Chapter Fifty
Lady Beatrice Hatherleigh reclined in her high-backed chair, the velvet of her gown whispering as she crossed her ankles. Her cane leaned casually against the armrest.
The drawing room, softly lit with the golden glow of candles, reflected the careful symmetry of her world: every object in its place, every visitor aware of their position.
“Reginald,” she said smoothly, “I hope you organized someone to dispose of the man from Whitcombe and Hawthorne insisting we reimburse him for the payments we received?”
The major nodded. “I did, my lady.”
“The cheek of that man! We killed a fair few of those connected to the penicillin circle. One must always be paid for work done, even if the job wasn’t complete; our group put in many hours.” She sniffed. “Though all this talk of pay is rather vulgar.”
“I think,” Major Ellison spoke up, “that we have to be careful, my lady. We can’t let word get out about our unsuccessful mission. We still need clients.”
Beatrice huffed. “We already have a new client who is far more interesting than the last and paying much more.”
“And what do you plan to do with Professor Cole?” the major asked, clearly thinking strategically.
She felt her fingers spark a little as her anger flared.
“Unfortunately, going up against a Fated couple has caused too many losses. For now, we need all our focus on our new client. You are right: we have a reputation to uphold, and as much as it pains me to admit it, we need to repair some of the damage from our recent failure.”
She toyed with the idea of revenge—extinguishing the irritant Isla herself—but she was not a petty person, and now was not the time. The game was bigger than spite.
A soft knock and a maid poked her head in, her timid voice barely carrying. “Milady, I—”
The interruption broke her composure. Her hand twitched.
“I told you I am not to be disturbed,” she snapped.
Sparks shot from her fingers, incinerating the girl.
Flames leapt in tiny arcs—a controlled pyrotechnic ballet, an unintended indoor fireworks display, born from her anger.
Lady Beatrice’s eyes followed the display with a slight, satisfied smile. It was New Year’s Eve after all.
She heaved a sigh. “I cannot seem to get decent staff these days.” Looking back at her two guests, she added, “Do not be distracted by the theatrics,” her voice calm again.
“Revenge on Isla Cole will come, but money comes first. The professor can wait—everything will fall into place, eventually. And when it does... well.”
She was an excellent chess player. There was a time for action and a time for patience.
Her gaze swept the room, landing briefly on the two men who thought themselves her equals. “Power,” she said softly, “is the only measure that matters. Always.”
And with that, she rose, cane tapping the floor in a slow, deliberate rhythm—each tap a promise that the game was far from over.