Page 31 of The Widow's Scandalous Gentleman
Iris turned her attention back to Tarnley and Marcus. “Now then. I believe Lady Greaves is perfectly capable of reading your documents and responding accordingly. But you must understand that should you attempt to overrun her with procedure, I will consider it a personal provocation. And I amexceedingly unpleasantwhen provoked.”
At that precise moment, Miss Violet Ashworth stepped forward from where she had been listening in silence, unwilling to permit others to dissect her own past. She had chosen, with characteristic courage, to confront her accusers directly.
“Lord Blackwood,” she said calmly, her voice rich with the sonorous poise that had once commanded the finest stages in London, “I confess myself honoured that my continued existence has drawn your personal attention. Though I fear your opinions have been shaped by hearsay and prejudice, rather than any true knowledge of my conduct—or my contributions to the work done here.”
She was every inch the grande dame she had always been. Her bearing alone seemed to rebuke the implication of disgrace. The air shifted. The courtroom tone faltered.
“Indeed, madam,” Lord Blackwood replied with stiff courtesy, his smile thin, “though I suspect your defence may be coloured by personal investment in justifying… choices. Choices which some might interpret as indicators of a gradual erosion of character—moral decay, if we speak plainly—that tends to follow when one abandons conventional domestic structure.”
Before Violet could respond, the door opened again.
Sir Edmund Thornwick entered, his expression grave. He paused just inside the threshold, taking in the scene with a slight tightening of his jaw—an unmistakable sign of disapproval, though its target remained ambiguous. Clearly, he had not expected quite such a performance.
“Lady Greaves. Lord Jasper,” he said, offering a formal bow. “It seems my presence is required to assist in resolving certain legal concerns raised regarding the oversight of this household, and its conformity to regulations governing private residences of public interest.”
His tone, though official, lacked the triumphalist quality of those who had arrived to condemn. He sounded—reluctant. Thalia saw the flicker of discomfort in his eyes and felt, for the first time that morning, the faintest stirrings of hope.
“Sir Edmund,” she replied, her voice composed, “I welcome your review. I trust you will find that our arrangements—though unusual—adhere both to the letter and spirit of legal propriety, and uphold the values of dignity, respect, and moral decency that our community was founded to protect.”
Lord Jasper stepped forward, his tone carefully measured. “Sir Edmund’s prior acquaintance with our salons and artistic work places him in a unique position to evaluate not only the truth of these allegations, but the broader merit of what Lady Greaves has accomplished here.”
Sir Edmund gave a slight nod, though his face remained unreadable. But the mere fact of his presence, and his lack of immediate censure, disrupted the coordinated rhythm of their opponents’ assault.
Lord Blackwood, clearly irritated by this change in tone, turned back to Violet. “Madam, I have received very specific reports regarding your history—associations which may cast a troubling shadow over this house. The question is not merely one of your personal redemption, but the influence you exert over others under this roof.”
“I see,” Violet replied, her eyes glittering. “So I am not only a cautionary tale—but a contagion.”
“You exaggerate,” Blackwood said.
“No,” she said coolly. “You do.”
From her seat, Lady Thornfield let out an audible sniff. “This entire morning has had the air of amateur dramatics. Lord Blackwood, if you are so concerned with moral contagion, I suggest you first quarantine your own arrogance. You’ll find it far more infectious.”
Even Sir Edmund’s mouth twitched.
Thalia stepped forward once more. “I believe we have heard enough innuendo for one morning. If there are specific legal charges to be made, let them be stated clearly. If not—let us cease the performance.”
The men exchanged looks.
Sir Edmund cleared his throat. “Lady Greaves is correct. This matter must now proceed with transparency. I will conduct a formal review—privately—and my findings will be based on observation, not assumption.”
That, Thalia realised, was the best outcome they could have hoped for: an opportunity to beseenas they were—not as caricatures shaped by malice.
Around her, the room remained heavy with tension, but the tides had shifted. The polished apparatus of legal suppression had encountered resistance it had not anticipated—dignity, intellect, and most threatening of all: solidarity.
Whatever came next, they would not go quietly.
Chapter Fifteen
The air within the morning room had not yet resumed its ordinary warmth. Though the confrontation had passed and the delegation dispersed—for now, at least— the silence that settled in its wake was not one of relief, but of careful calculation. Afternoon light slanted through the tall windows, gilding the corners of the carpet in amber, and yet the company gathered there remained still, as though wary of drawing too bold a breath.
Lady Thornfield, however, was very much at her ease. She had claimed the longest settee with all the ceremony of a monarch reclaiming a favourite throne. A spray of silks in cobalt and mulberry, she reclined against her assortment of tasselled cushions with a theatrical sigh, her bejewelled fingers drumming against her knee. Cassandra, her emerald parrot, dozed contentedly on her shoulder.
Miss Violet Ashworth occupied a small armchair by the window, her dignity intact despite the visible fatigue that shaded her features. She looked older than she had the day before—though perhaps, Thalia thought, it was not age but the heaviness of having borne herself with such quiet courage.
“I do not pretend to understand the law,” Iris began at last, her voice slicing through the quiet like the sweep of a fan, “but I do know a stage when I see one. That was not a tribunal, my darlings. That was a production. Full cast. Elaborate costumes. Poorly paced.”
“Improvised,” Violet murmured, folding her hands over her lap. “But not aimless. They knew exactly what they intended.”
