Chapter 29

The next morning, Vivienne's worst fears materialized in the form of a terse note slid under her door. It awaited her when she woke after a fitful few hours of sleep. With dread coiling in her stomach, she broke the seal and unfolded the parchment with trembling hands.

Tonight. Midnight. The old chapel in Blackthorn Grove. Bring the ledger from Belfoire's study — the one he guards so closely. No ledger, no deal. And no more warnings.

No signature. None was needed. The blackmailer had made their demand clear.

Vivienne's heart pounded as she read the lines over and over. The ledger from Lucien's study could only mean one thing: his secret record book, where he noted details of his more illicit dealings. She knew of it—Julian had speculated that obtaining it could be the key to bringing Lucien down. But until now, she had never dared attempt to get near it; it was too well guarded.

Apparently, her blackmailer was done waiting. They wanted it tonight. If she failed, her identity would be laid bare to Lucien and likely the world.

Her breath came faster as panic threatened. That ledger was kept in Lucien's personal safe. To fetch it, she would have to somehow break in and steal from him under his own roof. If caught… No, she couldn't afford to be caught.

She had hours yet until midnight. Carefully, Vivienne committed the note's instructions to memory, then fed it to the low fire in her hearth, watching it burn to nothing. She would have to be cunning and bold.

When Lucien joined her for a light luncheon in the sunroom, Vivienne feigned cheerfulness while subtly gauging his schedule. He mentioned an important meeting in town late that afternoon, and a possible supper at his gentleman's club thereafter. Relief fluttered through her—if he was out during the evening, that could be her window to retrieve the ledger.

She spent the rest of the day in quiet preparation, excusing herself with the pretense of a headache to avoid company. By early evening, as expected, Lucien departed for town, kissing her cheek and promising to return late. The moment his carriage was out of sight, Vivienne sprang into action.

She changed into a simple dark riding habit—something practical and unremarkable. In her pocket she hid a set of slim lockpicks, a remnant of her early training with Julian. Every servant had been given the night off from attending her, thanks to her earlier "headache," and Bernard was conveniently still absent on sick leave. The path was as clear as it would ever be.

Heart in her throat, Vivienne slipped into Lucien's study just after dusk. The house was quiet, staff busy in distant wings. With trembling fingers she worked the hidden catch behind a bookshelf that revealed the wall safe. Carefully, she dialed in the combination she had observed Lucien use in the past. Her breath caught at the soft click of success.

The heavy safe door swung open. Inside, atop other documents and valuables, sat the leather-bound ledger. Vivienne exhaled shakily and seized it, her gloved hands tensing around its weight. This book—if what Julian believed was true—contained enough secrets to ruin Lucien. And now it was the price of her silence.

Securing the ledger in a satchel beneath her cloak, Vivienne restored everything else precisely as it had been and locked the safe. She listened at the study door—no footsteps, no voices. The manor slept, unaware of her trespass.

Under cover of darkness, Vivienne made her way out of the house via a servant's entrance. The old chapel in Blackthorn Grove was about a mile away, on the edge of the estate's grounds. She opted not to risk taking a horse that might be noticed missing; instead, she walked swiftly along a back path, lantern hooded low in her hand.

Midnight found her approaching the crumbling chapel, its stone walls bathed in ghostly moonlight. The night air was still, the only sounds her own careful footsteps on the overgrown path and the distant croak of frogs by a pond. Clutching the satchel with the ledger to her side, Vivienne stepped through the archway of the roofless ruin.

Inside, shadows loomed. Broken pews lay scattered, and wild vines claimed the altar. The scent of damp moss filled her nose. She drew a shaky breath. "Hello?" she called softly, peering into the gloom. "I'm here."

For a long moment, nothing moved. Her words echoed off stone. Vivienne's pulse thrummed in her ears as she took a few steps further in.

At last, from behind the remnants of the altar, a figure emerged. A hooded cloak obscured their form. Vivienne's spine stiffened as the figure stepped into a shaft of moonlight and lifted the hood away.

