Page 30 of The Widow's Scandalous Gentleman
Thalia nodded. “Marcus intends to make it official. Guardianship, financial oversight, and reassignment of property. It’s not merely interference—he means to assume full control.”
“I do wish men would stop disguising power grabs as moral interventions,” Iris said crisply. “It’s insulting, frankly. If you’re going to trample someone, the least you can do is be honest about it.”
Jasper glanced at the door. “They’ll request a formal audience soon. He’ll pretend it’s a kindness. An unfortunate necessity. For your benefit, of course.”
“And with theHerald’spiece still echoing through drawing rooms from here to London,” Thalia added bitterly, “he’ll have all the justification he needs. What brother wouldn’t intervene when his sister’s name has been dragged through public print?”
Aunt Iris arched one finely drawn brow. “Please. If your brother gave a fig about your name, he would have come alone, not trailed by legal carrion.” She turned back toward Thalia, her tone sharpening. “Listen to me, darling. You may be a widow and a lady, but you arenothelpless. And you arenotalone. If Marcus expects to overrun this house with paperwork and polished phrases, he will find it rather more crowded with opposition than he anticipated.”
Thalia managed the ghost of a smile. “I’m grateful for your presence, Lady Thornfield. Truly.”
“We are not quite finished yet, darling,” Iris replied briskly. “Now then. Shall we face the hounds with dignity—or scandal?”
Jasper allowed himself a dry smile. “Perhaps a careful measure of each.”
A moment later, the drawing room door opened, admitting the delegation they had braced themselves to receive.
Marcus Berrington entered first, his expression self-satisfied, his posture full of calculated purpose. He moved like a man convinced of the inevitability of his success, flanked by two legal representatives who carried portfolios bearing the unmistakable weight of sealed documents and procedural authority. It was, Thalia thought grimly, the entrance of a man performing virtue under the banner of familial duty.
“Sister,” Marcus intoned, his voice steeped in the tone of benevolent authority, “I trust you are prepared to address the serious concerns that have necessitated this morning’s proceedings—matters which, regrettably, can no longer be dismissed as private.”
The solicitor beside him stepped forward. “Lady Greaves,” he said, his tone clipped and impersonal, “I am Mr Tarnley, retained to assist in reviewing irregularities surrounding your current domestic arrangements. The matter, as you may be aware, touches upon legal questions of guardianship, property oversight, and moral suitability. Given the recent publicity surrounding this residence, and the reported nature of activities conducted under your supervision, the situation now falls within the purview of broader regulatory concern.”
Thalia met his gaze without flinching. “What you describe as irregularity,” she said coolly, “we call community.”
Tarnley did not blink. “Be that as it may, my lady, we are here to ensure that all actions taken henceforth comply with the standards of propriety and public welfare. These documents,” he said, indicating the portfolio in his hand, “contain instruments of legal authority pertaining to your estate, as well as proposed reassignment of management and fiscal guardianship to Mr Marcus Berrington, whose concern for your well-being is duly recorded.”
“And how fortunate for me,” Thalia replied, her voice like glass, “that concern should come so thoroughly notarised.”
Before Tarnley could reply, the door opened again.
A new presence entered—Lord Blackwood.
He moved with the deliberate confidence of a man long accustomed to having rooms fall silent upon his arrival. A peer of the realm and longtime critic of progressive social ventures, Blackwood was known in political circles for his uncompromising views on moral order and his fondness for public declarationscloaked in the language of duty. His pale eyes swept the room, pausing on each face as though quietly measuring their flaws.
“Lady Greaves,” he said, offering a bow that barely concealed his relish, “I confess I had hoped such domestic irregularities might resolve themselves through more private channels. But I see now the matter has grown… instructive.”
Thalia turned toward him, her voice even colder now. “I confess myself curious as to the nature of your interest in this—primarily familial—matter, my lord. I was not aware that feminine independence required the intervention of the House of Lords.”
Blackwood gave a smile that never reached his eyes. “Ah, but therein lies the concern. The model you have created here—public, defiant, unchaperoned—has begun to influence young ladies of good breeding in ways their families find deeply troubling. It is not merely your household at stake, but the example it sets.”
Lady Thornfield’s eyes flashed. “You say that as though it were a threat.”
“It is a warning,” Blackwood replied smoothly. “For some, a refuge such as this may seem harmless. But without appropriate supervision, such freedoms become liabilities. I have received reports—firsthand accounts—concerning certain residents whose past conduct, if not properly accounted for, may cast unfortunate shadows over the house that shelters them.”
The insinuation hung in the air like smoke.
He continued, voice rich with theatrical regret. “One such individual—Miss Violet Ashworth—has a history not unknown to the stage. Her presence here suggests either ignorance or indulgence, neither of which inspires confidence in the establishment’s moral direction.”
That blow, Thalia realised, had been aimed with precision. Miss Ashworth was not only a resident, but a mentor. Her vulnerability made her the perfect sacrificial figure—an easy way to discredit the Retreat’s mission by attacking its most visible legacy.
But before Thalia could reply, Lady Thornfield stepped forward.
“Do you know,” she said, adjusting Cassandra on her shoulder, “I have always been fascinated by men who lecture about morality with the expression of someone about to sample a slightly undercooked pheasant. Lord Blackwood, you speak of guidance and decorum, yet your tone suggests less a steward of order than a man nursing a grievance that refuses to die.”
Blackwood stiffened, but Iris continued, undeterred. “Miss Ashworth’s reputation precedes her—and rightly so. Her wisdom, her wit, her resilience—those qualities are the foundation of this community, not a stain upon it. If her theatrical past troubles you, I suggest you avoid the theatre. Or perhaps you already do, in which case I weep for your cultural poverty.”
Jasper coughed into his fist—whether to mask a laugh or a cough, no one could say.
