Chapter Eighteen #2
Cassian settled into a chair uninvited, making himself comfortable with casual authority.
“Three scandal sheets published identical information simultaneously yesterday morning. That’s not organic gossip, Lady Denholm.
That’s orchestrated manipulation. Someone coordinated those publications, which means someone used you as their instrument. ”
Colour rose in her cheeks—anger mixed with something that looked suspiciously like intrigue. “I am no one’s instrument.”
“Then prove it.” Adrian leaned forward, voice dropping to something dangerous.
“Tell us your source. Unless you prefer being remembered as the woman gullible enough to be played by whoever’s actually orchestrating this.
” He paused. “The woman whose reputation for accuracy was destroyed because she couldn’t distinguish between honest reporting and being weaponised as an instrument of destruction. ”
For a long moment, she simply stared. Then her expression shifted—calculation replacing offence, respect dawning beneath it.
“Very well played, Your Grace.” She rose with fluid grace, moving to an ornate writing desk where papers lay in organised chaos.
“I received a letter several days before the ball. Anonymous, naturally—though the details were so specific, so verifiable, that I assumed the source must be intimately connected to your household. Someone with access. Someone trustworthy.” She withdrew a piece of cream stationery, holding it like evidence.
“I verified what I could through other channels before publication. Everything checked. The dates, the name she’d used, the employment records. It was all truth.”
She handed the letter to Adrian. He unfolded it with careful hands, conscious of Cassian watching over his shoulder.
It was unsettling to see Miss Clara Vale laid bare with clinical precision—her false name, dates of employment, even the specific conversations she’d had with staff.
But the handwriting was what stopped Adrian’s breath.
He knew this hand. Knew the precise slant of the letters, the distinctive way certain capitals were formed, the rhythm of the sentences.
“Your Grace?” Cassian’s voice seemed to come from miles away. “Do you recognise it?”
Adrian stared at the familiar script, watching his world reorganise itself around this single, undeniable truth. The handwriting wasn’t disguised—hadn’t needed to be, because whoever wrote this never expected Adrian to see it. Never anticipated Lady Denholm revealing her sources.
Never imagined being caught.
“Adrian?” Cassian’s hand gripped his shoulder.
The words emerged flat, hollow, carved from winter stone. “It’s him.”
“You’re absolutely certain?”
“Completely.” Adrian refolded the letter with mechanical precision.
His own cousin. His own blood.
Adrian tucked the letter into his coat pocket, beside the threatening note Cecilia had shown him. Both pieces of evidence rested against his heart like accusations. “Thank you, Lady Denholm. You’ve been most helpful.”
“Are you absolutely certain it’s Henry?” Cassian asked moments later as their carriage rolled through rain-slicked London streets.
“Look.” Adrian held both papers up to the lamp.
Even in the flickering light, the similarities were unmistakable—not just in script but in the formation of letters, the spacing, the ink shade.
“He stood in my study this morning, suggesting I abandon her. Played the concerned cousin whilst knowing he’d spent weeks tormenting her.
Making her feel unsafe in her own home. Turning her fear into a weapon against us both. ”
Cassian’s voice went hard. “He betrayed you.”
Adrian refolded both papers with mechanical precision.
His hands didn’t shake. His breathing remained steady.
But something fundamental had shifted—ice crystallising into diamond-hard certainty.
“I must confront him. Give him a chance to explain himself before I destroy him as thoroughly as he tried to destroy my wife.”
The carriage rolled on through the storm. Adrian sat with evidence of his cousin’s treachery pressed against his heart, ice finally cracking to reveal the fire beneath.
“When will you confront him?” Cassian asked quietly.
Adrian’s jaw tightened. Outside, lightning split the sky, turning raindrops to liquid silver. “Not yet. I need more evidence first—something undeniable that even Henry can’t talk his way around.”
“What kind of evidence?”
“Financial records. Estate documents. I know this isn’t just about my wife.
He’s plotting something against me, or else why would he go to all this trouble?
” Adrian’s voice dropped to something deadly quiet.
“I want to know everything before I move against him. Every betrayal. Every lie. Every moment he stood beside me whilst plotting my destruction.”
“That will take time.”
“Then we start tomorrow.” Adrian looked at his friend. “And Cassian? When I do confront him, I want you there. As witness. Because whatever happens next, I want someone who can testify to the truth.”
Cassian nodded slowly. “You think he’ll be dangerous.”
“I think a cornered animal is always dangerous. They don’t just bite, Cassian.
” Adrian stared out at the storm-lashed streets, his reflection ghosting across rain-streaked glass.
“They tear throats out. And when Henry realises I know?” His voice dropped to something razor-sharp.
“He’ll show me exactly what he’s capable of. And I need to be ready.”
The carriage turned onto Grosvenor Square. Through the rain, Adrian could see lights burning in his townhouse windows. Cecilia was there, waiting. Thinking he’d chosen reputation over her.
He’d prove her wrong.
But first, he’d destroy the man who’d tried to destroy them both.