Page 91 of A Night of Desire with a Duke
“Furthermore,” he continued, “you have possessed this so-called evidence for weeks, perhaps months, and you elected to disclose it three days before a wedding. That does not bespeak concern for propriety, Miss Worthing. It bespeaks blackmail.”
A ripple of astonishment moved through the assembly. The word “blackmail,” plain and legal, fell like ice. Faces exchanged quick, sharp glances; the merriment dissolved into a very particular, very English alarm. Catherine felt her pulse in her throat and was dimly aware of her own breathing as if it belonged to someone standing beside her.
“I am endeavouring to protect society from scandal,” Miss Worthing protested, her voice thin with the failing of her plan. She raised the register as though it were a talisman; its paper looked suddenly ridiculous in her fingers.
“You are endeavouring to ruin an innocent woman from motives of wounded vanity,” James replied, each phrase measured as if delivered from the end of a tribunal. “And by means that, if properly examined, are criminal.” He paused, and in that pause the name of offence...“theft, bribery, conspiracy to slander”, murmured about the room like a disquieting chorus.
Catherine’s thoughts were a ricochet of terror and gratitude. Someone had seen them at the inn and the memory of that dawnreturned to her with brutal clarity. She saw again the low light, heard again the murmur of James’s voice in the dark; shame and a fierce, fierce gladness warred within her. Yet James stood between her and ruin like a wall of cold iron, and the steadiness of his manner steadied her with it.
Miss Worthing, for a moment, tried to recover. “But she was there,” she insisted. “With you , in the same chambers.”
“Yes,” James admitted simply, and the admission itself took the air from the room. “We were both at the Black Swan that night. I was travelling to a dying father; Miss Mayfer was fleeing an unwanted betrothal. We were given separate accommodation in a house crowded with strangers. We met in the public rooms. Nothing indecent occurred.”
The subtlety of his defence was genius: he conceded enough to make her boast seem mean and petty and then explained the ordinary facts in such a manner that the insinuation crumbled. He spoke of servants, of the corner chambers’ two bedrooms, of the presence of a maid; little details that sounded dull but which, in context, were incontrovertible.
Miss Worthing opened her mouth and closed it. Her triumph thinned to panic. James’s eyes sharpened, and the small, cold smile that tugged at his mouth had no humour in it at all.
“Your witness,” he said softly, “is either deceived or a liar. If she continues to propagate falsehoods, she will be confronted with the consequences of perjury and conspiracy. Consider this a final civility, Miss Worthing: apologise now, publicly, and take your leave. Or refuse, and I will pursue the other course.” Hemade no flourish; there was no need. The gravity of the threat lay in the precision of his offer.
Miss Worthing looked around the ballroom, searching for support. But society had already chosen sides, and it wasn't hers. She'd overplayed her hand, and everyone knew it.
Her mother appeared at her elbow, having pushed through the crowd. "Amelia, what's happening?"
"Your daughter," James said coldly, "has been attempting to blackmail my betrothed with stolen property and false witness."
The words struck like a bell in the hush. Catherine saw Mrs. Worthing’s face drain of color—white as paper, trembling lips barely forming the reply.
“Amelia, tell me this isn’t true.”
But Miss Worthing’s silence was answer enough. The older woman’s composure cracked; her fan slipped from her hand and clattered against the floor.
“Apologise,” Mrs. Worthing hissed, voice quivering with fury and mortification.
“Mother...”
“NOW.”
Miss Worthing turned, eyes glassy and cheeks flaming, her gaze fixed somewhere over Catherine’s shoulder rather than upon her face.
“I apologise,” she said through gritted teeth.
“Louder,” James commanded, his tone brooking no defiance. “Let everyone hear.”
“I apologise!” the girl cried, tears beginning to fall. “I was... mistaken about everything. Lady Catherine is innocent of any impropriety!”
“And?”
“And I’m sorry for my baseless accusations!”
“Thank you,” James said with icy finality. “Now leave.”
The crowd parted wordlessly, a living corridor of silks and jewels, as Mrs. Worthing seized her daughter’s arm and hauled her toward the doors. The mother’s face was tight with humiliation; the daughter’s blotched with rage. The hush broke as the doors closed behind them; whispers first, then laughter, then the quick chatter of relief as the tension drained away.
“Well,” Lady Jersey declared brightly, snapping open her fan, “that was better than anything at Drury Lane!”
Laughter rippled through the room. The orchestra struck up again. But Catherine could not laugh. She stood rooted, her hand still trembling in James’s, her smile frozen for appearances’ sake while her heart beat a feverish rhythm of guilt and gratitude and something perilously close to shame.
James had lied. Brilliantly, effortlessly, and entirely for her.
