Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
They moved to a small clearing beside the road where both carriages could rest properly.
The horses were tended to while the humans arranged themselves in an awkward circle—Poppy and Henry on one side, Gregory and Anthea on the other, with Sybil and Hugo positioned somewhere in between like reluctant mediators.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Then Gregory cleared his throat. "I understand why you felt this was necessary," he said, addressing both Poppy and Henry but keeping his tone neutral. "But I need you to understand the full scope of what you are doing."
"We know the risks," Henry said. His arm was around Poppy's shoulders, protective. "We discussed them extensively before making this decision."
"Did you discuss the fact that an elopement to Gretna Green will brand Miss Poppy as impulsive at best, desperate at worst?" Gregory asked. "That Society will assume the worst—that she was compromised, or pregnant, or fleeing some scandal?"
Poppy flinched slightly, but her chin remained high. "Better they assume wrong things about me than discover true things about Henry's father."
"Your father's debts are paid," Gregory said, turning to Henry. "You have spent three years repairing the damage he caused. That speaks to your character, not against it."
"Tell that to Society," Henry said bitterly. "Tell that to the matchmaking mamas who will whisper about tainted bloodlines and moral failings passed through generations."
"They will whisper regardless," Gregory pointed out. "The question is whether they whisper about old debts or about a scandalous elopement. Which rumor would you prefer to combat?"
Henry's jaw worked. "At least with an elopement, the scandal is contained to us. It does not touch my sisters."
"It touches everyone connected to you," Sybil interjected gently. "Your sisters included. If you are branded as the man who eloped with a duke's sister-in-law, that reflects on your entire family."
"Better that than having Beatrice spread lies about my father," Henry insisted.
"Beatrice has no power anymore," Gregory said firmly. "I have already made arrangements to remove her from London society entirely."
Poppy's head snapped up. "What arrangements?"
Gregory's expression was calm but his voice carried an edge of steel. "After her behavior at Veronica's wedding, I made inquiries. Called in favors. Your stepmother will be relocating to Bath within the week."
"Bath?" Poppy repeated.
"A lovely city," Gregory said. "Quiet. Respectable.
Far from London's social circles and gossip mills.
I have purchased a house there—modest but comfortable—and arranged for a modest annual income.
Enough for her to live on, but not enough to make the kind of social waves she has become accustomed to. "
"You cannot simply exile her," Poppy protested, though she sounded uncertain.
"Can I not?" Gregory raised an eyebrow. "I am a duke. She attempted to destroy my sister-in-law's wedding with unfounded accusations. I have every right to make clear that her presence in London society is no longer welcome."
He paused, letting that sink in.
"And if Bath proves insufficient—if she continues to cause trouble or spread malicious rumors—I have properties in the colonies. In India. Places far enough from England that her reach becomes entirely negligible."
The implied threat hung in the air like smoke.
Henry's expression shifted from defensive to calculating. "You would actually do that? Send her away?"
"I would do whatever necessary to protect my family," Gregory said simply. "Which now includes you, if you marry Poppy properly. With my blessing and a special license that does not require a scandalous dash to Scotland."
"A special license," Henry repeated slowly.
"I can have one procured within two days," Gregory said. "You could be married by week's end. Properly, in a church, with witnesses and legitimacy. No scandal. No whispers about desperation or impropriety."
"And my sisters?" Henry asked. "If Beatrice discovers the truth about my father before—"
"She will not," Gregory interrupted. "Because she will be in Bath. Under careful observation. With very limited funds and no social influence to leverage. And if she attempts to spread rumors, I will ensure they are thoroughly discredited."
He leaned forward slightly.
"I am not without resources, Mr. Ashford. And I am not without a certain... reputation for dealing with problems directly. If your primary concern is protecting your sisters from gossip and scandal, then allying yourself with me is far more effective than running to Scotland."
Henry looked at Poppy. Some silent communication passed between them.
"What about the scandal of calling off an elopement?" Poppy asked. "We are already here. People will know we left London together."
"Will they?" Sybil asked. "Who saw you leave? Who knows where you went?"
