Chapter 5
“Engaged to the Duke of Thornwaite?” Aunt Margaret set her teacup down slowly.
But Lily could sense that her aunt wanted to hurl it at the wall instead.
She sat in the morning room at Brimsey House with her traveling cloak still draped over the arm of the sofa.
Her silver-streaked hair was pinned beneath a bonnet she had not yet removed, and her sharp blue eyes fixed on Lily with an expression that fell somewhere between disbelief and the particular brand of exasperation she reserved for situations involving men.
“It is not what you think,” Lily said.
“What I think is that I left London for ten days to visit my friend, Charlotte Pembury, in Wiltshire, and in my absence, my niece attached herself to a man whose name appears in gossip columns more often than anyone else.”
“Aunt…”
“I read the pamphlet on the road, Lily. A friend in Guildford sent it to me by express. I nearly turned the carriage around at Reading.” She picked up her tea again and took a sip that suggested she wished it were something stronger.
“Tell me everything. And do not leave out the parts you think will upset me, because I assure you, I am already upset.”
Lily told her. Not everything. She left out the whipped cream and the woman sneaking through the servants’ entrance and the way Hugo’s breath had grazed her ear when he told her she would break her own rules.
But she told her about the forged Lady Fairhart pamphlet, the damage it had already caused, and the logic behind the arrangement.
Margaret listened without interrupting, which was unusual for a woman who had opinions about everything and the vocabulary to express them. When Lily finished, her aunt sat in silence for a long moment, turning the handle of her teacup between her fingers.
“And this engagement is temporary?”
“Entirely. Once my reputation is restored and I have secured a proper match, we dissolve it.”
“And just how many people know? I assume everyone in this room. And the Duke. And Sophia and Edward. And presumably the Duke’s household staff.” Margaret raised a brow. “Secrets have a way of growing legs in this city, Lily.”
“It is the only option we have.”
“I know.” Aunt Margaret’s voice softened.
The exasperation had faded, and what remained beneath it was quiet concern, worn smooth by years of watching the women in her family navigate a world that offered them very few choices and punished them for making the wrong ones.
“I know it is. That is what angers me. Not you, darling. Never you. But the fact that a single piece of paper, printed by some coward hiding behind your sister’s pen name, can force a young woman into an arrangement she did not choose, with a man she does not know, simply because Society has decided that her virtue is a commodity to be traded and protected and never, under any circumstances, her own to define. ”
Lily’s throat tightened. She reached across the space between their chairs and took her aunt’s hand. “I will be fine, Aunt.”
“You will be extraordinary.” Margaret squeezed her fingers. “You always are. But promise me you will be careful with this man. His reputation exists for a reason, and charm is not the same as character.”
“I am aware.”
“Are you?” Margaret’s gaze sharpened. “Because charm is precisely the kind of thing that feels like character when you are standing close enough to smell the sandalwood.”
Lily’s cheeks warmed. She released her aunt’s hand and reached for her own teacup with what she hoped was a casual gesture.
“I have no intention of standing close enough to smell anything.”
Margaret studied her for a moment longer than was comfortable, then let the subject drop with the practiced restraint of a woman who knew when to push and when to wait.
That evening, Sophia’s carriage arrived at half-past eight.
Lily climbed in to find her sister already inside, dressed in a dark pelisse with the hood drawn up, looking like a woman who had done this sort of thing before.
Which, Lily supposed, she had.
“Mr. Colborne’s offices,” Sophia told the driver. “The side entrance, please.”
They rode in silence through streets that had emptied with the fading light.
The carriage turned off Fleet Street and into a narrow lane lined with printing houses and booksellers, their windows dark, their signs creaking in the evening breeze.
Sophia led Lily through a side door and up a flight of stairs that smelled of ink and turpentine.
Mr. Colborne’s office was small, crowded with stacked papers and leather-bound ledgers, and lit by a pair of oil lamps that cast uneven shadows across the walls.
Colborne himself stood behind his desk, a wiry man with ink-stained fingers and spectacles perched on the end of a long nose. He looked as though he had not slept.
The Duke of Thornwaite and Edward were already there.
Edward leaned against the wall near the window, his arms crossed, his expression set in the quiet intensity that Lily associated with her brother-in-law when he was working through a problem.
The Duke of Thornwaite stood near the fireplace with one hand resting on the mantel.
His coat was unbuttoned and his posture carried the deceptive ease of a man who was paying far more attention than he appeared to be.
His gaze found Lily the moment she entered. He inclined his head. She returned the gesture and looked away before the eye contact could settle into anything that required examination.
