Chapter 7
Seven
The dining room door clicked shut behind Ramsay.
Silence followed. An uncomfortable, humming silence, thick as syrup and just as slow to pass.
Eleanor stood where he’d left her, one hand still lightly pressed to the back of the empty chair next to her.
Her heart was still pounding though his presence had vanished from the room as swiftly as it had come.
The room was golden with candlelight and cloying with the scent of overcooked lamb. She hated the smell tonight.
No one moved for what felt like an eternity. Then Norman cleared his throat, as though he was breaking a spell.
“We have a problem,” he said grimly, stepping away from the sideboard where he’d remained since dinner ended. “With Lord Gifford.”
Kitty’s eyes narrowed, her fingers still wrapped tightly around her wine glass. “We do.”
Norman poured a splash of port into his glass then thought better of it and set it down untouched.
“I know him. Of course, he will be telling stories. If there’s a chance to ruin your name and protect his own, he’ll take it.
He’ll be at White’s and Lady Beaulieu’s and every card table in Mayfair whispering filth.
He won’t stop until every last man believes he’s the one who was wronged. ”
Eleanor stiffened. “What sort of stories?” she asked though the answer was already forming inside her, ugly and inevitable.
Norman looked at her. “You know what sort.”
Her breath snagged. A thousand memories of the voyage—of the railing, of his hands, of the cold sea air—clashed with the hot embarrassment of Gifford’s face, his hands, the moment that shattered everything. Her face flushed as if she could feel the judgment of invisible onlookers pressing in.
Kitty’s hand curled around the edge of the settee. “He wouldn’t dare—”
Then she faltered. A flicker of regret crossed her chest, and she lowered her gaze to her lap.
She paused, her voice breaking just slightly. “I’m ashamed, Eleanor. I should have done more. I should have protected you.”
“He would,” Norman said shortly. “And he probably already has. The words he’s using are not the kind we repeat in drawing rooms. But you were seen. That is all he needs.”
Eleanor’s mouth went dry. She heard her own voice, thin and uncertain. “But no one of consequence was there. No one who would repeat—”
“Someone always repeats,” Norman said. “Servants talk. Women write letters. Gifford is trying to control the narrative before we do.”
Eleanor’s stomach twisted. A voice inside her kept whispering that this was her fault. She had let it go on for too long. She had smiled when she didn’t want to, accepted his attention because it was easier than refusing them outright. And now look.
She had waited, hoped things would resolve themselves, and instead, she had allowed this to grow into a mess that touched everyone she loved. Her brother. Kitty. Their name.
The shame burned hot in her cheeks, and though her mind screamed that she had done nothing wrong, her heart still told her she should have seen this coming. Her intuition had never liked Gifford. Not once. And still, she’d given him space. Permission. That, she would never forgive herself for.
“And what is your solution?” Kitty asked, more composed than Eleanor felt.
“We attend the ball tomorrow.”
Kitty blinked. “The Halesworth affair?”
Norman nodded. “Everyone will be there. If we appear, calm and unbothered, if Eleanor is seen smiling and surrounded by eligible gentlemen—then we may yet snuff out the flame before it turns into something worse.”
“May,” Kitty echoed, unconvinced.
“It is our best option.”
Eleanor finally stepped away from the chair. “You want to parade me in front of the entire ton like a horse at auction.”
Norman flinched but didn’t deny it. “We must find you a suitor, Eleanor. And fast. A man willing to act quickly. Preferably with a title.”
“And who will want me now?” she asked, too coldly. “After what Lord Gifford says?”
Kitty stood. “Plenty of men. You’re beautiful, well-bred, clever. It’s not about whether they want you. It’s about whether they want a connection to the Egertons.”
Eleanor looked to her sister-in-law, seeking—what, exactly? Permission to be angry? Hope? A sliver of dignity. “That’s all I am, then. A connection. A solution to someone else’s scandal.”
Kitty stepped closer, her voice lower now. “It’s not fair, I know. But you must understand, Eleanor—when I was in your position last year, I had no other choice either.”
“You chose Norman.”
“I also chose survival.”
Eleanor’s chest ached. “And this is what I must do to survive? Marry someone I don’t love? For the sake of appearances?”
“It’s not about love,” Norman said, too harshly.
