Chapter 14: Web of Deceit

The opulent halls of Lady Catherine’s estate glistened in the morning light, reflecting the lavish wealth and privilege of its occupants. Golden-framed mirrors lined the grand staircase, and every corner of the mansion seemed to overflow with elegance. Yet, beneath the surface of beauty, something far more sinister was at play.

Lady Catherine sat in her parlor, staring out at the sprawling gardens below. She was draped in the finest silks, her dark hair perfectly coiffed, and her eyes sharp with impatience. Her world was one of indulgence, where she was pampered, admired, and obeyed. But despite her luxuries, an underlying tension tugged at her, for Lady Catherine was not used to waiting.

She lifted her cup of tea with deliberate grace, her thoughts consumed by the recent events swirling around the Harringtons and Duke William Crawford. The ball, the attack, the rumors—everything was spiraling out of control, and she hated being on the sidelines. She had been promised power, influence, and perhaps even William’s heart, yet all her plans were crumbling.

A brisk knock broke the silence. Geoffrey Ashton entered, still pale, but with a determined glint in his eyes. He still hadn’t fully recovered from his injuries, but the fire of his ambition burned stronger than ever.

Catherine's face softened slightly as she looked at him, but her voice remained sharp. "Well, Geoffrey, I trust you bring good news?"

Geoffrey smirked, taking a seat across from her. "The pieces are falling into place. Though our attack at the ball didn’t go as planned, William and Isabella still have no idea who’s truly behind everything."

Lady Catherine rolled her eyes, brushing her hand over the embroidery of her gown. "That doesn't satisfy me, Geoffrey. They are still together, planning their future like none of this has touched them. Meanwhile, I am left waiting."

Lady Catherine’s lips curved in a bitter imitation of a smile, though her eyes remained sharp with indignation.

“William was meant to be mine,” she said coolly, her voice laced with contempt. “And yet now he parades his affections for Isabella Harrington as though she were some rare prize. As if the rest of us are to applaud their triumph and politely look away.”

She turned, the candlelight catching on the glint of dissatisfaction in her gaze.

“Let Geoffrey chase shadows if he pleases. I care nothing for his obsessions. But I confess, I fail to see what renders Lady Isabella so irresistible. Is it her innocence? Her father’s name? Or is it merely that she has what others ought to?”

She glanced at Geoffrey with a sly lift of her brow. “It would almost be amusing… if it weren’t so intolerably tedious.”

Geoffrey leaned forward, his voice low and conspiratorial. "They are complacent now, Catherine. They think they’ve dealt with the threat, but we are just getting started."

A voice boomed from the doorway before Lady Catherine could reply. "And we will finish what we’ve begun."

Both Geoffrey and Catherine looked up to see Lord Montford—Catherine’s father—enter the room. Tall, with a commanding presence, Lord Montford had a reputation for being as ruthless as he was powerful. His silver hair and cold, calculating eyes betrayed none of the warmth one might expect from a father. He had ambitions that far exceeded his estate, and now his plans for Isabella Harrington and Duke William were coming to fruition.

"Father," Catherine said, a pleased smile spreading across her face, "I was just telling Geoffrey how we need to move faster. The more time passes, the more they’ll begin to suspect something."

Lord Montford walked to the window, looking out at the perfectly manicured garden below. "Patience, Catherine. Power is not gained in a single move. It is achieved over time, with careful manipulation."

Geoffrey, eager to stay in favor, nodded in agreement. "William has no idea that you’re the one pulling the strings, Lord Montford. They suspect me, but they’ll never think to look beyond."

Lord Montford turned to face them, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Good. Let them continue thinking you’re the true mastermind. That’s how it should be. By the time they realize the truth, it will be far too late."

Catherine leaned back, her fingers playing with the pearls at her neck. "And what of Isabella? What’s to be done with her?"

"Isabella Harrington has been a thorn in our side for too long," Lord Montford said coolly. "She must be removed from the picture. But not yet. Her fall will be public—her name, her family’s standing, all ruined. And then we take away the one thing she holds dear."

"You mean William?" Catherine’s smile grew wider.

Lord Montford glanced at his daughter, his expression unreadable. "Yes. William Crawford will fall, just as the Harringtons will. And when they do, we will rise."

Geoffrey’s gaze shifted between father and daughter, a sense of satisfaction settling over him. He had been promised rewards for his loyalty, and with Lord Montford as the orchestrator, he knew he had aligned himself with the right power. The only question now was when their final move would come.

"We have laid the groundwork," Lord Montford continued, his voice authoritative. "Now we wait. We strike when they least expect it."

Catherine nodded, though impatience still simmered beneath her controlled exterior. She had been promised far more than just playing the waiting game. She wanted to see Isabella suffer, wanted to see the woman who had once dared to defy her crumble under the weight of her father’s plans. But for now, she held her tongue, trusting her father’s cold wisdom.

As the conversation drew to a close, Geoffrey stood, bowing slightly to Lord Montford and Lady Catherine. "I will remain vigilant. They will suspect me, but nothing more."

Lord Montford gave him a curt nod. "Ensure that they do. We need their eyes on you, not me."

****

Unaware of the plotting unfolding that morning, Isabella sat in her chamber, the memory of last night's events replaying in her mind. She had barely been able to sleep, her thoughts consumed by the attack and the lurking danger. William and Sir James were doing everything in their power to uncover the mastermind behind the mercenaries, but so far, they had found no leads.

A knock at her door pulled her from her thoughts. Margaret entered, holding a letter in her hands.

"My lady, a message for you," Margaret said, handing the sealed letter to Isabella.

Isabella took the letter, immediately recognizing the familiar handwriting of her dearest friend, Lady Beatrice. Her heart lifted slightly—Beatrice had always been a source of comfort and wisdom.

Isabella quickly broke the seal and read the contents:

"Dearest Isabella,

I must speak with you urgently, but not at the manor. There are things I cannot say in front of others, not even William or Sir James. Meet me at our old spot by the edge of the forest tonight. I will be waiting there at sunset.

Be careful.

Yours, Beatrice."

A wave of unease washed over Isabella as she read the letter. There was something unsettling about Beatrice’s words, something that didn’t feel right. Beatrice rarely spoke in such cryptic terms.

Without thinking twice, Isabella stood and began to gather her cloak. She would go to her friend—there was no time to alert William or Sir James, and the letter had warned her to come alone.

Beatrice never asked for secrecy. And never like this.

Margaret watched with concern. "My lady, should I inform Sir James or the Duke?"

Isabella shook her head, her determination outweighing her fear. "No. This is something I must do alone."

As she hurried from her chambers and slipped through the quiet hush of the manor, Isabella noted—uneasily—that her guards were nowhere in sight. The corridor, usually watched with silent vigilance, now stretched empty and dim. A whisper of dread curled in her chest.

A footman had mentioned a disturbance near the servants’ wing—shouting,

perhaps a broken window. Nothing confirmed. But it had been enough to scatter the household's usual order. Had her guards been pulled away?

She pressed the thought aside. Beatrice needed her. And in that moment, nothing else mattered.

Isabella mounted her horse and rode into the encroaching twilight—unaware she was galloping straight into the jaws of a carefully laid trap.