Chapter Twenty-Two
"Your Grace, I strongly suggest you reconsider this course of action before you make an even greater fool of yourself than you already have."
Lord Harrington's voice carried across the village square with the kind of pompous authority that made Ophelia's teeth clench even from where she stood beside Alexander near their carriage.
The older man sat atop his horse like he was posing for a portrait, his riding crop pointed at a cluster of terrified families who huddled together with their meager belongings already half-loaded onto carts.
Alexander's response was delivered in that dangerously quiet voice she'd come to recognize as his most furious. "The only fool I see here, Harrington, is a man who thinks throwing children into the street in October makes him appear strong rather than simply cruel."
"Cruel?" Harrington laughed, the sound echoing off the stone buildings that lined the village square. "This is business, Montclaire. Something you used to understand before your merchant wife started filling your head with sentimental nonsense about compassion and charity."
Ophelia felt Alexander stiffen beside her, and she placed a warning hand on his arm. The muscle beneath her fingers was rigid with controlled rage, but he didn't shake her off as he might have even a day ago.
"At least eight families, Your Grace," James had reported barely an hour ago, bursting into the library where she and Alexander had been sitting in their usual awkward silence.
"Lord Harrington and some of the other landowners, they're evicting anyone who's behind on rent.
Tonight. They're saying if Montclaire can forgive debts for sentiment, they'll show what proper estate management looks like. "
They'd been in the carriage within minutes, Alexander's face carved from granite, Ophelia's heart racing with dread.
The ride to the village had been tense, both of them understanding that this was somehow their fault—her compassion and his capitulation had triggered this retaliation against innocent families.
Now, standing in the village square with what seemed like half the county watching, the weight of their choices pressed down on them both.
The evicted families consisted mostly of elderly couples and young families with children, the most vulnerable who'd fallen behind during the harsh harvest season.
Mrs. Cooper, whose husband had died in the summer, stood with her three young children, the youngest no more than two years old, clutching a ragged doll.
"These families have been given multiple opportunities to make their payments," Harrington continued, clearly enjoying his moment of authority. "Unlike some estates", his gaze shifted pointedly to Alexander, "we maintain standards. We don't allow sentiment to override sound business practices."
"Sound business practices," Alexander repeated, his voice carrying that particular aristocratic drawl that suggested the speaker had said something too foolish to merit genuine response. "Is that what you call terrorizing widows and orphans in the dark? How very brave of you, Harrington."
"Brave?" Lord Carrington, another of the local landowners, pushed his horse forward.
"What's brave is standing up to the deterioration of proper order.
First you marry beneath yourself", his eyes flicked dismissively to Ophelia," and now you're acting beneath yourself. Your father would be appalled."
"My father is dead," Alexander said flatly. "And therefore spared the sight of what passes for nobility these days."
Ophelia stepped forward before the confrontation could escalate further, her voice carrying with more authority than she felt.
"Lord Harrington, surely these families could be given until the end of the month to make arrangements?
Throwing them out tonight, with nowhere to go, with children who'll sleep in the cold. ..that's not business, it's cruelty."
Harrington's laugh was ugly. "And here she is, the merchant's daughter, trying to teach us about proper management. Tell me, Your Grace, did they cover estate management between lessons on how to count money in your father's shop?"
The insult was so blatant, so deliberately cruel, that gasps rose from the watching crowd.
Ophelia felt heat flood her cheeks, but before she could respond, Alexander moved.
Not violently, but with the kind of controlled precision that was somehow more frightening.
He walked to Harrington's horse, looked up at the mounted man, and smiled.
It was the coldest expression Ophelia had ever seen on his face.
"Harrington, I'm going to make you an offer, and I suggest you take it because it's the only one you'll get." His voice carried clearly across the square, meant for everyone to hear. "I will purchase every debt you're calling in tonight. Full payment, immediately, transferred to you by morning."
The square went silent. Harrington's smug expression faltered. "That's... that would be thousands of pounds."
