Chapter 10
Two days later, the morning room at Powis House brimmed with sunlight, but the atmosphere crackled with cold judgments.
Every inch of its marble-and-wood expanse proclaimed power.
The high table by the window bore not tea or ledgers but crisp parchments, a silver-capped inkwell, and a paper knife honed to an unforgiving edge.
Around the room, the ducal family and their allies—cousins, uncles, and the occasional sycophantic Viscount—hovered, anticipation etched on their faces.
At the head of the room, William stood rigidly, his gaze locked ahead.
The legal men arrived precisely on the hour.
Three of them. The chief solicitor, stooped but alert, the junior, with a quill tucked behind one ear, and the third, a figure of anonymity, there to bear witness.
William acknowledged them with a slight nod, then turned his attention to the garden beyond the windows.
The light outside was brittle, filtered through mist coated glass, mirroring the sensation of fracturing within him.
He listened for the rustle of seating and the clearing of throats to settle. Then, without shifting from his position, he spoke.
“You all know why we are assembled.”
The phrase landed heavily, a rebuke rather than a question. William surveyed the faces before him: Uncle George, pale and smirking. Mother, her lips pressed into a thin line. His other relatives feigning boredom yet observing everything.
The solicitor, Dobson, nodded gravely. “We are prepared to advise on the disposition of the Atteberry bequest, should you have arrived at a decision, Your Grace.”
William’s hands rested on the table, fingers splayed. A muscle in his jaw twitched, the only sign of his struggle to remain still.
“I have,” he said.
He glanced at his family, then at the legal men.
Protocol dictated he address the lawyers, but he had always despised protocol.
“You have received the terms of the late Duke’s trust. The inheritance of the Pembroke land grant is conditional upon my marrying an approved candidate by the end of the Season. ”
A collective intake of breath rippled through the room as anticipation and dread swelled.
Dobson cleared his throat. “That is the principal clause, Your Grace, yes.”
“And if I refuse?” William kept his voice steady, but his knuckles turned white against the linen beneath them.
Dobson winced. “The Trust would revert to your cousin Thomas, as the next male heir. The legal mechanism is—”
“I know the mechanism,” William interrupted, his tone flat.
“What I wish clarified for everyone present is the precise nature of the stipulation.” He looked down at the memorandum, its text etched in his memory.
“The marriage must be to a woman of unimpeachable character, specifically not to any woman with a previous attachment or alliance.”
A murmur traveled the length of the table, recognition and calculation washing over them. Even those who claimed indifference leaned forward, sensing the potential for scandal.
Mother spoke, her voice thin but sharp. “You need not spell it out, William. We are all acquainted with the gossip.” She glanced at the legal minds. “Perhaps the professionals here would advise my son on the value of the Trust, and the consequences of forfeiture.”
Dobson nodded, reluctantly complying. “It is a considerable sum, Your Grace. Not merely monetary, but the land…ancient and unlikely to return to the House once ceded. One could say it is the future, as well as the present, at stake.”
William regarded the solicitor with something like pity. “What you mean, Mr. Dobson, is that my entire life has been mortgaged to the whims of a man already dead.”
Dobson remained silent.
William took a breath and spoke again. “I decline the stipulation.”
A silence enveloped the room, as if even the air had paused.
Uncle George was the first to recover. “You cannot be serious, William. The Pembroke Trust is the backbone of—”
“It will be the backbone of Thomas’s estate, then.” William fixed his gaze on the old man, daring him to continue.
A vein throbbed in George’s temple. “Do you understand what you are sacrificing? For the sake of what? A dalliance? A mistress? An unsuitable—” He caught himself, but the words hung in the air.
William did not blink. “I understand better than anyone here.”
Dobson, to his credit, tried again. “If I may, Your Grace, there is the matter of public perception. The announcement of your withdrawal from the Trust may create opportunities for speculation. There are already rumors of—”
“I have heard them.” William straightened, shoulders squared.
“Let it be known that I am not pursuing a match with any debutante. My attentions are not, nor have they ever been, offered to Lady Harrington, or Penelope, or any of the others on your list. I renounce the Trust. Let the record show it.”
The younger solicitor fumbled for his quill, scratching furiously to capture the language verbatim. William noticed the tremor in his hand.
Mother’s voice was faint but cutting. “And what of Lady Fairfax, William? Do you wish to proclaim her virtue next?”
He turned to his mother, meeting her eyes. “Lady Fairfax is irrelevant to this discussion. I will not have her name used as a weapon. If anyone in this room utters it again, they will do so at the cost of my regard.”
The room froze, the threat palpable. William let the moment linger, then nodded to Dobson. “Anything further?”
Dobson licked his lips, eyes darting between those present. “Only the formalities, Your Grace. If you would sign the declaration of intent, we may proceed to notarization.”
William picked up the pen, finding it heavier than expected. He signed with a flourish, the Atteberry hand cold and final. He slid the document across the table, watching as the junior solicitor sanded and blotted the signature with trembling efficiency.
He did not wait for applause or recrimination. He gathered the second set of papers, dismissed the assembly with a nod, and left the room through the side door, closing it with a click that echoed in his mind like the lid of a coffin.
His study was a world away. Smaller, lined with books, a single chair at a plain writing desk. The sun here was grey, filtered through the city’s haze. William set the signed declaration on the blotter, then unlocked the bottom drawer and withdrew two documents he had prepared the night before.
The first was addressed to his factor, Mr. Mallory.
An explicit instruction that no alteration or dispersal of Lady Fairfax’s accounts was to occur without her written signature.
He read it over twice, refining a clause, tightening a line.
When satisfied, he signed and sealed it with the Powis crest, the red wax burning his thumb.
The second was a draft of a post-nuptial agreement.
A contract stipulating that, in the event of his marrying Lady Fairfax, all her holdings, present and future, would remain her sole property, irrevocable, untouchable by any future Duke or legal maneuver, and she would have full control.
He hesitated over the phrasing, unsure if it was too direct, too much an admission. He left it unaltered.
He leaned back in the chair, eyes closed, letting exhaustion wash over him.
His mind replayed her voice saying, “I cannot be your property, or your project, or your problem to solve.” He wondered if this gesture would read as contrition or as another form of control.
He decided it did not matter. What mattered was that she would see the contract, signed in his own hand, and know exactly what he was offering—or refusing.
He summoned the footman with a single bell.
“Mason,” he said, “these are to be delivered to Lady Fairfax at her residence. Not to her steward, not to her secretary. Directly into her keeping. You will wait for a reply.”
The footman bowed, eyes wide, and took the letters. William watched him go, noting the ripple of unease as the servant passed through the corridor. The house had a way of amplifying secrets; already, the word would be circulating, first among the staff, then to the city.
When the door closed, William allowed himself to collapse onto the desk. His head pressed against the blotter, cold and faintly smelling of ink. He stayed there for a count of sixty, perhaps longer.
William did not permit himself to think of failure or the landscape of loss ahead. Instead, he let the numbness seep in, freezing his thoughts until they flickered at the corners of his mind.
He thought fleetingly of the letter Helena might send in response, the words she would choose—cutting, clinical, or perhaps a single, savage line. He tried to imagine a future in which he was forgiven, or at least understood.
He failed.
He set the pen down and, for the first time, left the page unmarked.
In the silence, the crackle of the dying fire sounded like a judge’s gavel or the slow applause of a ghost.