Chapter 2
Mrs. Dorothea Stevens lingered just outside the door to the study, her fingers clutching the folds of her mourning gown as though they might lend her strength.
The faint murmur of quill against parchment within told her Matthew was working—likely on household accounts, as he often did at this hour.
She drew in a breath, held it, and released it shakily.
It had taken her the better part of the morning to gather the nerve to approach him, and still, she hesitated.
She prayed her brother was in a temperate mood.
Pleasant, even. But with Matthew, one never knew.
His disposition could turn with the wind, and Dorothea had learned long ago how unpredictable—and dangerous—that could be.
As children, his outbursts had terrified her.
As adults, they left her feeling small and powerless.
Yet, despite the fear curling in her belly, she had no choice but to seek his permission today.
She needed to speak with Mr. Wells, the solicitor handling her late husband’s affairs.
Just as she reached out to knock, a voice sliced through the silence behind her. “Why are you loitering in the corridor like some common vagabond?”
Dorothea flinched and turned to find Arabella—her sister-in-law—standing there, arms crossed over her chest. With her striking blonde curls and perpetually arched brows, Arabella looked the epitome of what the ton deemed beautiful.
“I was hoping to speak with Matthew,” Dorothea replied, her voice soft.
Arabella lifted her chin, her eyes raking over Dorothea with open disdain. “And you thought skulking about like a servant would accomplish that?”
“No, but—”
Arabella didn’t let her finish. She never did. “Oh, do stop dithering. Just follow me. I’ve no patience for your mewling excuses.”
Without waiting for a response, Arabella turned sharply on her heel and swept into the study. Dorothea followed, her pulse quickening with every step.
The room smelled faintly of ink and pipe tobacco. Matthew sat behind a heavy oak desk, his broad shoulders hunched as he scribbled in one of the ledgers. His red hair—so like her own—was neatly combed, but a scowl already pinched the lines of his face before he even looked up.
Arabella’s tone softened to a purr. “Dear, might I steal a moment of your time?”
Matthew raised his head, his expression easing slightly. “I suppose I can spare a few minutes… for you.”
Arabella waved a dainty hand. “Not for me, my love. For Dorothea.”
At the mention of her name, Matthew’s eyes flashed with annoyance. “Oh,” he said coldly, turning his attention to his sister. “What do you want?”
His voice had lost its warmth entirely, reduced to a gruff bark that made Dorothea’s knees threaten to buckle. Still, she squared her shoulders and smoothed her gown with trembling fingers.
“I was hoping,” she began carefully, “to speak with Mr. Wells today. Regarding Dominic’s estate.”
“Why?” Matthew snapped.
Dorothea wrung her hands, feeling the familiar bloom of anxiety rise in her chest. “Dominic earned a considerable sum during the war. I have yet to receive any of it.”
Matthew slammed the ledger shut. “And what did you expect?” he growled. “You married a man already at death’s door. He duped you. There is no fortune. There never was. And you are owed nothing.”
“I cared for him,” Dorothea said, her voice barely above a whisper.
Matthew laughed, harsh and bitter. “No, you cared for what you thought he had. It was your grand scheme, wasn’t it? Marry a soldier and secure a windfall. But the joke’s on you. And now what do you have? Nothing.”
“Dominic was entitled to compensation,” she pressed, her courage flickering like a candle. “As was Father.”
Matthew narrowed his eyes. “And what, pray tell, do you know about Father’s earnings?”
“I know he and his men took part in the seizure of land after one of their battles. Officers were allowed to keep a share of the profit,” Dorothea said.
“And?”
Dorothea lifted her chin. “Perhaps Dominic was owed something similar. I think it’s worth investigating.”
Matthew leaned back in his chair, studying her with contempt. “Do you truly believe you’re some long-lost heiress and I’ve somehow missed it?”
“Well, no—”
He cut her off, rising to his feet with sudden violence. “When will you finally understand? Dominic Stevens was a poor soldier. He was a captain, yes—but barely. Father, our father, was a lieutenant-colonel. Had he lived, he never would’ve allowed you to throw yourself away on a man like that.”
Dorothea’s voice cracked. “He respected Dominic. He told me as much when I lived with him before his death.”
“Father indulged you too much,” Matthew insisted. “He should never have let you accompany him to the Continent. War is no place for a young woman.”
“I wanted to go with him,” Dorothea replied.