“Good. We are all here.” Colborne adjusted his spectacles and spread the forged pamphlet across his desk beside one of Sophia’s genuine Lady Fairhart columns. “I have spent the better part of two days examining this forgery, and I am not pleased.”
“Nor should you be,” Sophia said. She moved to the desk and stood beside Colborne. “Someone has replicated Lady Fairhart’s masthead with enough accuracy to fool a casual reader. That suggests they have studied the original publications.”
“The masthead is close but not exact.” Colborne tapped the forged version with a stained fingertip. “The letterforms are slightly compressed, and the rosette beneath the title is missing. Anyone familiar with the genuine article would spot the differences, but most readers would not look twice.”
“And the paper?” Hugo stepped forward. “Is the stock identifiable?”
Colborne shook his head. “Common rag paper. Available from any number of suppliers. The ink is standard lampblack. I checked with every printer I know along Fleet Street and Paternoster Row. None of them produced this.”
“Could it have been printed outside London?” Edward asked.
“Possible, but unlikely. The distribution was targeted and swift. Whoever produced this had access to the Fenwick guest list and the means to deliver copies to three hundred people in a matter of hours. That suggests someone local, with resources and connections.”
Silence settled over the room. Lily watched the men process this information, each in his own way. Edward’s jaw tightened. Colborne polished his spectacles with a handkerchief.
And the Duke stood with his hand still resting on the mantel, his gaze fixed on the forged pamphlet as though he could compel it to surrender its secrets through sheer force of will.
“I will hire Bow Street Runners,” he said. “Discreetly. They will investigate the printing and distribution without drawing attention to the inquiry.” He glanced at Sophia. “And without revealing Lady Fairhart’s true identity. That is non-negotiable.”
Sophia met his gaze and held it. Something passed between them, an understanding, a mutual recognition of what was at stake. Sophia’s anonymity was not merely a preference. It was the foundation upon which her entire livelihood rested.
“Thank you, Your Grace.” Sophia’s voice carried a warmth that Lily had not heard her extend to the Duke of Thornwaite before. “I appreciate your discretion.”
“The forgery is an attack on your work as much as it is an attack on your sister.” He straightened.
“Whoever did this knew that using Lady Fairhart’s name would lend the accusations credibility.
They understood the column’s influence and weaponized it.
That is not the work of a casual troublemaker. This was calculated.”
“Agreed,” Edward said. He pushed off from the wall. “Which means someone with knowledge of the ton’s inner workings is behind this mess. Someone who knew Lily’s movements, my friendship with Hugo, and Sophia’s connection to Lady Fairhart.”
“Or someone who guessed,” Colborne offered. “Lady Fairhart’s identity is protected, but speculation has circulated for years.”
“It would take someone motivated enough to try,” Hugo said. “That narrows the field.”
Lily listened to them strategize and felt something shift in her understanding of the man leaning against the fireplace.
She had seen the Duke be charming, provocative, and infuriating.
But this was different. This was the Duke of Thornwaite with the performance stripped away, his mind working through the problem with a focus and precision that reminded her, uncomfortably, that beneath the rakish exterior lived a man who ran estates, managed investments, and held a seat in the House of Lords.
He was not simply charming. He was capable. And the combination was more unsettling than either quality alone.
“I will monitor every print shop I know for further forgeries,” Colborne said, adjusting his spectacles. “If another sheet surfaces, I will send word to you within the hour.”
Edward straightened from the wall. “I will make inquiries among my contacts in the publishing trade. Quietly.”
“And I will keep the Runners on the trail,” the Duke said.
He turned to Lily. “In the meantime, we continue as we are. The engagement holds. The performance holds.”
“Understood,” Lily said.
After that, Sophia and Edward departed first. Lily followed, pausing at the top of the stairs.
The Duke stood in the doorway of Colborne’s office, his coat buttoned now, his expression carrying the quiet gravity of a man who had taken on a responsibility he did not intend to fail.
“Thank you,” Lily said. “For protecting Sophia’s secret. You did not have to do that.”
He regarded her for a moment. The smirk was gone. What remained was something steadier.
“Yes, I did.”
Three words. No charm, no flourish, no performance. Just the simple, immovable certainty of a man who meant what he said.
Lily held his gaze for one breath longer than she should have. Then she turned and descended the stairs, and the night air met her flushed cheeks as she stepped into Sophia’s waiting carriage.
She did not look back. But she thought about those three words for a long time after the carriage pulled away, and she could not quite make them fit inside the shape she had built for Hugo Beaumont in her mind.
The rake. The scoundrel. The man with whipped cream on his face and a smirk that could strip the varnish off a church pew.
Yes, I did.
Perhaps there was more to the Duke of Thornwaite than she had allowed herself to see.
The thought was deeply inconvenient.