"Seven thousand, three hundred and forty-six pounds, to be precise," Alexander said with the casual tone of someone discussing the weather. "I reviewed the accounts on the way here. Did you think I wouldn't know exactly what my neighbours were owed?"
"You can't be serious," Carrington spluttered. "You'd ruin yourself for these people?"
"Hardly. Unlike some, I don't live beyond my means or gamble away my children's inheritance at cards." The pointed look he gave Carrington made the man flush dark red—apparently his gambling debts were well known. "I can afford it. The question is whether you can afford not to take it."
"And why wouldn't we?" Harrington tried to regain his composure. "Your money spends as well as anyone's, even if your judgment has been compromised by your unfortunate marriage."
Alexander's smile widened, and Ophelia recognized the look of a predator who'd just cornered his prey.
"Because if you don't, I'll make some calls of my own.
Starting with your creditors in London, Harrington.
Did you think I didn't know about the bridge loan you took against next year's rents?
Rather presumptuous, spending money you haven't collected yet.
And Carrington, that investment in the failed canal project—your partners would be very interested to know just how much you still owe them. "
"You're threatening us?" Harrington's voice had gone shrill.
"I'm offering you a solution that allows everyone to save face," Alexander countered smoothly.
"You get your money, these families keep their homes, and we all pretend this unfortunate evening never happened.
Or, we can do this the hard way, and by morning, everyone in the county will know exactly how precarious your own financial situations really are. "
While Alexander dealt with the landowners, Ophelia had moved among the families, speaking quietly, offering reassurances. She found Mrs. Cooper trying to comfort her crying children and knelt beside them, uncaring that her fine dress was trailing in the mud.
"It's going to be alright," she said softly to the children. "You're going to stay in your home tonight."
"Your Grace," Mrs. Cooper whispered, tears streaming down her face, "we can't accept such charity. It's too much."
"It's not charity," Ophelia said firmly, loud enough for others to hear.
"It's justice. And more than that, it's an investment in this community's future.
" She stood, addressing the gathered families.
"But His Grace and I can't solve every problem with money.
You need to help each other, support each other.
Those who have a little extra this month help those who don't. Create a fund, a network of support. "
"Like a parish council, but for emergency aid," Mr. Fletcher, the blacksmith, said thoughtfully. "We could each contribute what we can, help families before they get to the point of eviction."
"Exactly," Ophelia encouraged, watching as the idea sparked conversations among the villagers. "You're stronger together than apart."
"Listen to her, teaching revolution to the masses," Lord Carrington sneered. "This is what comes of allowing merchants into proper society. They bring their common ideas with them."
That was apparently the final straw for Alexander's control. He turned from Harrington and fixed Carrington with a stare that could have frozen fire itself.
"My wife," he said, each word deliberate and sharp as a blade, "has shown more nobility, more grace, and more genuine leadership in the past hour than you've managed in your entire worthless existence.
She is the Duchess of Montclaire, and you will address her with the respect that title demands, or you will answer to me.
And I assure you, Carrington, that's not a conversation you want to have. "
The defense was so unexpected, so vehement, that even Ophelia stood frozen. Alexander had defended her. Not grudgingly, not from duty, but with genuine fury at the insult to her.
"Furthermore," Alexander continued, his voice carrying to every corner of the square, "any man who thinks compassion is weakness has forgotten what real strength looks like.
My wife reminded me of that truth. She saw suffering and acted to stop it, while you saw opportunity to cause more. Which of us looks stronger now?"
Harrington, red-faced and clearly outmaneuvered, yanked his horse's reins. "You'll regret this, Montclaire. Making enemies of your neighbours for the sake of peasants and a merchant's daughter..."
"The only thing I regret," Alexander interrupted coldly, "is that it took my wife's courage to show me what I should have seen myself—that men like you are parasites, feeding on the vulnerable while calling it tradition. Now get off my land before I forget I'm a gentleman."
"Your land? This is the village square."