"Bernard," she breathed, shock and disbelief crashing over her.

The footman who'd shadowed her steps so many times stood before her, a pistol glinting in one hand and a triumphant smirk on his normally stoic face. Around his neck hung her family locket, the gold catching the moon's glow.

"Surprise," Bernard said, voice dripping with sarcasm. He tilted his head, examining her. "Figured it out, have you?"

Vivienne's mind raced. Bernard—the quiet servant—he was the one who had been extorting her? How long had he known? Why?

Her eyes narrowed. "It was you all along." It wasn't really a question, but he answered anyway.

"Aye. Didn't expect the stableboy to outsmart you, did you, Lady Vivienne?" He sneered, emphasizing the title.

She flinched. He must have known her true identity for some time then. "How—"

"How did I know?" Bernard finished for her. He tapped the locket on his chest. "I recognized you the day you arrived at Belfoire, all dressed up and polished. Took me a while to be sure—after all, I thought the Delacroix line was finished. But your face…hard to forget the brat I once saw riding ponies on my uncle's farm." He spat to the side. "When I found this trinket among your things one afternoon, that sealed it." He nodded to the locket.

Vivienne felt ill. She hadn't even realized the locket had gone missing from its hiding place until it appeared last night; he must have stolen it from her room weeks ago. All this time, Bernard had been watching her, toying with her.

"What do you want, Bernard?" she asked, struggling to keep her voice steady. "Money? That ledger will fetch a fortune, I'm sure. Just take it and go."

Bernard chuckled darkly. "Money's nice. But seeing the mighty Duke brought to his knees—now that's worth something extra. My father died in one of Belfoire's textile mills, broke and dispensable. The crown did nothing. But with this—" he patted the ledger, which he had already plucked from her satchel, "—I can trade it to Belfoire's enemies for wealth and justice."

He leveled the pistol at her. "Of course, I can't have you trailing after me or warning your lover boy. So, I'll be tying up loose ends."

Vivienne's blood ran cold. He meant to restrain her here to buy time. Possibly worse. She took a step back instinctively, her heel bumping a fallen piece of wood.

Bernard shook his head. "Don't bother. I've got men watching the grove. If I don't come out, they'll make sure your secret is very public by sunrise."

Her heart sank. He had thought of everything.

"Now, be a good girl and turn around," he ordered, gesturing with the gun. From his cloak he withdrew a length of rope.

Vivienne's mind scrambled for a way out. She was alone, unarmed save for a small penknife in her pocket. Running was futile; he'd shoot her in the back. Complying meant ruin once he vanished with the ledger. Desperate, she met his eyes and tried one last appeal.

"You don't have to do this," she pleaded quietly. "I understand your hatred for Lucien. I do. Help me, and we can both see him fall without destroying each other."

Bernard barked a laugh. "You? Help me? Don't act like we're on the same side. You're in his bed. Or was that all playacting for your cause?" He sneered. "No, Lady Vivienne, I'm afraid I can't trust a traitor who lives so comfortably under Belfoire's protection."

Vivienne flinched at the word traitor. In a way, Bernard wasn't wrong. But her allegiance was not to Lucien—it had been to justice, to Julian's cause. All of it was twisted now.

Lightning flashed outside, casting Bernard's face in a stark relief of determination and malice. He twirled the rope. "Enough talk. Hands out."

Heart hammering, Vivienne slowly extended her hands. Bernard approached, pistol trained on her chest as he began winding the rope around her wrists. His attention, for a brief second, dropped to secure a knot.

Summoning every ounce of courage, Vivienne made her move. With her bound hands, she lunged and shoved Bernard's wounded shoulder—the very one Julian had shot those months ago during a security drill, now aggravated by strain. Bernard howled, instinctively loosening his grip.

Vivienne twisted free, ignoring the painful scrape of rope on her skin. She tried to dart past him toward the door.

"Stupid wench!" Bernard snarled. Recovering quickly despite his injury, he swung the pistol butt hard against the side of her head.

