Read Chapter 4: The Viscount's Proposal

The clock on the mantle had barely finished chiming the third hour when the knock came—not the tentative rap of a maid, but the firm, deliberate pound of a man accustomed to being admitted. Eleanor smoothed the muslin of her gown, a pale blue that made her look deceptively soft, and inclined her head to the footman.

“Show Lord Vane in.”

The door swung open, and the Viscount entered like a man who owned every room he walked into. He was younger than she’d expected—perhaps thirty, with dark hair that curled just past his collar and eyes the color of a winter sea. He wore his riding coat with an easy arrogance, gloves already removed, as if he hadn’t a doubt he’d be received.

“Lady Eleanor.” He bowed, but his gaze never left her face. “I confess I expected your uncle to greet me. Or at the very least, your aunt to chaperone with frantic propriety.”

“I dismissed them,” Eleanor said. “We have legal matters to discuss, and I find that witnesses only muddy the waters.”

That made him pause. A flicker of something—amusement, perhaps—crossed his features before he settled into the chair across from her without invitation. “Legal matters. An interesting choice of phrase for a lady discussing her engagement.”

“Engagements are contracts, my lord. And contracts are best examined before they’re signed, not after.” She folded her hands in her lap, a calm she did not feel. “I’ve had the opportunity to review the settlement your solicitors drafted.”

“You’ve read it?”

“Thoroughly. Twice.” She smiled, neat and sharp. “You’ll forgive me if I found it rather one-sided.”

Vane leaned back, studying her with renewed attention. “One-sided in whose favor?”

“Yours, obviously. The dowry lands transfer to you outright upon marriage, with no provision for my maintenance should you predecease me beyond a paltry widow’s portion. The jointure is set at a fixed sum that does not account for inflation or the estate’s potential growth. And should the marriage produce no heir within five years—which is rather presumptuous, I think, to include at all—the Ashworth properties revert to your control entirely, with me left dependent on your grace.”

She paused, letting the silence stretch.

“I would have struck that clause entirely, my lord. It suggests you anticipate failure.”

Vane’s expression had shifted from amusement to something sharper. He tapped his fingers on the armrest once, twice. “You have a remarkable understanding of legal documents for a lady of leisure.”

“I have a remarkable understanding of anything that threatens to cage me.” Eleanor met his gaze squarely. “My father’s will was very clear that my dowry was to be held in trust for my benefit. That trust’s terms were not fulfilled in this contract. I want to know why.”

Vane’s smile returned, but it was thinner now. “Perhaps your uncle and I came to a different arrangement than what your father intended.”

“My father is dead. My uncle has little to gain by protecting my interests. Which makes me wonder—” She tilted her head, watching him the way she’d watched opposing counsel during cross-examination. “What exactly are you owed, Lord Vane? What debt could possibly justify such a settlement?”

For a long moment, he said nothing. The fire crackled. Outside, a carriage rumbled past on the cobbles. Then Vane laughed—a genuine sound, low and warm, that caught her off guard.

“You are nothing like the reports I received,” he said. “They told me Lady Eleanor was sweet. Docile. A girl of excellent breeding and no opinions.”

“Then your informants were fools.” Eleanor allowed herself a thin smile. “Or perhaps they wished to sell you a bride who wouldn’t fight back.”

“And you intend to fight?”

“I intend to negotiate.”

Vane rose, crossing to the window with the restless energy of a man who didn’t like being cornered. He stood with his back to her for a moment, and when he spoke, his voice had lost its banter.

“Your uncle owes me twelve thousand pounds, Lady Eleanor. A debt incurred by your father three years before his death—a gambling obligation, secured against the estate. When your father died, the debt passed to your uncle. He has paid me nothing. Not a penny.” He turned to face her. “I offered to forgive the debt entirely in exchange for your hand. Your uncle thought it a generous arrangement.”

Eleanor’s mind raced. Twelve thousand pounds. A substantial fortune, but not impossible for an estate like Ashworth Hall—unless the estate was already bleeding coin. The journal had hinted at financial trouble, but she’d assumed it was her uncle’s mismanagement, not a debt her father had run up at the card tables.

“Show me the papers,” she said. “The original marker. The proof of debt.”

Vane raised an eyebrow. “You doubt my word?”

“I doubt everyone’s word until I see documentation. It’s a professional habit.”

“Professional.” He shook his head slowly. “You are the most peculiar thing I’ve encountered in years, Lady Eleanor. And I’ve met quite a few peculiar things.”

He reached into his coat and withdrew a folded sheaf of papers, extending them toward her. Eleanor took them without hesitation, unfolding the documents and scanning the contents with the speed of practice.

It took her less than thirty seconds to find the problem.

“This note,” she said, tapping the signature at the bottom. “This is dated May of 1813. But my father was in Italy from March of that year until December. He could not have signed this in London.” She looked up at Vane, her voice steady. “And the handwriting doesn’t match his. My father was left-handed. This slant is wrong.”

Vane’s jaw tightened. He crossed to her, taking the papers back and examining them himself, his brow furrowing. “The debt passed through your uncle’s hands. I never examined the original marker closely—I trusted your father’s reputation.”

“My father had a reputation for many things,” Eleanor said quietly. “But forgery among them? I don’t believe so. And I don’t believe this debt ever existed.”

Vane stared at the paper, then slowly folded it and returned it to his coat. His expression had gone shuttered, unreadable. “If the debt is false, then your uncle has been manipulating both of us.”

“That would suggest—” Eleanor stopped, the pieces clicking together with uncomfortable force. “That my uncle wanted this marriage to happen. Badly enough to fabricate a debt and give me to you in payment.”

“Why would he do that?”

The door behind them opened, and Eleanor’s aunt Prudence appeared, her face pinched with anxiety. “Lord Vane. Eleanor. I’m sorry to intrude, but—” She hesitated, glancing between them. “There’s a messenger. From London. He says it’s urgent, and that it concerns—concerns Lord Ashworth’s business affairs.”

Eleanor rose, her heart quickening. She looked at Vane, who had gone still, his attention fixed on Prudence.

“Show him in,” Eleanor said.

But Vane held up a hand. “No. I’ll go.” He turned to Eleanor, and there was something new in his eyes—not dismissal, but calculation. A reassessment. “You’ve given me much to consider, Lady Eleanor. I suggest you do the same.”

“Consider what?”

“Whether your uncle’s schemes are the only ones you should be worried about.” He bowed, shallower than before, and strode toward the door. At the threshold, he paused. “We will speak again soon. I imagine sooner than either of us expects.”

The door closed behind him.

Eleanor stood alone in the blue salon, her heart hammering against her ribs. Twelve thousand pounds. A forged debt. A messenger from London. And a man who had just realized that the woman he planned to marry might be more danger to him than her uncle could possibly be.

She crossed to the window, watching Vane climb into his carriage. The messenger had dismounted, waiting at the servants’ entrance with a sealed dispatch in his hand.

It was meant for Lord Ashworth.

But Lord Ashworth was nowhere to be found. And Eleanor was very, very good at reading other people’s mail.