Chapter 8: The Debt Unpaid

The flickering glow of candlelight cast long shadows across the marble floors of Harrington Manor. The evening air carried the distant hum of the city, but within the estate, a quiet dread settled over Isabella. Ever since her father’s meeting with William and Sir James, the walls had felt tighter, the corridors stretched with silent tension. Her father had agreed to delay Geoffrey’s proposal, but she knew better than to believe the matter was resolved.

Then the invitation arrived.

It came in the early hours of the morning, delivered with the usual stack of correspondence. A lavishly embossed card, gilded at the edges, invited her to an exclusive gathering at the residence of Lord Pembroke—a well-known supporter of Geoffrey Ashton.

Her fingers trembled as she unfolded the note tucked inside.

You may have delayed the inevitable, but you will not escape it.

There was no signature, yet the meaning was unmistakable. Geoffrey was making his move.

Lady Eleanor entered just as Isabella turned the note over again in her fingers, the wax seal cracked and trembling faintly in her hand.

“Isabella?” Her voice was soft, curious rather than alarmed. But one glance at her daughter’s pale face, and the calm in her tone fractured.

She crossed the room, taking the card gently, scanning the gilded edge, the sharp lettering. Her brow furrowed, but she did not press for details.

“What trouble finds you before breakfast?” she asked, her hand resting briefly on Isabella’s arm—steady, grounding.

Isabella opened her mouth, but the words would not come. Her mother did not ask again. Instead, she simply said, “Whatever it is, you will not face it alone.”

****

Across the estate, in the Earl’s study, the tension thickened. He sat behind his massive mahogany desk, his hands clasped before him as he listened to the man seated across from him.

Geoffrey Ashton.

“I must confess, my lord,” Geoffrey said, his voice smooth as polished glass. “I was disappointed to hear that you required more time to consider my proposal.”

The Earl remained silent.

Geoffrey leaned forward slightly, his gaze sharp. “You and I both know that in matters such as these, time is often a luxury. One that I fear your estate cannot afford.”

The Earl’s jaw tightened. “You overstep, Lord Geoffrey.”

Geoffrey smiled, unfazed—or so it seemed. But beneath the polish, a flicker of urgency ghosted across his expression, there and gone before it could settle. The façade held—barely. Beneath its surface, the edges had begun to fray. “Do I?” he said smoothly. “I merely seek to remind you of the realities we both face. Your lands require security. Your name requires stability. I offer both.”

The Earl’s silence was heavy. Geoffrey had not spoken outright of debts, of obligations that loomed like a noose around the family name, but the implication was there.

“You do not own my daughter’s future,” the Earl said, his voice low.

Geoffrey’s smile deepened, his tone smooth and unsettling. “Not as yet, my lord.”

****

Elsewhere, in the dim confines of a private sitting room, William Crawford met with the last person he had ever expected to ask for aid.

Lady Catherine Montford.

She reclined elegantly in her chair, a knowing smile curving her lips as she regarded him. “How extraordinary,” she mused. “I had thought you would rather set yourself on fire than seek my counsel.”

William’s expression remained stony. “This is not about you. It’s about Geoffrey.”

Catherine exhaled, feigning disappointment. “And here I thought you had finally come to your senses.”

He ignored the remark. “You know the circles he runs in, the people who still support him. What will it take for you to share what you know?”

She studied him, fingers tracing the rim of her untouched glass of wine. “My dear William, you presume I require bribing. When in truth, I find this game far more amusing when played freely.”

His patience frayed. “Catherine.”

She leaned forward, the playfulness fading from her gaze. “I want one thing, William. A favour. One I will collect when the time is right.”

He hesitated. He knew better than to make deals with Catherine. She was not a woman who offered favors freely—every move she made was calculated, every word spoken with purpose. There would be a price for this alliance, and knowing her, it would not be a small one.

But this was not a battle he could afford to fight alone.

Geoffrey was dangerous, but Catherine was something else entirely—shrewd, patient, and always ten steps ahead. She had survived in a world where women were often pawns by becoming the one who moved the pieces. If she had information, it would be invaluable. If she had a plan, it would be ruthless.

And yet, a warning curled at the back of his mind. Catherine did nothing without personal gain. The last time he had underestimated her, he had left England with a trail of regret behind him. Now, she held the power to tip the scales in his favor—or entangle him in a web he might never escape.