White pain exploded in Vivienne's skull. She crumpled to the floor, stars dancing in her vision. Somewhere distant she heard Bernard cursing, felt him grab at her again.

Before he could subdue her, a thunder of hoofbeats suddenly echoed from outside the chapel, followed by the sharp halt of a horse and the crunch of hurried footsteps on gravel. Someone was coming.

Bernard's head snapped up toward the noise. In that split second, he hesitated—and fate intervened.

The chapel door burst open. "Vivienne!" Julian's voice rang out, edged with panic.

Bernard reacted instantly, wrenching Vivienne up from the floor and yanking her against him. Dazed, she felt the cold press of his pistol barrel under her chin as he locked an arm around her throat.

Julian appeared in the doorway, pistol drawn. His eyes flared in alarm as he took in the tableau: Vivienne, disheveled and held at gunpoint by Bernard.

"Let her go," Julian barked, stepping forward with his weapon aimed at Bernard's head.

Bernard gave a hollow laugh, his breath hot and ragged by Vivienne's ear. "Not a step closer, Lord Wakefield, or I'll redecorate this altar with her brains."

Julian halted, finger tense on the trigger. Through her blurry vision, Vivienne saw desperation and fury contort his face. Rainwater dripped from his coat; he must have ridden hard.

"You don't want to do this," Julian said, voice tight. "This will only end one way if you harm her."

Bernard sneered. "It'll end with me walking out of here alive, or not at all."

In the charged silence that followed, a new set of footsteps crunched outside. Lucien's voice cut like a blade: "Bernard. Drop the weapon."

Lucien stepped into the ruins, sword drawn and pistol at his hip. Two of his personal guards flanked him with muskets leveled.

Vivienne's heart plunged. Lucien's gaze swept over the scene, and she saw the shock and fury in his expression as he registered her peril—and Julian's presence with a firearm drawn.

"What is this?" Lucien demanded, though his pistol now rose to train on Bernard as well. "Release her now."

Bernard snarled, tightening his grip on Vivienne. She winced as the gun pressed harder beneath her jaw. "Stay back! All of you! I swear I'll kill her."

Julian's voice was low and deadly calm. "Bernard, this is over. There are three guns on you. Let her go, and you have my word you'll be treated fairly."

Lucien shot Julian a hard glare but didn't contradict him. "Drop the ledger," Lucien added coldly, noticing the book protruding from Bernard's satchel. "It's mine."

A bitter laugh burst from Bernard. "Yours? Like everything else, right, Your Grace? You think you own us all." He edged toward the door, dragging Vivienne with him as a shield. "Nobody follows, or she dies. I'll take her horse and be gone."

Vivienne felt Bernard's arm quiver around her neck; desperation was taking hold. Blood trickled down her temple from where he'd struck her, and her knees threatened to buckle. But she forced herself to speak, voice trembling: "Lucien… please. Let him go."

She knew the ledger, and her life, might only survive if Bernard believed he had an out. Whether Lucien or Julian would truly let him escape was another matter—but giving him hope might buy time.

Lucien's eyes met hers across the dim space. They blazed with a mix of emotions—anger, fear, betrayal. Jaw taut, he nodded slowly. "Take the horse," he ground out. "But if you harm her, there will be no corner of this earth you can hide in."

Bernard barked another humorless laugh, inching backwards with Vivienne still locked in front of him. "Wise choice."

For a moment, it seemed like he might indeed back out of the chapel into the darkness.

Then, a single crack rang out—a guard's musket fired. The shot took Bernard in the shoulder, making him stagger with a howl of pain. Vivienne seized the moment of loosened grip to wrench herself aside, collapsing to the ground.

"Vivienne!" she heard Julian shout.

Several things happened in a blink: freed from needing to spare her, Lucien fired his pistol. Julian, faster still, shot as well. Bernard jerked twice as both bullets struck true. With a shocked grimace, he toppled heavily onto the cold stone, the ledger tumbling from his satchel and skidding across the floor.

Silence crashed down, broken only by Vivienne's own ragged breathing. She pushed herself up on her elbows, head throbbing, trying to comprehend that it was over.

