Chapter 26
Cecilia set the letter down, her hands trembling.
“My aunt,” she said quietly. “It has to be. She is the only one who would—”
“I know.” Sebastian’s voice was tight with contained fury. “She has been circulating lies through London drawing rooms. This is not the only letter—my mother received two this morning. I expect others will follow.”
“What do they say?”
“Much the same. That you entrapped me. That you schemed for my title. That you arranged clandestine meetings and encouraged improper intimacies.” His jaw hardened. “That you are unfit to be a duchess.”
The words struck like blows. Cecilia had expected anger—resentment, even. But this—this cold, methodical campaign to ruin her reputation before all the world—went beyond anything she had ever endured.
“What are we to do?” she asked.
“We answer. We expose her lies.”
“How?”
“My word should be enough. I am a duke—”
“And she is positioning herself as the wronged party. The generous relative who took in a poor orphan, only to have that orphan betray her trust and steal the match that should have gone to her daughter.” Cecilia’s voice was bitter. “It is a compelling narrative. People will want to believe it.”
Sebastian knelt before her, taking her hands in his. “I do not care what people believe. I know the truth. My mother knows the truth. Everyone who matters knows the truth.”
“But everyone who matters,” she murmured, “is not everyone.” She rose and moved to the window. “What happens while the lies spread? While invitations vanish? While your name suffers for my sake?”
“That will not happen.”
“You cannot promise that.” She stared at the gardens without seeing them. “Perhaps it would be better if—”
“Do not.” His voice cut sharply through the air. “Do not finish that thought. I will not hear it.”
“You cannot stop me from thinking—”
“I can stop you from sacrificing yourself to Lady Ashwood’s spite.” He turned her gently toward him. “Cecilia. Look at me.”
She did.
“I love you,” he said. “I chose you. I will go on choosing you—no matter what is written, whispered, or believed. If society shuts its doors, we will build our own. I will not lose you to a lie.”
“But your family—”
“My family stands with us. They will continue to do so, because they know who you are.” His hands tightened at her shoulders. “We will not retreat. We will meet this head-on. I have already sent for my solicitor.”
“Your solicitor?”
“To investigate. To gather evidence. To destroy these accusations at their root.” His expression turned grim. “If Lady Ashwood wishes to persist in this course, I shall make certain she regrets it.”
***
The solicitor, Mr Hartley, arrived two days later.
He was a precise man in his middle years, with steel-rimmed spectacles and an air of quiet competence that inspired confidence at once. He had served the Ashworth family for decades, Sebastian explained, and could be trusted absolutely.
“Your Grace,” he said, bowing to Sebastian, then offering Cecilia a deeper, more formal bow. “Miss Ashwood. I understand there are matters requiring investigation.”
“Lady Ashwood of Thornfield,” Sebastian said.
“My fiancée’s former guardian. She has been spreading falsehoods about Miss Ashwood’s character throughout London society.
I wish to know everything about her—every secret, every vulnerability, every piece of information that may be used to discredit her accusations. ”
“I see.” Mr Hartley produced a small notebook and a pencil. “Miss Ashwood, if I may—I must ask you several questions about your time at Thornfield. The more detail you can provide, the more effectively I may proceed.”
Cecilia nodded, bracing herself for what she already knew would be an uncomfortable conversation.
“How long did you reside with the Ashwood family?”
“Five years. Since my father’s death.”
“And in what capacity did you reside there?”
“I was—” She hesitated, uncertain how to name what she had been. “I was a dependent. A poor relation, taken in after my father’s estate passed to its male heir—Sir Horace Ashwood.”
“But you were not treated as a member of the family?”
“No. I was given a small room on the upper floor. I dined with the family only when convenient—otherwise with the servants. I dressed their daughter’s hair, kept the household accounts, taught the younger children. I performed the duties of several servants—without pay.”
Mr Hartley’s pencil moved swiftly across the page. “Without pay. For five years.”
“Yes.”
“Were you ever offered wages? Or granted an allowance of any sort?”
“No. Lady Ashwood said my room and board were payment enough—that I ought to be grateful for their generosity in taking me in.”
“I see.” His expression remained composed, though something flickered behind his spectacles. “Miss Ashwood, do you know what became of your father’s estate after his death? His personal effects, investments—any provision that might have been made for your care?”
Cecilia hesitated. “I was told there was nothing. That my father’s debts had consumed everything, and that I was fortunate my uncle was willing to provide for me at all.”
“You were told this by whom?”