Eleanor turned on him. “Then what is it about? Reputation? Your guilt? Making it right?”
Norman didn’t respond. His mouth tightened, his eyes flicked toward the window, and the candlelight etched new lines into his face. Eleanor realized with a start that he looked older than he had in Greece. Tired.
Kitty took her hand. “You’re not alone, dearest. I wish the world were kinder to us. But unless you’re willing to disappear from society forever, go live in the country or abroad, marriage is the only path left.”
Eleanor said nothing. Her gaze fell to the fire, where a log hissed and collapsed inward. The quiet was loud. Even the clock seemed hesitant to tick.
“I could never leave,” she said after a long moment. “Everything I’ve ever known is here. My family. My friends. London is all I have.”
Kitty’s thumb stroked the back of her hand. “Then we make a plan.”
“A plan,” she echoed, hollowly.
“Tomorrow you’ll wear the blue silk. It brings out your eyes. I’ll stay near, make introductions. Norman will speak to the gentlemen. We’ll draw attention, gently but firmly.”
Norman exhaled. “And if someone respectable asks to court you… we accept.”
Eleanor’s lips parted. “Just like that.”
“Yes.”
“And what if it’s someone like the Earl of Gifford? What if I make the wrong choice?”
“You won’t,” Kitty said. “Not this time.”
“I didn’t choose Lord Gifford either,” Eleanor whispered. “He was chosen for me. And when I finally found the courage to speak—to say I didn’t want him—he made certain I would never be heard again.”
Kitty looked stricken. “You’re right.”
Eleanor blinked.
“We let them decide so much of our lives,” Kitty continued. “We’re punished for changing our minds. For speaking. For fighting back.” She smiled then, small and sad. “And if we don’t fight, we’re punished anyway.”
Eleanor felt something loosen in her chest—something dangerous. “Then tell me, Kitty. Why must I pay the price for what Lord Gifford did? Why must I live my life with the consequences of his actions?”
“Because this is the world,” Kitty said simply. “Because you were born a lady, and that comes with rules you never agreed to. Because unless we burn it all down—which I do not recommend—the only way out is through.”
The silence returned. This time, it was Kitty who broke it.
“You know I left London once when I was younger than you. I thought I could live abroad forever. Venice, Paris, the Nile. And I did for years. But the longer I stayed away, the more I felt like a ghost. No roots. No place to land. It sounds like freedom, but it isn’t. Not always.”
Eleanor drew in a breath. Her eyes burned though no tears came. It was too big for tears.
Kitty gave a wan smile. “You said it yourself. You couldn’t leave your family. And I know how that feels. I couldn’t leave mine either.”
Norman said nothing. His hands were clenched at his sides. The fire hissed again.
“Tomorrow,” he said finally, his voice taut. “We put an end to this. One way or another.”
Eleanor didn’t reply. She didn’t have to. The room was quiet again, but her heart pounded loud in her chest. Tomorrow, she would smile. Tomorrow, she would charm. Tomorrow, she would find a man willing to fix her.
Tonight, she grieved.
And as she walked slowly to her chamber, arms wrapped tight around herself, the echo of Ramsay’s voice lingered.
She had not even said goodbye.
Belson entered without ceremony. “This arrived for you, Your Grace.”
Ramsay took the letter. The handwriting was unfamiliar. Sharp strokes. Unpracticed. No crest, no name, no return.
Ramsay did not like letters.
He liked blunt words, spoken face-to-face. He liked knowing the shape of a man’s mouth when he lied. But this neat parchment, sealed in wax, delivered by Belson on a silver tray, reeked of cowardice.
It was the morning after the disastrous dinner. The silence Ramsay had left in his wake still clung to him like a damp coat. He had risen before the sun, taken his usual tea with no sugar, and sat alone in the library, the fire low and the air stale.
Sleep had not visited him. He had lain awake replaying every glance, every word exchanged around that suffocating dining table. He had watched Eleanor’s face as it fell, and though her eyes never sought his once more, he felt the echo of her gaze like a bruise across his chest.
He cracked the seal and unfolded the parchment.
You walk London’s streets like a nobleman. But I remember what you did in Inverness. Do they know what kind of man you are? Or shall I enlighten them?