What would she ask of him? A favor, she had said. But Catherine Montford’s favors were not mere courtesies. They were debts, carefully placed bets on a future she intended to control.

Still, he had no choice.

Finally, he nodded. “Very well.”

As the words left his lips, he knew—he had just set something in motion. A thread had been pulled.

He wondered, not for the first time, what price she would demand—and whether he could live with what it might cost him.

Her smile returned, wicked and triumphant. “Then let us bring Geoffrey Ashton to ruin.”

****

The night of Lord Pembroke’s ball arrived, and despite her unease, Isabella attended. It was an event of sheer opulence—chandeliers dripping in crystal, gowns of the finest silks swirling through the candlelit hall.

But beneath the glamour lurked an undercurrent of something darker. Whispers followed Isabella wherever she moved, eyes lingering too long, lips curling in knowing smirks. She did not have to guess the source.

Geoffrey.

Then, as she turned from the refreshments table, he was there. His hand extended in a silent request for a dance.

For a heartbeat, Isabella froze.

Her breath caught—not from fear, but memory. Geoffrey’s voice echoed through her mind, low and venomous, from that day at Beatrice’s house. The possessive gleam in his eye. The veiled threats, the icy calm in his warning: “You have been warned, Isabella. Do not mistake my patience for mercy.” The chill of his presence had lingered for days, haunting her in ways she dared not admit.

The weight of that past moment pressed against her spine, but this time, she did not waver.

She straightened, lifting her chin.

“I believe I made myself clear, Lord Geoffrey.”

He did not move, but his fingers curled slightly in restraint. Then he stepped closer, lowering his voice so only she could hear.

“I always get what I want, Isabella,” he murmured, his breath far too close, his arrogance cloying. “And you are no exception.”

A chill swept through her—not of fear, but of icy disdain. Before he could turn away, she took a measured step forward, her voice smooth as silk but edged with steel.

“How unfortunate for you, Lord Geoffrey,” she said, her tone frost-edged and utterly unimpressed, “that I am neither trinket to be taken nor conquest to be won. You may covet, sir—but you shall never possess.”

His smirk faltered, just for a fraction of a second. And Isabella saw it. Savored it.

She let the silence stretch just long enough for the sting to settle before she inclined her head with exquisite poise. “Do enjoy the evening,” she added lightly, her eyes gleaming with unspoken challenge.

Then she turned first, sweeping past him with effortless grace, leaving him to drown in the weight of his own thwarted ambition.

Across the room, William observed the exchange, his grip on his glass loosening as a slow, knowing smile played at his lips. Isabella had not faltered—not even beneath Geoffrey’s veiled threats. Instead, she had met him with a quiet, unshakable defiance, a refusal wrapped in the grace of a lady who knew her own mind.

Sir James, ever measured, placed a steadying hand on William’s shoulder. “Not here,” he murmured. “Not yet.”

William exhaled slowly, but the flicker of admiration in his gaze did not dim. He had always known Isabella was strong, but to see her wield that strength so effortlessly—it was a sight to behold.

He lifted his glass once more, a ghost of a smirk still lingering. “She does not require rescuing, it seems,” he said, voice laced with quiet pride. Then, after a measured pause, his expression sobered, his gaze sharpening.

“But let us not tarry. His reckoning is long overdue.”

****

Across London, in the dimly lit study of Crawford House, William and Sir James pored over the latest findings on Geoffrey Ashton. Their investigation had led them through a labyrinth of deception, uncovering more than they had anticipated. But tonight, they had found what they needed to end this battle once and for all.

At the stroke of midnight, they arrived at a secluded townhouse in the heart of Mayfair. The man who greeted them was no nobleman, but he was far more valuable—an informant with direct ties to Geoffrey’s dealings. Without a word, he set a stack of ledgers before them, ink smudged with rushed entries.

William scanned the documents, his pulse steady but quickened by what he saw. His jaw tightened. “Debts. Business fraud. Blackmail.”

Sir James flipped through another ledger, his expression darkening. “Forgeries,” he murmured. “Bribes. Transactions under false names.” He paused, then looked up. “This isn’t just scandal, William. This is enough to see Geoffrey Ashton ruined beyond repair.”

William exhaled slowly, the weight of their discovery settling over him. “We have him.”

Sir James nodded grimly. “But we must be careful. Geoffrey has allies—powerful ones. If we are to expose him, we must do so in a way that ensures there is no escape.”