“By Lady Ashwood. And by the solicitor who handled my father’s affairs—though I never met him. Lady Ashwood said there was no need.”
Mr Hartley made another note. “Do you recall the solicitor’s name?”
“Grimsby. Mr Arthur Grimsby, of Grimsby and Associates.”
“I know the firm.” His tone was carefully neutral. “I shall make inquiries.”
The interview continued for nearly an hour, touching every corner of Cecilia’s life at Thornfield—the duties she performed, the restrictions she endured, the slow erosion of her status from relation to unpaid servant.
By the time Mr Hartley closed his notebook, she felt drained—wrung out by the effort of laying those years bare.
“I will have preliminary findings within the week,” he said, rising. “In the meantime, I advise discretion. Do not answer the rumours, do not communicate with Lady Ashwood, and do nothing that might be twisted against you.”
“And if the investigation uncovers nothing?” Cecilia asked. “If there is no evidence of wrongdoing?”
Something tightened, almost imperceptibly, in Mr Hartley’s expression.
“In my experience, Miss Ashwood, people who behave as Lady Ashwood has behaved seldom do so only once. If she exploited you, she has likely exploited others. If she misrepresented your father’s affairs, there will be records.
If she claimed generosity while using you as unpaid labour—” He paused.
“The truth has a way of surfacing, given time and inquiry.”
He departed, leaving Cecilia and Sebastian alone in the study.
“He will find something,” Sebastian said quietly. “Hartley does not offer hope unless he is certain of his ground.”
“And if he does?” Cecilia asked softly. “What then?”
“Then we use it. We expose her, and ensure no one gives credence to her lies again.”
“That sounds like revenge.”
“It sounds like justice.” He took her hand. “There is a difference.”
She considered this. Was there truly a difference? Or was justice merely revenge dressed in respectable language?
“I do not wish to become like her,” she said at last. “Hard, bitter—striking back simply because I can.”
“You could never be like her. The very fact that you fear it proves as much.” His fingers tightened gently around hers.
“There is nothing wrong in protecting yourself. Nothing wrong in allowing the truth to stand. Lady Ashwood has built her narrative upon lies—about you, your character, your past. Revealing the truth is not vengeance. It is correction.”
“And if that correction ruins her?”
“Then her ruin will be of her own making. We will merely refuse to help her conceal it.” He paused. “But we will act with care—with thought, not anger. We will protect your name, and our future.”
Cecilia nodded slowly. She was not entirely convinced—but she trusted him.
“Let us wait for Mr Hartley’s findings,” she said. “Then we shall decide.”
“A sensible course, I suppose.”
***
The days of waiting were difficult.
Cecilia threw herself into learning the rhythms of Ashworth Hall—the routines, the ledgers, the thousand small mechanisms that allowed such a great household to function. She met daily with Mrs Bennett, discussed expenditures, reviewed plans. Work steadied her hands when thought would not.
But at night, when the house grew quiet, the fears returned. What if Mr Hartley found nothing? What if Lady Ashwood’s lies had already sunk too deep? What if society chose the comfortable story over the truthful one?
She knew Sebastian’s rank would shield her from true disaster. A duke’s wife might be whispered about—but she would still be received. Yet the thought of stepping into society already tainted, already doubted—
Her stomach twisted.
She was not afraid for herself. She had survived worse than whispers. She was afraid for Sebastian—for the cost he might bear for choosing her.
“You are brooding again.”
Sebastian’s voice broke into her thoughts. She looked up to see him in the doorway of the morning room, amusement and concern mingled in his expression.
“I am thinking,” she said.
“There is often very little difference.” He joined her, taking the chair beside hers. “What occupies your thoughts?”
“What if this never fades? The suspicion. The whispers. What if people always wonder?”
“Then we shall ignore them. We will build our life, and eventually society will tire and find a new scandal to devour.” He took her hand. “Do not borrow misfortune, Cecilia. We do not yet know what Hartley will discover.”
“I know. But I cannot help imagining the worst.”
“An understandable habit—if not a helpful one.” He lifted her hand briefly to his lips. “Trust Hartley. Trust the truth. And trust me. I will not allow anyone to harm you.”
“You cannot protect me from everything.”
“I can try.” His smile softened. “That is one of the principal duties of a husband, I believe.”
“I had thought it was to provide heirs and manage estates.”
“That as well. But the protection comes first.” He rose, offering his hand. “Come. You have been shut indoors too long. Walk with me.”
She allowed him to lead her out into the weak sunshine and tried to believe that everything would be well.