A Deathbed Promise Became A Vengeful Crusade
Part 2
Financed by Arthur’s staggering wealth and fueled by my cold, righteous fury, I discarded the dreary bombazines of my long mourning period.
I commissioned an entirely new wardrobe from the finest modistes in London, choosing rich, unapologetic silks in deep garnet and midnight blue.
Our return to Mayfair in the early spring sent violent shockwaves through the glittering, vicious ranks of the aristocracy.
Society firmly believed the formidable Duke of Somerset had banished his drab, practical bride to the countryside permanently.
Stepping into the Prince Regent’s lavish ball at Carlton House, our dramatic arrival completely silenced the crowded, glittering room.
I wore a gown of liquid silver that caught the candlelight, my dark hair swept up and woven with the legendary Somerset diamonds.
Arthur offered his arm to me in stark evening black, his lips brushing the shell of my ear as he murmured for me to watch them closely.
We utilized our sudden social power to quietly infiltrate the exclusive drawing rooms of the elite patronesses, gathering fragments of dangerous gossip.
Arthur applied brutal pressure in the underground gambling hells and the shadowy docks of the Thames to track illicit trade routes.
A claustrophobic, politically charged dinner party at the aging Earl of Blackwood’s estate finally brought the breaking point of our investigation.
I noticed the fresh mud caked on his boots and the frantic, fearful looks exchanged between his nervous footmen.
A brief glimpse of a wax seal bearing a twisted ‘H’ in his private study matched the letters hidden in Thomas’s trunk perfectly.
Adrenaline coursed through my veins upon returning to our townhouse on Grosvenor Square, pacing the length of Arthur’s study in my silver gown.
The duke poured two glasses of brandy by the hearth, a muscle ticking visibly in his clenched jaw as I confirmed Lord John’s identity.
His vow to tear the Earl’s life apart piece by piece hung in the heavy, charged air between us.
I drafted a expertly forged letter to Lord John, offering to negotiate for a partially burned ledger containing his darkest secrets.
Arthur violently opposed the dangerous plan, pacing the library with an untouched glass of whiskey while demanding I stay out of the crosshairs.
Placing my hands flat against his racing heart, I slid a small silver-barreled percussion pistol smoothly into my velvet reticule.
Midnight arrived in the unlit, suffocating labyrinth of Vauxhall Gardens’ dark walk, the air thick with the scent of damp earth.
Lord John emerged from the gloom flanked by three massive scarred enforcers from the docks, his jovial grandfatherly mask entirely gone.
The aging Earl sneered at my foolish gamble, casually admitting he broke Thomas’s legs in the alleyway before tossing him under the carriage.
Before the crude thugs could take a single step, the dense shadows around us erupted with lethal, terrifying speed.
Arthur struck the first man with the heavy silver pommel of his cane, shattering his jaw instantly.
I leveled the silver-barreled percussion pistol at the charging enforcer.
The gunshot deafened the dark clearing of Vauxhall Gardens.
Arthur tackled the aging Earl into the mud, his hands wrapping tightly around the murderer’s throat.
Would you let the man who butchered your brother face the gallows, or would you let your husband deliver justice in the shadows?
