Read Chapter 32: The Uncle Exposed

The ballroom of Beaumont House blazed with a thousand candles, their light catching the jewels of the ton in a riot of color and sparkle. Eleanor had seen enough legal proceedings to know the importance of timing—the moment when the gallery was fullest, when attention was most dispersed, when a single sharp word could cut through the murmur of a crowd and silence it entirely.

She stood beside Vane near the orchestras dais, her gloved hand resting lightly on his arm. The marquess had played his part perfectly all evening—smiling at the right moments, dancing once with a countess who gushed about the upcoming nuptials, keeping his gaze fixed on Eleanor with the adoring expression of a man thoroughly besotted. The performance turned her stomach, but she understood its necessity. They had one chance at this. The accounts she clutched in a small velvet reticule were copies, the originals secured in the study of Vane's solicitor.

Lieutenant-Colonel Beaumont approached them with a smile as practiced as their own. "Lord Ashworth. Miss Ashworth. I trust you are enjoying the final festivities of the season?"

"Immeasurably," Vane replied, his tone warm, his eyes cold. "Though I confess I am eager for the announcement of engagements. I understand there may be several surprises this evening."

Beaumont's smile tightened at the edges. "I do enjoy a well-managed revelation."

Eleanor's pulse quickened. The man who had orchestrated her father's death stood before her, smooth and polished, entirely assured of his own impunity. This close, she could see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the careful composure of a man who had never once faced consequence.

"My uncle seems to be signaling for attention," Eleanor said, nodding toward the dais where the orchestra had begun to quiet. Aldridge stood there, a glass raised, his face florid with drink and self-importance.

"Ladies and gentlemen," her uncle announced, his voice carrying across the room. "If I might have a moment of your time. I have a matter of some importance to address—concerning my niece."

The room stilled with the particular hush that preceded scandal. Eleanor felt every eye turn toward her. She stepped forward, releasing Vane's arm, and felt him move with her, a wall of silent support at her back.

"Uncle," she said, her voice pleasant and clear. "How fortuitous that you should wish to address the gathering. I have a matter to raise as well."

Aldridge's glass paused halfway to his lips. His confidence had been buoyed by months of believing her ignorant, by the certainty that her youth and gender made her incapable of strategy. The flicker of unease in his eyes was deeply satisfying.

"Eleanor," he said, with a patronizing smile that did not reach his eyes. "Whatever do you have to say that could possibly—"

"I have recently completed an audit of my father's accounts," Eleanor announced, pitching her voice to carry. Around her, the chatter of the ton died entirely. "A thorough audit, conducted with the assistance of Lord Ashworth's solicitor. And I have discovered a most curious discrepancy."

Her uncle's face drained of color. She watched him process the words, saw him calculate the possibilities—had she found everything? How much did she truly know? But he was too experienced to break, and his composure reasserted itself within seconds.

"A discrepancy? My dear girl, estate accounts are complex matters. You must not trouble yourself with—"

"Eight thousand pounds," Eleanor said quietly, drawing the folded documents from her reticule. "That is the sum that has passed from the Ashworth estate into your personal holdings over the past four years. Not in maintenance, not in legal fees, not in any of the allowable disbursements you recorded. Simply transferred. Month after month. Into accounts bearing your name alone."

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Eleanor saw Mrs. Huxley's eyes widen, saw Lord Pemberton's jaw drop, saw the avid, hungry expressions of a dozen gossips who would have this story circulating through every drawing room in London by morning.

"You cannot prove—" Aldridge began.

"I can. These are the bank records." She held them up, letting them catch the candlelight, letting the room see the seals and signatures. "Lord Ashworth and I went to considerable lengths to obtain them. The clerk was most cooperative once he understood the alternative was prosecution."

Aldridge's eyes darted toward Beaumont, seeking support, seeking rescue. The lieutenant-colonel remained motionless, his expression unreadable.

"This is absurd," Aldridge said, his voice cracking. "You have always been a troublesome girl—unstable, fanciful. The ton knows this. You cannot present such accusations without—"

"The accounts are verified," Vane interjected, his voice carrying the authority of his title. "I have examined them myself, and I will stake my name on their accuracy. If Miss Ashworth's uncle requires further proof of her claims, I am certain a magistrate will be delighted to assist."

Aldridge's face contorted. The careful mask of avuncular concern dissolved, revealing the desperate, cornered man beneath. And when a man is cornered, Eleanor knew, he will lash out at anyone nearby.

"You cannot do this," Aldridge snarled. "After everything I have done for you—after your father disgraced himself by dying at dawn against a man he had no business fighting, leaving his daughter to be raised by whoever would take her—"

"Who did my father fight?" Eleanor asked, very quietly.

The question hung in the air. Aldridge's mouth worked, but no sound emerged. His eyes flicked involuntarily toward Beaumont, and Eleanor saw the lieutenant-colonel tense, saw his hand tighten on his glass.

"A man of honor," Aldridge managed. "A man who was forced to defend himself against your father's intemperate accusations."

"Which man, Uncle?" Eleanor pressed. "If it was honorable, why have you never spoken his name? Why does every account of the duel remain conspicuously silent on that particular detail?"

The crowd leaned forward as one. In the corner, Eleanor saw Grisham watching with narrowed eyes, his loyalty still uncertain, his reaction still unreadable. This was the moment—whether he chose to intervene would tell them everything.

Aldridge laughed, a wild, desperate sound. "You want his name? You want to know the Lord who killed your father? It was Lord Ashworth—" He swung his arm toward Vane, his finger extended like a weapon. "His father. The Marquis of Ashworth stood across from your father at dawn and put a bullet through his heart."

The ballroom erupted. Shouts of shock, feminine cries, the thunderous murmur of the ton processing scandal upon scandal. Eleanor kept her eyes on Vane, watched his face lose all expression, watched the man she had come to trust absorb a blow she had known was coming, had known he would not expect.

Because she had read her mother's journal. Because she knew.

But Vane had not. He had only learned moments ago, with four hundred witnesses, that his father had killed the father of the woman he loved.

She moved toward him, her hand outstretched, the documents in her reticule momentarily forgotten. Two guards seized Aldridge, dragging him toward the doors, his protests dissolving into incoherent rage.

Vane turned and walked out of the ballroom.