Julian was at her side in an instant, dropping to his knees. "Thank God," he breathed, one hand already gently cradling her face. "Vivienne, are you hurt?"

Before she could answer, Lucien strode forward, motioning his guards to seize the fallen footman. One checked Bernard's pulse and looked up grimly. "Dead, Your Grace."

Lucien's nod was curt, but he barely spared Bernard a glance. His attention riveted to Vivienne and Julian—Julian who was helping her stand, Julian whose touch lingered at her waist as she swayed.

The remaining guard retrieved the ledger and held it out. Lucien took it, his jaw clenched. As he did, his gaze fell to Vivienne. In the flicker of lightning from outside, his eyes were dark with a storm of emotions.

For a heartbeat, no one spoke. Rain dripped through the broken roof onto the stone floor. Julian kept a supportive arm around Vivienne, who clutched his coat lapel with one hand to steady herself.

Finally, Lucien broke the silence, his tone cutting. "Explain. Both of you."

Vivienne opened her mouth, but no sound came. How could she possibly begin to unravel this tangle of lies and truth?

Julian squared his shoulders. "Your Grace—"

Lucien held up a hand. "Not here." He gestured to his guards. "Bring the carriage."

Within minutes, Vivienne found herself ushered into Lucien's carriage, Julian following right behind and sitting beside her without asking permission. Lucien climbed in last. The door shut, sealing them in tense intimacy as the carriage lurched forward through the stormy night.

In the intermittent lantern light, Vivienne could see Lucien's face—pale, lips a thin line, eyes glittering with betrayal and concern. Julian sat close to her, one arm protectively behind her in case she swooned.

She felt like a fragile piece of glass between two opposing forces: Lucien, silent and seething across from her, and Julian, rigid with readiness at her side.

No one spoke during the ride back to Belfoire. Thunder rumbled, underscoring the charged quiet.

As the carriage rolled to a stop before the manor, Lucien finally stirred. "Julian Wakefield…or whatever your real name is," he said bitterly, "you will accompany us inside. If you flee, I will assume the worst."

Julian gave a single nod. "I've no intention of fleeing."

"And you—" Lucien's voice nearly cracked as his eyes moved to Vivienne. "We will have our reckoning."

Vivienne looked down, fresh tears burning her eyes. "I understand."

They disembarked. The household had been roused by the ruckus; a few wide-eyed servants hovered until Lucien barked at them to stand aside.

Inside the grand foyer, Lucien paused, visibly struggling to maintain composure. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and strained. "Vivienne, you need tending. Mary will see to your injuries." He snapped his fingers and the housekeeper rushed forward gently.

Vivienne shook her head, stepping out of the housekeeper's reach. "No. I— I can wait. We need to talk…all of us."

Julian placed a steadying hand on her shoulder. "Vivienne, you're hurt."

Lucien's eyes flashed. "Do as I say," he thundered, not in anger at her defiance so much as in anguish and fear poorly concealed. "Please," he added more softly. "Get cleaned up. We will speak after."

Caught between them and too exhausted to argue, Vivienne relented. Mary ushered her to a nearby settee and began cleaning the cut on her temple with a damp cloth. The world felt surreal—mere hours ago she had been dancing at a ball, and now her entire double life lay in shards at her feet.

Julian and Lucien stood apart, watching each other warily. It struck Vivienne how different they were: Julian in his rain-spattered cloak, a secretive agent now brought into the open; Lucien in his tailored waistcoat, an aristocrat whose private world had been upended. And she was bound to them both by threads of deceit, loyalty, and unspoken love.

Once Vivienne's wound was bandaged and the worst of the blood wiped away, Lucien dismissed the hovering servants with a curt nod. He, Julian, and Vivienne were left alone in the flickering candlelight of the foyer.

"Now," Lucien said, folding his arms across his chest as if to brace himself. "Speak."

Vivienne glanced to Julian, and he gave her a faint nod of encouragement. She stepped forward, wrapping her shawl tighter around herself, and met Lucien's gaze.

