My Fiancée Tried To Blackmail Me With A Gutter Orphan — She Didn’t Know I Used To Be One
Part 2
The servant quarters of my manor were a subterranean labyrinth of whitewashed brick and heavy oak doors.
They were a stark, utilitarian contrast to the velvet and gold above.
I navigated the narrow corridors, ignoring the shocked gasps of footmen and scullery maids who threw themselves against the walls at the sight of me.
I found her in the silver polishing pantry.
Megan was standing by the deep stone sink.
Her back was to the door as she aggressively scrubbed a silver platter with a rag of crushed chalk and ammonia.
The harsh chemical smell burned my nose as I stepped into the small room.
I clicked the heavy door shut behind me, and the lock engaged with a loud metallic thud.
Megan stiffened, halting her furious motion against the silver.
She did not turn around.
“You should not be down here, your grace,” she said.
Her voice was different now.
The harsh street edges had been smoothed out by years of survival, but the underlying grit remained.
“Where did you get that ring?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
She slowly set the platter down and turned to face me.
She wiped her wet hands on her apron.
She looked at me with the cold appraisal of a survivor facing an enemy.
“I bought it from a peddler, your grace,” she lied smoothly.
“Do not lie to me, Megan,” I pleaded, the name tearing from my throat.
At the sound of her name, a muscle feathered in her jaw.
She closed the distance between us, stepping so close I could smell the lye soap on her skin.
There was no fear in her, only a terrifying, quiet fury.
“Megan Carter died in the infirmary,” she hissed, her voice dripping with venom.
She raised her right hand, thrusting the twisted wire and cracked blue glass between us.
“This ring was given to me by a dead boy who promised we would never be cold again.
But he found himself a velvet bed and left his rubbish behind to rot.”
I reached out and grasped her shoulders.
“They told me you were dead,” I desperately explained.
“My uncle handed me the parish registry with your name on it.
I grieved for you and never stopped looking until they proved you were in the dirt.”
She shoved me back, breaking my grip.
“Do not play the victim with me, Daniel,” she spat.
“I know about the blood money.
The fifty pounds a month your uncle set aside for my care to ensure the bastard heir had a clean slate.”
I froze in pure shock.
The workhouse master had stolen the money and faked her death certificate for my uncle.
Megan had come here to steal two hundred pounds to save her brother Tyler from a ruthless debt collector named Craig Walsh.
Before I could offer her everything I owned, the heavy oak door rattled violently.
“Daniel, open this door at once,” Heather’s voice demanded from the corridor.
I unlocked the door, and my fiancée stepped inside.
She withdrew a folded, yellowed parchment bearing my uncle’s crest.
“We knew the death certificate was forged,” Heather revealed, her voice dripping with triumph.
“My father’s agents intercepted the stipend, and I hired her into this house to control you.”
Heather turned her cruel gaze to Megan.
“Sign the capital transfer for my tin mines tonight, Daniel, or I will ensure Craig Walsh moves her brother to the lowest, most disease-ridden cell in prison.”
Heather thought she had trapped a helpless aristocrat, but how could I show her she had just cornered a starving mudlark who had nothing left to lose?