There was no signature. No address. Nothing but that single paragraph, scrawled in uneven lines, and a lingering scent of smoke. As though the words themselves were trying to smother him.
Ramsay stared at the page for a long moment.
Then he folded it once, twice, and tossed it into the fire. It did not catch right away. The paper curled slowly, as though reluctant to burn. The edges darkened. The words twisted. But it wasn’t fast enough.
“So it begins,” he murmured.
Belson watched from the doorway, composed as always. “A problem, Your Grace?”
“A coward with ink and a memory,” Ramsay said. He stood, crossing to the mantel, eyes still fixed on the hearth. “They always wait in the shadows before they strike.”
Belson’s expression did not change. “Inverness?”
“Aye.” Ramsay’s voice was low, rough with old rage. “Something I did five years ago. Something they’ve decided to call murder.”
Belson stepped inside, closing the door softly behind him. “Is it untrue?”
Ramsay looked down at his hands. “No.”
The fire popped. The last corner of the letter blackened and disappeared.
“And now, someone’s dredging it up,” Belson said.
He nodded. “Because now, I’ve become someone worth destroying.”
Silence stretched between them.
Belson approached slowly. “Then what will you do?”
Ramsay turned from the flames. His grey eyes were darker than before. “What I should’ve done the moment I stepped off that bloody ship. Secure a duchess.”
Belson blinked. “Your Grace—”
“I should’ve acted at dinner. But I let pride get in the way. Let myself feel cornered when the truth is, I need her.”
Belson inclined his head. “The Duke of Wharton’s sister?”
“There is no one else,” Ramsay said simply. “Not in this city. Not with her name, her breeding, her fire. She’s already entangled in this mess. And the girl—”
“Penelope,” Belson supplied, almost gently.
“She seemed to like Lady Eleanor,” Ramsay said. “More than she likes me. And if this letter is only the first—if more are coming, then I need to shield her. I gave my word to George that I’d raise her, but I never said I could do it alone.”
Belson nodded once. “Shall I prepare your coat, then?”
Ramsay smirked. “I’ll need more than a coat tonight. I’ll need to look like royalty. No missteps.”
The butler gave a small sniff. “I shall prepare your best cravat, then. And inform the groom to ready the carriage.”
Ramsay hesitated. “Belson.”
“Yes, Sir?”
“Thank you.”
The man gave a slight bow. “We Scots must stick together, Your Grace. Even when we’re pretending not to be.”
Ramsay allowed himself a breath. It did not steady him, but it kept him standing.
He dressed slowly. The navy coat with silver embroidery. A crisp waistcoat that still smelled faintly of cedar and hearth smoke. A shirt, stiff with starch. He let Belson tie the cravat—he had never liked fussing with the thing. Then he took one long look in the mirror.
He looked nothing like the man who had stood on the cliffs of Inverness five years ago, fists bloodied, breath ragged, eyes wild with fear and defiance. He had worn leather then. His hair had been longer. There had been mud on his boots and blood on his knuckles.
He looked like a duke. And yet he felt no different.
What would Lady Eleanor say if she knew the truth? That he had killed a man with his bare hands. That the clan had cheered him for it. That it had changed him.
She would flinch, perhaps. Or worse, she would pity him. He could bear contempt. He could bear coldness. But not pity.
She had looked at him differently on the ship. In those strange, suspended moments when she wasn’t frightened or cornered or furious, she had looked at him like he might be something worth touching.
But he had no time for this, making his way down the stairs. The household was already buzzing in preparation. Penelope was somewhere upstairs with her governess. He did not seek her out. He couldn’t. His thoughts were too tangled.
“Your Grace,” Belson said as Ramsay entered the foyer. “The carriage is ready. The invitation to Halesworth’s ball remains unchanged. You are expected.”
“Good,” Ramsay said. “It’s time I made an impression.”
Belson looked him over. “And Lady Eleanor?”
Ramsay’s mouth twisted. “She’ll be there. Hunting for a husband.”
Belson raised an eyebrow. “Then I suggest, Sir, that you do not let her find one.”
Ramsay didn’t smile.
“She’s going to be on display,” he said. “All the sharks will circle. They’ll think she’s weak. Ruined. In need of saving.”
“And you, Sir?”
“I’m not there to save her,” Ramsay said. “I’m there to claim her.”