Poppy frowned. "I... I do not know, actually. We were careful. Left separately, met at a coaching inn—"
"Then as far as Society knows, you went to visit a friend in the country," Sybil said. "And Mr. Ashford happened to be traveling in the same direction. Pure coincidence."
"And if anyone questions the timing?" Henry asked.
"Then they will be reminded that a duke's sister-in-law has every right to travel with appropriate chaperonage," Gregory said. "Which you now have, given that my wife and her friends are present."
"You have thought of everything," Poppy said, but her tone was more wondering than accusatory.
"I have spent years in military strategy," Gregory replied. "This is simply another type of campaign. One with significantly lower stakes than most battles, but requiring similar planning."
Anthea had been silent through the entire exchange, watching Gregory methodically dismantle every objection, every fear, every reason Poppy and Henry had given for their desperate flight.
He was magnificent. Commanding without being overbearing. Logical without being cold. Offering solutions that protected everyone involved while maintaining dignity and propriety.
Everything she should have done. Everything she had failed to do because she was too busy being in love to notice her sister spiraling toward this desperate act.
"Anthea?" Poppy's voice broke through her thoughts. "What do you think?"
All eyes turned to her.
Anthea opened her mouth. Closed it. What could she possibly say? That she thought Gregory's plan was sound? That she was grateful he was handling this because she had proven herself completely inadequate?
"I think," she managed finally, her voice hollow, "that Gregory has proposed a reasonable solution."
"That is all?" Poppy asked, frowning. "You are not going to lecture me about responsibility or duty or—"
"What would be the point?" Anthea interrupted, more sharply than she intended. "You have made your feelings clear. You do not trust me to protect you. And given my recent performance, I cannot blame you for that."
"Anthea, that is not—" Poppy started.
"It is fine," Anthea said, cutting her off. "Gregory has handled everything. You will have your marriage, Henry's sisters will be protected, and Beatrice will be removed from the situation entirely. Everyone gets what they want."
The words came out flat. Lifeless.
Gregory was watching her with growing concern, but she could not meet his eyes.
"So we accept?" Henry asked, still looking uncertain. "We return to London and wait for the special license?"
"Yes," Gregory said firmly. "You return to London. You stay at my townhouse under my protection. And in two days, you marry properly. With family present and your reputations intact."
Henry looked at Poppy. "What do you think?"
Poppy was still watching Anthea, her expression troubled. "I think—" She stopped. Started again. "I think it is a good plan. Better than what we were attempting."
"Then we agree," Henry said. He stood, offering his hand to Gregory. "Thank you, Your Grace. For your generosity and for—" He paused. "For not making us feel like fools."
"You are not fools," Gregory said, shaking his hand. "You are young people in love trying to protect each other from a genuinely malicious woman. That is admirable, if misguided in execution."
They began making arrangements for the return journey. Poppy and Henry would travel in Gregory's carriage under Sybil and Hugo's chaperonage. Gregory and Anthea would follow in the other carriage.
As they prepared to depart, Poppy caught Anthea's arm.
"Thank you," she said quietly. "For coming after us. For—"
"You do not need to thank me," Anthea interrupted. "I did nothing. Gregory handled everything."
"That is not true," Poppy protested. "You—"
"I failed you," Anthea said flatly. "I was so consumed with my own happiness that I did not notice you were planning something desperate. If I had been paying attention—if I had been doing my job properly—you would not have felt this was your only option."
"Anthea, no," Poppy said, distress clear in her voice. "That is not why I—"
"It does not matter why," Anthea said. "What matters is that Gregory has fixed what I broke. You will have your marriage, and your reputation will remain intact. That is the important thing."
She gently extracted her arm from Poppy's grip and moved toward the waiting carriage before her sister could protest further.
The journey back to London was quieter than the journey north had been.
Anthea sat in the carriage with Gregory, staring out the window as the countryside rolled past in reverse. The sun was setting now, painting everything in shades of gold and amber that should have been beautiful but felt merely distant.
