Arthur stood frozen in the center of the conservatory, the room suddenly feeling as small and cold as a prison cell.
He looked from the blue-tinted bank draft on the table to the back of his wife’s head, his aristocratic mask completely crumbling to reveal the terrified, middle-class gambler beneath.
“You wouldn’t dare expose this to the council,” he whispered, his hands shaking as he tried to button his coat.
“The scandal… the Pendleton name would be ruined.
Your own social standing would suffer.”
“The Pendleton name is a ghost, Arthur,” Catherine said, turning slowly to face him, the gray afternoon light highlighting the sharp, unyielding symmetry of her face.
“And as of noon today, my lawyers have filed a formal petition of nullity with the High Court of the Commonwealth.
Your belongings have already been packed into two leather trunks and placed at the service entrance.
The carriage waiting at the gate is not for your racing syndicate; it is to take you to the boarding houses near the docks.”
“You can’t do this!” Arthur roared, lunging forward, his hand reaching out to grab the lace of her sleeve.
Before his fingers could even brush the fabric, the heavy velvet drapes near the library door parted.
Julian, the Westmoreland family’s chief enforcer, stepped into the light.
He didn’t wear the tweed of a servant; he wore a severe, dark măng-tô coat, his hand resting casually on the silver handle of his walking stick.
Behind him stood two parish constables, their iron badges gleaming under the candlelight.
She Accused Him Of Cheating, Disappeared, Then Shocked Him With A Government Paternity Notice
Arthur stopped dead, his arm hovering in the air, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps as he realized the trap had been built, set, and sprung months before he had even bought the canary diamonds.
Catherine walked past him, her silk petticoats hissing against the floorboards, completely ignoring his presence as if he were already an item removed from her inventory.
She picked up her silver pen from the desk and slipped it into her velvet reticule.
She paused at the threshold of the grand double doors, looking back over her shoulder one last time at the broken Lord who had thought he could steal from an empire.
“You married me for my family’s dowry, Arthur,” she murmured, her words carrying the ancient, unyielding ice of the Gilded Age.
“But you forgot the most basic rule of our caste: the law of the aristocracy allows me to reclaim every single acre if you violate your marital oath.
Have a pleasant journey to the docks, cựu phu quân.”
She stepped through the doors, the heavy mahogany panels slamming shut behind her, leaving him alone with his mud, his crop, and an empty ledger.
