Page 141 of The Duke's Dream
Thornley chuckled mildly, smoothing his beard with a hand. "Why have you barged in, then? The raid was a success. Farley's no longer a threat. Surely you could've waited until morning?"
"Some things cannot wait."
The stench of brandy and sweat clung to William's throat. He forced himself not to react. His hands remained still, his expression unreadable.
"Where is Mr. Farley?"
Thornley raised a brow. "Bow Street. Secured and sound. The magistrate's ready. The trial will be swift, public, and instructive. The charge of sodomy will burn his legacy into ash."
He lifted his brandy. "We've performed a service, truly. For stability."
Stability. The cornerstone of everything William had defended—of every speech, every vote, every sleepless night at committee tables. Stability had been his doctrine, his north star. But now he saw it for what it had become in Thornley's mouth: not peace, not preservation, but quiet suffocation. It was a word that masked brutality. That let men like Thornley drink in brothels while calling it order. That let soldiers plunder and call it victory. That let a writer rot in a cell for daring to speak.
William's hands fisted. "You will release him. You will summon your dogs at the home office and order them to free the writer."
Thornley curled his lips into a sneer. "I see Miss Beaumont has left the country, but you remain under her spell."
Very much so. Thank God.
"Don't sully her name," William said. "I want the writer. Now."
Thornley regarded him, gaze sharpening like a scalpel. "The writer is a shameless—"
"Mr. Farley isn't the one rutting in a brothel while his wife waits at home."
Thornley's face froze, only his nostrils flared like a caught fish.
"You storm in," he said, voice perfectly modulated, "you question my judgment, impugn my personal conduct—"
"If you don't release him," William said, stepping forward, "I'll stand with him."
The air went still.
Thornley stared, his expression unreadable.
William didn't blink. "I'll go to the press. The Lords. The House. I'll say I'm guilty of the same crime."
Thornley blinked. "You're out of your mind."
And so William made his move. It was reckless—and Helene would have called it brilliant. As a public figure, the Duke of Albemarle couldn't survive a scandal of this magnitude. It would fracture the party, doom the war budget, collapse their agenda. William knew that. And most importantly, Thornley knew it.
"Does it matter?" William asked.
He stepped forward. Behind Thornley, the fire snapped, casting long shadows on the paneled walls.
"Let's think," William said, voice measured, quiet. "What happens if the Silent Sovereign is accused of the same crime? Will they whisper 'like mother, like son'?"
He let the thought linger in the charged silence.
"Or would they begin to question everything else we've stood for?"
Thornley's jaw shifted. A single muscle in his cheek jumped.
"You and I both know I wouldn't survive the scandal. And neither would you. The moment I fall, you fall with me. The war budget dies. The party fractures. Perhaps the Whigs will take over."
William paused, just long enough for the words to root.
"We built this government on stability. On tradition. Do you really want to be the man who watched it unravel because he wouldn't free a single writer?"
