known. Of course he had known. He had likely arranged for the letter to arrive within the hour.

“You bastard,” she whispered to the empty room. She was not sure if she meant Vane or her own father, who had so blithely mortgaged the family to a man who fought like a shark. Perhaps both.

The wind picked up, rattling the panes of glass. The storm was closer now. Eleanor looked out at the churning sky and thought of that moment in White’s when Vane had seen her, when he had drawn her into his game. He had known she would win a few skirmishes. He had let her. And now he had shown her the true shape of the battlefield.

She was free, and freedom had never felt more like a chain.