"My name…is not Vivienne Moreau," she began softly, voice shaking. "I was born Vivienne Delacroix. My family…my family was ruined years ago by corrupt dealings. Dealings in which—" her voice caught, "—in which your business empire played a part, Lucien."

He flinched ever so slightly, but remained silent, letting her continue.

"I came to Belfoire under false pretenses to gather evidence. To stop you, if what I'd been told was true." Tears welled in her eyes. "Julian is not just a court emissary—he's been my handler in this mission. We…we orchestrated everything." Her voice broke fully now. "Except the feelings. Those…weren't planned."

Lucien's face had gone ashen. He looked between Vivienne and Julian with dawning horror and heartbreak. "So it was all a lie," he said flatly. "Every smile, every kiss—"

"No!" Vivienne interjected, stepping closer to him instinctively. "Not all of it. At first, yes, it was a role. But… I never wanted to hurt you, Lucien. And I swear I never gave anyone information that would truly harm you without proof of wrongdoing." The irony that she was defending herself for not fully betraying him was not lost on her.

Julian cleared his throat. "Your Grace, if I may—Vivienne acted under my direction, but we both…we both became conflicted as this went on. Our initial aim was to expose criminal enterprises, but nothing was ever personal against you until we suspected your involvement in certain plots."

Lucien's eyes flashed. "And you, Lord Wakefield—who are you really? Some spy for the Crown?"

Julian inclined his head. "In a manner of speaking, yes. My loyalty is to the kingdom, to justice. Vivienne's family deserved justice as well."

Lucien's gaze returned to Vivienne. "Your father… he was accused of embezzlement and treason, was he not? I remember the scandal." His tone was gentler, tempered by the memory.

"He was framed," Vivienne whispered. "By the same men who profited and sold weapons in secret, through networks we believed led back to you."

Lucien's brow furrowed. "Weapons… You think I—" He let out a breath. "I won't deny my ledger is full of unsavory dealings, but selling arms to enemies of the crown? No. That was not me."

Vivienne believed him; in her months by his side she had never seen evidence of that particular crime. It was always an assumption, never proven.

Julian shook his head slowly. "Perhaps we were misled."

A heavy silence followed. The truth was laid bare: Vivienne had deceived Lucien, Julian had orchestrated it, and Lucien had unwittingly fallen for a woman planted to be his downfall. All three stood amidst the wreckage of trust, unsure how to proceed.

Finally, Lucien spoke, voice hollow. "I loved you, Vivienne. Or whoever you are. I would have given you everything."

Tears spilled freely down her cheeks now. "Lucien, I— I have no right to ask forgiveness. But please know, much of what we shared…was real for me too. It changed me. You changed me."

Julian looked away, pain flickering across his face at her admission. Yet he did not interrupt; he seemed to understand the need for these words between them.

Lucien's throat worked as he tried to maintain composure. "And what now? You have my ledger—" he held it up almost mockingly, "—the great prize. Am I to be hauled off to prison come morning by Lord Wakefield's associates? Is that the plan?"

Vivienne's voice cracked. "No. I stopped being sure of any plan the moment I began caring for you. And for Julian." She glanced between them. "I never wanted this end."

Julian stepped forward, something resolute in his eyes. "Your Grace, the ledger is indeed damning. But in light of tonight's events, I propose a truce. We all nearly lost more than we can bear. Perhaps we three can come to…an arrangement that spares further destruction."

Lucien arched a brow. "A truce? Why should I trust either of you ever again?"

Julian lifted his chin. "Because we saved your life as much as we nearly ruined it. That footman could have murdered you in your sleep or absconded with your secrets to your enemies. Instead, because Vivienne and I drew him out, you still have your life—and your secrets."

Lucien's jaw tightened. The logic was not lost on him, though accepting it clearly pained him. "And what of my heart? Is that also a casualty I'm meant to thank you for preserving in some twisted way?"