William’s grip on the ledgers tightened. “Then we take this to Lord Harrington. He must put an end to this publicly before it is too late.”

****

The atmosphere at Harrington Manor had grown tense in the days following Lord Geoffrey Ashton’s failed bid for Isabella’s hand. Though the engagement had not been formally announced, rumors swirled through the ton like wildfire. Sir James had moved swiftly, subtly encouraging whispers that the match had been abandoned. The intention had been clear: to weaken Geoffrey’s standing before he could retaliate.

But a man like Geoffrey did not accept defeat easily.

When word of the rumors reached him, he reacted as expected—with fury. His carefully crafted reputation had suffered blow after blow, and now, with the threat of losing Isabella altogether, his desperation mounted. He could not afford to lose this battle.

And so, with the setting sun casting long shadows across the grounds, Geoffrey Ashton arrived at Harrington Manor, ready to demand what he believed was rightfully his.

****

The heavy knock at the study door reverberated through the manor. Lord Harrington looked up from his desk, already weary from the weight of the past weeks. When the butler entered, his expression uncertain, the Earl knew precisely who had come calling.

“Lord Geoffrey Ashton,” the butler announced.

Geoffrey strode into the room without hesitation, his usual polished demeanor cracking under the strain of barely contained anger. “Is it true?” he demanded. “Have you rescinded our arrangement?”

The Earl regarded him steadily, his fingers steepled together. “No such arrangement was ever formalized.”

Geoffrey’s hands clenched at his sides. “That is not what society believes. I have endured whispers of my supposed disgrace—rumors that claim Isabella will not have me. My lord, this is unacceptable.”

Lord Harrington sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Geoffrey, my daughter does not wish to marry you. I had once considered the match in the interest of our family, but I cannot in good conscience force her into an alliance she despises.”

Geoffrey’s expression darkened. For a moment, the fury faltered—just enough for a single, searing thought to pierce through: I made promises. To men who do not forget. I traded favours in alleyways and debts in dim salons, all for this. For her. And now… there is no going back.

The thought was gone as swiftly as it came, smothered beneath a mask of disdain.

He stepped forward, his voice low and menacing. “Then you would see her humiliated? Her name dragged through scandal?” He paused, his jaw tight. “You would rather risk your family’s standing than honour your word?”

The Earl’s gaze did not waver. “Do not mistake my reluctance for fear, Ashton.”

A tense silence stretched between them. Then Geoffrey exhaled sharply and forced a tight, brittle smile. “I see. You believe this engagement is broken. You believe I will simply step aside.”

His eyes gleamed—not with heartbreak, but with the brittle sheen of obsession. He had invested too much, promised too many. And now, refusal was not simply insult—it was exposure. So be it. If the path to her hand was closed, he would find another way through.

“Very well, my lord. But understand this—no matter what you or Isabella believe, this is not over.”

With that, he turned on his heel and strode from the study—too quickly, too clipped. The poise remained, but in the echo of his retreat, there was something almost frantic. Like a man who had just felt the edge of the abyss and refused to look down.

****

That evening, as the fire crackled in the hearth, Lady Eleanor Harrington entered her husband’s study, her brow gently furrowed with concern.

“I understand Lord Geoffrey called upon you,” she said in a quiet tone.

The Earl exhaled, rubbing a weary hand over his temple. “It is done,” he replied. “The match shall not proceed.”

Lady Eleanor studied him closely. “And yet you remain uneasy.”

Charles Harrington released a long breath. “I fear what may follow.”

She moved to his side, resting a gloved hand lightly upon his arm. “You acted as honour demanded, Charles. Isabella is stronger than you know. She will not falter.”

He turned toward the fire, his voice low. “She ought not be made to fight at all.”

Lady Eleanor’s smile was tinged with sorrow. “Then let us ensure she does not stand alone.”

She paused then, her gaze softening. “She carries herself with such grace that one forgets how much she feels. I fear… not for her strength, but for her heart. A mother knows the look of a child guarding too much alone. I see it in her eyes—resolve, yes, but also the toll it takes.”

She gave his arm a gentle squeeze. “Let us stand with her, Charles. Not as guardians of her virtue, but as protectors of her spirit.”

****

The following afternoon, William and Sir James arrived at Harrington Manor, their carriage rolling to a halt before the grand estate. Isabella had received their message and waited in the garden, her pulse quickening at the sight of William’s resolute expression.

“We have what we need,” William told her quietly. “Now, we must make your father see it.”

