Chapter 3 #3
Charles took off his spectacles, polished them on his sleeve without need, and set them back — a man buying three seconds he did not really want.
"Someone," he said at last, "ought to read the trial record. The full record — not the newspapers' account of it. Someone with an eye for seams." He looked at her across the dying fire, and did not pretend, and neither did she. "It is late. Do not stay too long, Elizabeth."
He rose, pressed her shoulder in passing, and went up.
Elizabeth sat a while longer with the fire and the dismantled paper. Then she drew the candle closer, took up her pencil, and began, at the top of the first page, to make a list of everything the courts of England had been in too great a hurry to ask.
◆◆◆
Months passed in prison.
The silence had become unbearable. The damp air seeped into his bones. The stone walls, once a reminder of justice, now felt more like tombstones—marking the death of his name, his legacy, his very self.
For a time, Damon had received occasional visits—Paul, the last of his loyal advisors, came bearing updates.
The estate was still intact, barely. With all his accounts frozen, Paul had resorted to selling off heirlooms and leveraging his father’s old stash of gold—smuggled and sold quietly through shadowed channels.
But even Paul eventually stopped coming.
The public wanted nothing to do with the “Tarnished Duke.” And those who once relied on him—servants, partners, sycophants—had all vanished like smoke in the wind.
Damon sat hunched in the corner of his cell, hollow-eyed and silent, when the guard arrived.
“You have a visitor,” the man said.
Damon did not even lift his head. “You are mistaken. No one comes for me anymore.”
But then he heard the voice.
“Damon.”
His eyes snapped open.
He had not heard that voice in nearly a year, and yet he would have known it anywhere. His chest seized as he pushed himself upright.
“Milton?”
Lord Milton Chamberlain stood just beyond the bars—thinner than Damon remembered, his face tired, but his eyes sharp with something that looked dangerously close to hope.
Damon rose, stunned. “What are you doing here?”
Milton gave a small, almost apologetic smile. “Took me long enough.”
The guard unlocked the door and stepped aside. Milton entered quietly, his presence bringing with it the scent of leather, cold air, and something else—loyalty.
Damon stared at him, at a loss for words. “I thought… everyone had left me.”
“Most have,” Milton admitted. “And many warned me not to come.”
“Then why are you here?”
Milton’s gaze softened. “Because you are my friend.”
Damon lowered his head, his throat tight. “I do not blame them, you know. I would not come for me either.”
“I wanted to come sooner. But there were things that needed doing. Quietly.”
Damon frowned. “What sort of things?”
Milton stepped closer. “Looking into your case. Or rather, the parts of it they did not want anyone to look into.”
Damon blinked. “You found something?”
Milton nodded. “The trial was rushed. Evidence buried. Someone very powerful wanted this put to bed—fast.”
“Do you know who?”
“I have suspicions,” Milton said carefully. “But not proof. Yet.”
He reached into his coat and pulled out a folded piece of paper.
“This is the name of a man I trust. Charles Whitaker. He is a sixty year old barrister—not just any barrister, but the kind who takes on the cases no one else will touch. He has a… reputation for making miracles happen.”
Damon took the name in trembling fingers, staring down at it as though it might vanish.
“I cannot ask you to do this,” he said quietly.
“You did not ask,” Milton replied. “I offered.”
“You could be ruined for this.”
“I might,” Milton said with a grim smile. “But some things are worth the cost.”
Damon exhaled slowly. “Thank you. I want to fight. I need to.”
“Good. Because you will have a chance—if you agree to meet Charles. I will set it up.”
Damon hesitated, then said, “I will pay for everything. There is still gold in the safe at the manor. My father hid it there. Paul has the key, but not the code.”
“He does not?”
“No,” Damon said. “Loose lips. I memorized it—my parents’ wedding anniversary. Tell him.”
Milton nodded. “I will handle it.”
“And take anything else you need from the manor. Paintings, heirlooms. It is yours.”
Milton blinked. “You hate being in anyone’s debt.”
“That is why I am offering.”
Milton hesitated, then said with a faint smile, “How about a compromise? I will take the valuables. Not to sell—but to hold. Keep them safe until you come home.”
Damon looked up at him. “You think I will walk free?”
“I am counting on it.”
A beat of silence passed. Then Damon chuckled—a dry, cracked sound, but the first real laugh in months.
“Then it is a deal.”
They shook hands—firm, familiar, unspoken trust passing between them.
“I will speak to the jailer,” Milton said. “Charles will come soon. Be ready.”
Damon nodded, and as Milton turned to leave, something stirred in his chest. A warmth he had not felt in ages.
It was not certainty.
It was not safety.
It was hope.
And after all this time in the dark, it was enough.