"That went well," Gregory said after they had been traveling for perhaps half an hour. "Better than I expected, actually. I thought Henry might be more resistant."
"Mm," Anthea managed.
Another silence.
"Poppy will be fine," Gregory continued. "The special license will be procured by tomorrow afternoon. We can have the wedding at St. George's—keep it small and intimate but entirely proper. No scandal at all."
"That is good," Anthea said automatically.
"Anthea." Gregory's voice was gentle. "Look at me. Please."
She turned from the window reluctantly.
Gregory was watching her with an expression that made her chest ache. Concern and love and confusion all tangled together.
"What is wrong?" he asked. "We found them. We stopped the elopement. Everything worked out exactly as we hoped. So why do you look like—" He stopped, seeming to search for words. "Why do you look like you have just suffered a defeat?"
"Because I did," Anthea said simply.
"What are you talking about?" Gregory leaned forward. "Anthea, we won. Your sister is safe. Her reputation is intact. Henry's family is protected. This is a victory."
"For you," Anthea said. "You came up with the solutions. You handled everything. You protected them. I did nothing."
"That is not true," Gregory protested. "You—"
"I failed them," Anthea interrupted. "I was supposed to be their guardian. Their protector. The one who helped them navigate Society and find good matches without scandal or shame. And instead, I was so distracted by us—by my own happiness—that I drove my sister to run away."
"You did not drive her to anything," Gregory said firmly. "She made her own choice based on her own fears about Beatrice. That has nothing to do with—"
"It has everything to do with me," Anthea said.
Her voice was rising despite her efforts to remain calm.
"If I had been paying attention, I would have noticed she was frightened.
Would have realized she was planning something desperate.
Would have provided reassurance before she felt running away was her only option. "
"You cannot watch her every moment," Gregory argued. "You cannot anticipate every fear or concern—"
"I should have tried," Anthea said. "I should have been focused on my responsibilities instead of—" She stopped, unable to finish.
Instead of falling in love. Instead of being happy. Instead of thinking about herself for once.
"Instead of what?" Gregory prompted, his expression darkening. "Instead of allowing yourself to be happy? Instead of having a life of your own?"
"I had responsibilities," Anthea said stubbornly.
"You are a person, not a martyr," Gregory countered. "You are allowed to have your own desires, your own happiness. That does not make you a bad guardian."
"Clearly it does," Anthea said bitterly. "Because the moment I stopped watching constantly, everything fell apart."
Gregory looked at her for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was very quiet.
"Is this about Poppy? Or is this about you needing to punish yourself for daring to be happy?"
The question struck too close to home.
Anthea turned back to the window. "I do not wish to discuss this further."
"Anthea—"
"Please," she said, and hated how her voice broke. "Just... please. Not now."
She felt Gregory retreat. Felt the careful distance he put between them—not physical distance, they were still sitting on the same bench, but emotional distance. The walls going back up on both sides.
The carriage rolled on through the gathering darkness.
Anthea kept her gaze fixed on the window, on her own reflection ghosted in the glass. She looked tired. Defeated.
Like someone who had finally proven Beatrice right about everything.
Behind her, she could feel Gregory's concerned gaze. Could sense his desire to comfort, to reach out, to somehow fix what was breaking between them.
But she could not accept it. Could not let him convince her that this was not her fault when she knew—with cold, crushing certainty—that it was.
She had failed. Failed her sister, failed her responsibilities, failed everyone who had trusted her to be better.
And no amount of talking would change that fundamental truth.
The miles passed. The sun set completely, leaving only darkness outside the carriage windows.
And Anthea sat silent and still, wrapped in her own inadequacy, unable to accept the comfort being offered.
Unable to forgive herself for proving Beatrice right.
Unable to see any path forward that did not involve admitting she was exactly as incompetent as her stepmother had always claimed.
Everything had been resolved. Poppy would have her proper wedding. Henry's sisters would be protected. Beatrice would be exiled to Bath.
Everyone would be fine.
Except Anthea, who sat in the darkness with her husband beside her, feeling more alone than she had ever felt in her life.