Matthew turned to Arabella, who had thus far remained silent, a smug smile playing on her lips. “What’s your opinion, Wife?”
Arabella’s smile widened. “Poor Dorothea is terribly na?ve. No respectable woman marries a man on his deathbed. It was a scandal. And now look at you—widowed and penniless.”
Dorothea bit her lip as the familiar sense of helplessness swept over her. She couldn’t leave without permission—not after what happened last time. The locked bedchamber. The missed meals. The silence.
Matthew crossed the room to stand beside Arabella. “She’s right. You’ve ruined your prospects. No one of consequence will have you now.”
“I still have a dowry,” Dorothea said.
Matthew sneered. “You do. But word spreads quickly. A desperate girl chasing wealth? Society will cast you out.”
Arabella’s gaze swept her from head to toe. “And it doesn’t help that you’re so… plain. That red hair does you no favors.”
Dorothea reflexively tucked a loose strand behind her ear. It was the same soft copper shade as their mother’s. She had always cherished that connection—until now.
Arabella turned to her husband. “At least red hair is becoming on you, my love. So very dashing on a gentleman.”
Before Matthew could reply, a knock came at the door. Their elderly butler, Bennet, entered, bowing slightly.
“Forgive the interruption, sir, but a Lord Warwicke has come to call.”
Matthew arched a brow. “Warwicke? I’m not familiar with the man. Show him in, by all means.”
Bennet hesitated. “He has specifically requested an audience with Mrs. Stevens.”
Silence fell.
Matthew slowly turned to Dorothea, suspicion etching into every line of his face. “Why,” he said slowly, “would Lord Warwicke be calling on you?”
Dorothea shook her head, genuinely perplexed. “I don’t know.”
Stepping forward, Matthew replied, “You must know something.”
But she truly didn’t know. Or if, in some distant way, she did, the answer eluded her entirely. Her brows drew together, confusion warring with trepidation.
“I assure you,” Dorothea said, “I have no idea why Lord Warwicke is here.”
Matthew studied her for a long moment, lips pursed. “Then you won’t be disappointed when I send him away.”
“I… uh…” Her breath caught as she searched for the right words. “That seems unnecessary.”
Apparently unmoved by her hesitation, Matthew turned towards the butler without a shred of concern. “Inform Lord Warwicke that Mrs. Stevens is unavailable to receive callers. She is still in mourning, and it would be most improper.”
Bennet gave the smallest of bows. “Yes, sir.” His voice was dutiful but tinged with a hint of unease as he withdrew.
Dorothea watched him go, her heart sinking with every step he took.
A dull ache pulsed in her chest. She had never felt so helpless.
Since Father’s death, the home that once offered her comfort had become a cage.
Matthew’s house was no longer hers. She was merely a guest… and one barely tolerated at that.
It had been six months of this cold existence. Six months of being belittled and dismissed. If Lord Warwicke had come on Dominic’s behalf, she had just lost the opportunity to learn something—anything—about her late husband’s affairs.
What if he had news? What if Dominic’s name had not died with him on that battlefield?
Matthew’s voice yanked her from her spiraling thoughts. “I have work to attend to. I trust you ladies will find a way to occupy yourselves this afternoon?”
Arabella perked up. “Yes, I intend to call on Madame Lemoine. She’s finished the first fitting of my new gowns. I’ve asked for embroidery in the palest lilac and dove gray. It will look so elegant for spring.”
Dorothea glanced down at her own attire—a simple black gown.
She had only three gowns in total now, all in mourning black.
How she longed for something new, something beautiful.
But Matthew would never allow such a frivolous expense.
Not for her. Not when he believed she’d already squandered her worth.
Before another thought could pass between them, Bennet re-entered the room. This time, his expression was strained.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said, directing his words to Matthew. “But Lord Warwicke has insisted he must speak with Mrs. Stevens. He says it is a matter of great urgency.”
Matthew’s eyes snapped to Dorothea, his gaze narrowing. “Out with it. Important men like Lord Warwicke don’t make unexpected house calls without cause. What are you hiding?”
“I’m not hiding anything!” Dorothea’s voice trembled with the effort to maintain composure. “I swear to you, I do not know why he’s come.”
Without warning, Matthew strode forward and struck her, his hand landing across her cheek. “You dare lie to me in my own house?” he hissed.
Before Dorothea could recover from the sting, a voice thundered from the doorway.
“How dare you strike my wife!”
The words hung in the air like cannon fire.
Wife?