Chapter Seventeen #2
Stephens stepped forward. “Are you admitting to the murder of Eleanor Wentworth?”
Wentworth ignored him, eyes fixed on his daughter. “She gave me no choice. She would have gone to the magistrate. She would have destroyed us.”
“So you killed her,” Rose said.
“I did what was required,” he said coolly. “I preserved the family name.”
“And you let an innocent man hang for it,” Stephens said.
Wentworth’s face darkened with something close to grim pride. “Ashford was hardly innocent. He lived a charmed life. The title. The land. The admiration. He took what should have been mine.”
Rose stepped forward. “You mean Lady Ashford? The woman you loved?”
Wentworth’s voice dropped, bitter and full of old wounds. “She was meant to be mine. But Ashford had the name. The fortune. She chose him, and I was left with scraps.”
“My mother was not a scrap,” Rose said. “But that aided in your temper, didn’t it? When she mentioned his name? He’d told her about what you were really doing, so you wanted to punish him for it.”
“You destroyed him,” Sebastian said. “For simply telling the truth to your battered wife about who you really are. Isn’t that right?”
Wentworth turned sharply. He stared at Sebastian. His gaze narrowed. “Who are you?”
Sebastian stepped forward. “I’m Sebastian Ashford. Son of the man you murdered. Son of the woman you coveted.”
Recognition dawned in Wentworth’s eyes, followed by blazing fury. “You?” His voice shook with outrage. “You’ve been under my roof all this time?”
“Waiting,” Sebastian said. “Watching. Doing everything I could to bring you down.”
“You dare to judge me?” Wentworth roared. “Your father took everything I ever wanted.”
“That’s a lie you’ve told yourself, but we all know the truth,” Sebastian said. “Every lie, every cruel act, brought you here. You are to blame for it all.”
“You were a child. I should have dealt with you then,” Wentworth spat.
“That’s enough,” Stephens said. “Lord Wentworth, you are under arrest for the murder of Eleanor Wentworth, the framing of Lord Ashford, the death of Lizzie Morrison, and for criminal smuggling. You will be taken into custody and held until your trial.”
Wentworth’s eyes flicked toward his desk.
Sebastian tensed. “He’s going for something—”
In one violent motion, Wentworth lunged, slammed his shoulder into Stephens, and yanked open the drawer. He seized a pistol, spun, and leveled it.
“I built this life! You think I’ll be marched through the streets like a thief? I am Lord Wentworth!”
“Put it down,” Stephens ordered.
“I will not swing from the gallows. I choose my end.”
Rose met his eyes. “Then choose it. At least be honest in the end.”
He stared at her, chest heaving, fury burning bright. “You truly hate me.”
“With everything I have,” she said. “You took everything from me.”
His lips curled, bitter to the last. “I was never sorry. Nor am I now.”
Then he turned the pistol on himself and pulled the trigger.
The deafening crack split the air. Rose’s knees buckled, and she stumbled backward as Wentworth crumpled to the floor. Sebastian lunged forward instinctively, catching her elbow as the acrid smell of gunpowder filled the room.
“Christ,” Hale breathed, his face gone ashen. He pressed his back against the wall, hands shaking.
From the corridor came a woman’s scream, followed by running footsteps and frantic voices. Stephens cursed viciously under his breath as he knelt beside the body, then stood with blood on his hands.
“He’s gone,” he said, fury tight in his voice. “The bastard robbed us of justice.”
Rose drew in a sharp, shuddering breath. Her composure wavered for just a moment—a single tear sliding down her cheek before she wiped it away with trembling fingers. “Good,” she whispered, but her voice cracked on the word.
Sebastian’s chest constricted as memories of his own father’s violent end crashed over him. The relief he’d expected felt hollow, tainted by the horror of witnessing another death. He wanted to pull Rose close, to shield her from all of it, but she stepped away from his steadying touch.
Hale swallowed hard, his voice rough. “Lizzie can rest now.”
“Not yet,” Rose said. Sebastian noticed her hands clenched so tightly he feared her nails would draw blood in her palms. “Not until we find Hargrave.” She lifted her chin, though her face remained deathly pale. “And we will do so, won’t we, Constable?”
“We will, my lady.” Stephens dipped his chin, still scowling at the body that had denied him his prisoner.
“And now I must care for my staff,” Rose said, her voice steadier now but chilling all the same. “They will no doubt be frightened and bewildered.”
She turned from the study without a backward glance, stepping carefully around the spreading dark stain on the carpet.
Sebastian watched her go, the woman he had come to love walking away from him without a word.
The violence of the moment had shattered something between them—he could see it in the way she held herself apart.
A heaviness settled in his chest. She would not want him now.
Even if she loved him, he would forever be connected to her mother’s and father’s deaths.
He’d gotten what he wanted, and yet he felt nothing but an aching, empty sadness.