Chapter 19 - The Ghost in the Shadows
The revelation hung in the freezing air like a butcher’s blade.
Alister did not move. He did not breathe. For five agonizing seconds, the great Duke of Ashbourne seemed carved from the same black basalt that formed the cliffs beneath them. His hands hung at his sides, curling slowly into fists so tight that the knuckles turned bloodless white, the seams of his leather gloves straining to the point of tearing.
"Alister..." Abigail whispered, reaching out to touch his arm.
His muscles were like iron cords, vibrating with a rage so colossal, so profound, that it terrified her more than any threat Beatrice could ever utter.
Three years. For three years, Alister had blamed himself. He had believed he had failed Eleanor by not summoning better physicians, by not recognizing the symptoms of her fever sooner, by being away in London on parliamentary business when the first ague took hold. That guilt had hollowed him out, turned Ashbourne Manor into a tomb, and alienated him from his own daughter.
And it had all been a lie. A calculated, cold-blooded assassination carried out by the family who had later offered Beatrice as his consolation bride.
"Seize her," Alister said.
The voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried the absolute finality of an executioner's bell.
"On what charge?" Beatrice shrieked, taking an instinctive step back toward her carriage as Higgins and three armed veterans leaped forward from the gate. "I told you, I carry the Chiverton safe-conduct! You touch me and it is an act of war against the Crown!"
"Seize her!" Alister roared, stepping across the gravel with predatory speed.
Before Beatrice could scramble into the safety of the carriage, Higgins caught her by the velvet collar of her cloak, hauling her roughly back onto the stones. Her bonnet fell into the mud, her blonde curls coming undone in wild disarray.
"Take your hands off me, you peasant dog!" she screamed, flailing her gloved hands, her sharp nails raking across Higgins’ cheek, drawing a line of bright crimson. "Alister! You coward! You cannot bury the truth! The apothecary will speak at Chiverton’s summons! He will tell the world Eleanor died screaming while you sat useless in your library!"
Alister stopped inches from her. He looked down at the writhing, spitting woman who had nearly become his wife, his eyes hollowed out by grief and burning with cold vengeance.
"Where is he?" Alister asked.
"Find him yourself in the gutters of Aberdeen!" Beatrice spat, laughing through her tears of fury. "His name is Corvinus! And by now, Chiverton’s men have already moved him! You will never prove it! You will live every day of your miserable life knowing that I smiled in your face while wearing the ghost of Eleanor's jewels!"
"Lock her in the sea tower," Alister ordered Higgins, his voice dead and devoid of all humanity. "Chain her to the wall. Strip her of every pin, ring, and ribbon. If she tries to take her own life, put her in irons. She will live to face the block at the Tower of London alongside Cavendish."
"You can't do this!" Beatrice shrieked as Higgins and two burly soldiers dragged her toward the dark entrance of the tower keep. "Chiverton has an army at Peterhead! He will burn this rat's nest to the ground! Clara will die an orphan, Alister! Do you hear me? Clara will burn!"
Her screams faded as the heavy iron-studded oak door of the sea tower slammed shut, the heavy iron bolt dropping into place with a sickening thud.
Abigail picked up the black-sealed paper from the gravel. She unfolded it under the flickering light of the torch.
It was an authentic receipt—dated three years prior, written in the cramped hand of an apothecary, detailing purchases of tasteless white arsenic delivered to the London townhouse of Lord Reginald Hadlington. Below it was a brief, horrifying note in Cavendish’s handwriting: *The Duchess suspects too much. Ensure the dose is gradual. Ashbourne must believe it to be the autumn putrid fever.*
Abigail’s breath caught in her throat. She looked at Alister.
The Duke was standing in the center of the courtyard, staring blankly at the stones. The rain had begun to fall, mixing with the salt spray, plastering his dark hair against his forehead.
"Alister," she said softly, approaching him with infinite tenderness. She didn't offer empty words of comfort, for she knew there were none that could touch a wound so monstrous. Instead, she placed her hand over his, weaving her fingers through his clenched, trembling fist.
He turned his head slowly, looking at her with eyes that looked shattered, like cracked mirrors.
"I let them sit at my table, Abigail," he whispered, his voice cracking with unbearable anguish. "I shook Reginald Hadlington's hand. I poured wine for Cavendish. I brought Beatrice into the nursery... to touch Eleanor's child."
He choked on the words, a dry, ragged sob tearing from his chest—the first tear he had shed in three years slipping down his rugged cheek, hot and stinging against the cold rain.
"You did not know, Alister," Abigail said fiercely, stepping into his arms, wrapping her slender frame around his trembling body, offering all the strength and love her soul possessed. "You were an honorable man surrounded by monsters. But Eleanor’s daughter lives. Clara lives, and she is safe, and we will tear down every stone of Chiverton's house until justice is done."
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Alister buried his face in Abigail’s neck, his arms clamping around her with desperate intensity, his tears soaking into her velvet collar as the thunder rolled across the dark northern sea.
***