Together, they entered the study, where Lord Harrington sat deep in thought. He regarded them with weary curiosity as they stepped inside.

William wasted no time, placing the ledgers before him. “My lord, these are Geoffrey Ashton’s true dealings. His debts, his deceptions, his criminal enterprises.” He met the Earl’s gaze. “There is no honor in tying your family to such a man.”

The Earl’s expression darkened as he flipped through the pages. Each entry, each transaction, chipped away at whatever hesitation he still harbored. He had suspected Geoffrey was not the man he claimed to be—but this was undeniable.

After a long silence, he looked up at his daughter. “Isabella,” he said quietly, “do you still refuse him?”

She met his gaze without wavering. “Yes, Father. I love William. And I will not marry Geoffrey.”

The Earl’s shoulders sagged slightly, as if a great weight had finally settled upon them. He turned back to William, his expression unreadable. “You have taken great pains to prove your worth,” he said slowly. “And you ask for my daughter’s hand in return.”

He paused, his fingers tapping against the edge of the ledger. A shadow flickered across his face—something raw, something uncertain.

"Even now, I wonder," he murmured, almost to himself. "If I have made the right decision. To sever ties with Geoffrey is to invite his vengeance. Have I shielded Isabella from a cage, only to set her adrift in a storm she cannot yet see?"

Then he heard it—her voice, not in the room, but echoing in his memory. ‘Then let it.’ Reckless. Resolute. A refusal to be bartered or bound. It was the moment she stopped being his child and became a woman choosing her fate.

Silence stretched, heavy with unspoken fears. For years, he had weighed every choice by what was practical, what was secure. This—choosing against power, against influence—felt like stepping into uncertain waters. And yet, when his gaze flicked to Isabella, standing tall, her chin lifted in quiet defiance, the doubt did not settle. It unravelled.

He exhaled slowly. “So be it,” he said at last. “There will be no marriage to Geoffrey Ashton.”

William inclined his head. “I do.”

A pause.

Then, at last, Lord Harrington exhaled deeply and closed the ledger. “Very well,” he said. “There will be no marriage to Geoffrey Ashton.”

Isabella’s breath caught, relief and joy flooding her. William, beside her, let out a slow breath, his hand instinctively reaching for hers.

The Earl fixed William with a firm gaze. “But understand this, Crawford—you are not yet free of scrutiny. If you truly wish to marry my daughter, you will prove that you are worthy of her.”

William met his gaze, unflinching. “I would expect nothing less.”

The Earl nodded, seemingly satisfied—for now.

****

While the world conspired against him, Geoffrey did not waver. Defeat was a temporary illusion, a fleeting inconvenience. Let them think they had won—let them revel in their fragile victory.

The game was not over. Not yet.

Because in the end, he would have what was his.

Having already sown whispers of his betrothal to Isabella among the ton, Geoffrey resolved to solidify the engagement before his adversaries could strike. A mere rumor was not enough—he would ensure it became fact. The time had come to force Lord Harrington’s hand, and what better way than by making the union appear inevitable in the eyes of society?

Seating himself at his desk, he dipped his quill into ink and began his letter to Lady Catherine.

My Dearest Lady Catherine,

I trust you have not forgotten the assurances you made—or the rewards that await you should you uphold them. I am well aware of your recent dealings with William. Whatever bargain you have struck with him, I assure you, it will not be enough to bring down a man such as myself.

You, of all people, should know that William Crawford is not without his own sins. If you doubt me, ask him why he truly left England. Or better yet—ask yourself what happens when the past refuses to stay buried.

We shall speak soon. Do not disappoint me.

G. Ashton

The words flowed with practiced arrogance, but the ink beneath them trembled with urgency. Geoffrey wrote not as a man in command, but as one clinging to a narrative unraveling faster than he dared admit. He paused before sealing the parchment, fingers drumming against the desk in a restless rhythm. In his mind, the game was still his—but the board had shifted, and somewhere deep inside, he knew the next move might not be his to make.

Enclosed with the letter was a single slip of parchment, aged and faded. A date. A name. A debt long thought erased. A reminder that the past was never truly buried.

And as Geoffrey sealed the envelope, his smile returned—cold, calculated, and devoid of warmth. Let them celebrate their fleeting triumph. Let them believe the battle had ended.

Soon, they would learn the cost of underestimating him.

And when the truth came to light, it would not merely wound.

It would ruin.