Chapter 26 - A Summons in the Night

Lady Beatrix's icy glare pierced through me as Kate and Baron Reginald left the dining table. Her fingers drummed against the polished wood, her jaw clenched tight enough to crack walnuts.

"You've ruined everything," she hissed. "Are you satisfied now, Isabella? You've torn this family apart with your accusations."

I took a slow sip of water, savoring her discomfort. For once, I wasn't cowering or apologizing.

"I didn't ruin anything," I replied calmly. "This family needs to learn accountability. My father stole my inheritance. Clara scarred my face. These aren't accusations—they're facts."

Lady Beatrix's nostrils flared. "Always blaming others for your misfortunes. Your face is not Clara's fault. It was an accident."

"An accident?" I laughed without humor. "She pushed me into that fireplace because I received a compliment she thought should be hers. That wasn't an accident."

"You were always competing for attention—"

"I was seven years old!" My voice rose despite my efforts to remain composed. "Clara was jealous and cruel, and you encouraged it. You both got what you wanted—I became the monster hidden away in the attic. Yet somehow, I'm still here, about to become a duchess while Clara throws tantrums in her bedroom."

Lady Beatrix stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor. "You may have trapped the Duke with your schemes, but mark my words—it won't last. Men like him don't keep damaged goods for long."

With that parting shot, she swept from the room, leaving me alone with cooling food and my racing thoughts.

I forced myself to eat despite my lack of appetite. Tomorrow I would leave this house forever, but tonight, I needed strength. As I chewed methodically, I considered Lady Beatrix's words. Perhaps once, they might have crushed me. Now, they merely bounced off the armor I'd built around myself.

The Duke didn't see me as damaged goods. He saw me as worthy. And slowly, I was beginning to see that too.

I wondered what Katrina would do next. Her reaction at dinner suggested she had some personal vendetta against Clara Meadows. Another mystery to unravel—but not tonight. Tonight, I would prepare for my departure and my new life as Duchess of Blackwood.

---

Baron Reginald Beaumont paced his study, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool evening air. His hands trembled as he poured himself a third glass of brandy.

Everything was unraveling. Isabella had exposed his financial deception. Lady Beatrix hadn't spoken to him since dinner. And worst of all, Duke Thorne would soon discover the extent of his embezzlement from Isabella's trust.

"Damn it all," he muttered, downing the brandy in one burning gulp.

A knock at the door made him jump, sloshing liquor onto his sleeve.

"What is it?" he barked.

His aging butler entered, holding a sealed letter on a silver tray. "An urgent message, my lord."

Baron Reginald snatched the letter, dismissing the servant with a wave. His blood ran cold when he recognized the black wax seal—a raven with outstretched wings.

Lord Malachi Ravenscroft.

His fingers trembled so badly he could barely break the seal. The message inside was brief:

*Meet me tonight. The usual place. Midnight.*

*Do not fail me again.*

The Baron collapsed into his chair, the letter crumpling in his fist. Lord Malachi had been livid when Isabella had suddenly married the Duke, ruining their arrangement. The powerful nobleman had wanted Isabella for himself—her mask and scarred face an intriguing novelty to add to his collection of oddities.

Baron Reginald had promised her hand in exchange for clearing his gambling debts. Now that promise was broken, and Lord Malachi was not a man who accepted disappointment graciously.

He had no choice. He had to go.

With shaking hands, he ordered his carriage prepared. The night was moonless and cold as he set out on the lonely road toward the abandoned hunting lodge where Lord Malachi conducted his more unsavory business.

The Baron huddled in his carriage, jumping at every shadow. His mind raced with possible explanations, excuses, anything that might placate Malachi's rage.

Suddenly, the carriage lurched to a halt. The Baron heard his driver cry out, then silence.

"What's happening?" he called, heart hammering against his ribs. "Why have we stopped?"

The carriage door wrenched open. A hulking figure blocked the moonlight—Roric, Lord Malachi's favored henchman. The brute's scarred face split into a menacing grin.

"Evening, Baron," he growled. "Lord Malachi awaits you in his carriage. Just ahead."

Baron Reginald peered past Roric to see an elegant black carriage waiting in the darkness.

"I—I was coming to meet him as requested," the Baron stammered. "There's no need for this...this intimidation."

"Lord Malachi doesn't like to be kept waiting," Roric replied. "Out you get."

"I'll walk over in my own time," the Baron said, attempting dignity despite his fear. "Tell your master I'll be there shortly."

Roric's smile vanished. In one swift motion, he reached inside the carriage and grasped a fistful of the Baron's thinning hair.

"You misunderstand, my lord," he whispered, the title dripping with contempt. "This wasn't a request."

The Baron clutched at Roric's massive arm. "Unhand me! Do you know who I am?"

Roric laughed, a sound like grinding stones. "A man who owes Lord Malachi money and a bride. Neither of which you've delivered."

With shocking strength, Roric yanked the Baron from his carriage. The nobleman tumbled to the ground, landing face-first in the muddy road. Before he could rise, a boot pressed against his back, grinding him deeper into the muck.

"Where's your title now, Baron?" Roric taunted, increasing the pressure until the Baron gasped for breath. "Not so high and mighty with your face in the dirt, are you?"

The Baron tried to speak, but could only manage a pathetic wheeze. Mud filled his mouth, stinging his eyes.

"Stand up," Roric ordered, removing his boot. When the Baron struggled to rise, Roric grabbed him by his collar and hauled him to his feet like a rag doll.

"Look at you," Roric sneered, examining the mud-covered nobleman. "Pitiful. Lord Malachi expected better from his business partners."

The Baron tried to wipe the filth from his face, his hands shaking. "This is outrageous. I will not be treated this way."

Roric's response was a backhanded slap that sent the Baron stumbling sideways.

"You'll be treated how Lord Malachi decides," he growled. "Now move."

Roric marched the humiliated Baron toward the black carriage, shoving him forward with each step. When they reached it, the door swung open silently.

"Get in," Roric ordered.

With as much dignity as he could muster—which wasn't much, covered in mud and trembling—Baron Reginald climbed into the carriage. The plush interior was dark, lit only by a small lantern that cast sinister shadows. Across from him sat Roric, who had somehow circled around and entered from the other side.

The brute smiled, his teeth gleaming in the lamplight like a predator's.

"Comfortable, Baron?" he asked mockingly.

The door closed with an ominous click, and the carriage lurched forward into the night. Baron Reginald, once proud and powerful, now sat muddy and humiliated, heading toward a fate he could neither predict nor escape.

And all because he had lost control of his daughter, Isabella—a woman who had slipped through his fingers like his fortune, his dignity, and now, perhaps, his very life.