Vivienne stepped right up to him then, daring to place a trembling hand on his arm. "I never meant to break it," she whispered. "If I could take away your hurt, I would. If I could have met you under different circumstances…"

Lucien looked at her hand, then into her eyes. His own were wet now, though no tears fell. Slowly, he covered her hand with his. "Different circumstances," he echoed bitterly. "If only."

Julian quietly cleared his throat. "Lucien—" using his name for the first time, "—you have the power to decide what becomes of us. Turn us in, and Vivienne faces charges of espionage, I of treason perhaps. But ask yourself: would that truly make you whole? Or would it simply compound the tragedy?"

Lucien closed his eyes briefly. "You ask for mercy."

"I ask for sense," Julian corrected gently. "We have all been used by forces larger than us. Perhaps together we can root them out. You have resources, I have connections. Vivienne has…a foot in both worlds. We need not remain enemies."

It was a bold proposition—to join hands after all of this. Vivienne looked between the two men, her heart thudding at the prospect. Could that even work? She had deceived Lucien, yet saved him; she loved Julian as a friend and perhaps more, yet betrayed his mission by falling for Lucien; and Lucien, wounded deeply, still held all their fates in his grasp.

Minutes ticked by. At last, Lucien released a long exhale. "This is far from resolved," he said quietly. "But I will stay my hand—for now."

Julian nodded solemnly, accepting that as the most they could hope for tonight.

Lucien gently let go of Vivienne's hand and stepped back, straightening to his full height. The duke regaining his composure. "It's late. We will convene tomorrow. I'll have rooms prepared for Lord Wakefield." He nearly spat the alias, but restrained himself. "Under watch, of course."

"Of course," Julian agreed.

Vivienne wiped her tears, exhaustion crashing down. "And me?" she asked softly.

Lucien's eyes flickered toward her, and something in them gentled despite everything. "You remain in your chambers, as always. I trust you won't run."

It wasn't just a statement; it was a question, laden with fear of further betrayal. Vivienne shook her head. "I won't. I promise."

He swallowed and looked as if he wanted to say more, but instead he turned on his heel. "Get some rest," he said to them both, without meeting either's gaze. Then he strode away down the corridor, the ledger clutched to his side.

Julian approached Vivienne tentatively. "Will you be alright tonight?"

She managed a weak smile. "I've survived far worse nights, I think."

Julian hesitated, then gently drew her into a careful embrace. She melted into it, squeezing her eyes shut against another wave of emotion. "It will be alright," he murmured against her hair. "We'll find a way through this."

She wanted to believe him. "Stay safe," she whispered.

He pressed a light kiss to her brow. "Always."

They parted slowly. Julian allowed the waiting housekeeper to lead him to a guest room under subtle guard. Vivienne trudged upstairs to her own chamber.

Once inside, she closed the door and sagged against it, a mirroring of the night before. How much had changed in twenty-four hours. The mask was off; everything lay in the open now, raw and uncertain.

Through her window, the storm had passed, leaving only a soft patter of rain. Vivienne touched the bandage at her temple and winced. She was alive, surprisingly. Bernard was dead. Julian was here, and Lucien…Lucien no longer looked at her with the same adoration—now it was complicated by hurt and anger.

Moving to the window, Vivienne peered out. Down below, she saw the faint glow of a cigar ember on the patio. Lucien stood alone in the darkness, likely grappling with his turmoil.

She rested her forehead against the cool glass, wishing futilely that she could undo the pain she'd caused.

Yet strangely, beneath the heaviness, there was a seed of hope. They were all still here. The triangle had not shattered completely, not yet. The game was no longer hidden, but perhaps now they could begin a new one—on more honest terms.

As Vivienne finally retired to her bed, exhaustion overtaking her, her last thoughts were a fervent prayer that the fragile truce would hold come morning. The balance of power, seduction, and trust between them had shifted irrevocably, but the final chapter of their story had yet to be written.

Whatever trials awaited in the days to come, Vivienne knew one thing: she would determine her fate, alongside the two men who had each, in their own way, claimed a piece of her soul. The future was uncertain, a precarious dance on the edge of a knife—yet for the first time in a long while, she did not dance it alone.