Page 52 of A Wallflower's Convenient Duke
A flicker of irritation passed over Isabella’s features. She rolled her eyes with theatrical flair. “Oh, Blanche. Must we go through this again? I’ve already told you—they are being searched for. The house is large. These things take time.”
“No,” Blanche snapped, her arms crossing. “No more of that. I know the truth. You can stop pretending.”
“I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean,” Isabella said, lifting her glass delicately.
Blanche took a step closer. “I saw them,” she said quietly, dangerously. “At Mr. Munroe’s auction. Father’s relics—the bronze blade, the amphora. The ones I told you were missing.”
There it was.
The moment of collapse.
Her mother’s face, so carefully schooled in elegance, faltered. A visible flinch. A moment of sheer, blinking panic. She recovered quickly, but it was too late. The mask had slipped.
“Mr. Munroe’s… auction,” Isabella echoed, her voice barely audible.
Blanche didn’t look away. “The very items you told me had simply been misplaced. Why would you lie to me?”
Isabella’s eyes narrowed, and something steely flashed behind them. A pause—long, brittle—then at last, she exhaled sharply, as if shedding the weight of a burden she had long tired of carrying.
“Fine,” she said flatly. “I sold them. Is that what you wanted to hear?”
Even though Blanche had expected it, the admission felt like a blade between her ribs.
“But why?” Her voice cracked. “You knew how much they meant to me. They were all I had left of him.”
“Because I had no choice!” Isabella snapped, rising now, the wine glass set aside. Her jewels glinted in the firelight, gaudy and misplaced. “We were drowning, Blanche. On the verge of ruin. Your father left me with debts—debts I worked tirelessly to conceal. I had to sell something, and those dusty relics… they were the easiest to part with.”
“They were not yours to sell,” Blanche breathed. Her eyes shimmered, but her voice was cold. “They were Father’s. They were mine.”
“They were part of this family’s estate!” Isabella barked. “And I did what I had to do to preserve what was left of our name. You think you’re the only one who’s lost something?”
Blanche took a trembling breath, steadying herself. “You should have told me.”
“You wouldn’t have understood. You never do. Always buried in your books, your histories, clinging to the past like it’s some holy scripture.” Isabella’s voice twisted, bitter. “And you refused to do the one thing that could’ve helped—securea match. A proper match. Instead, you chased scholars and shadows, and now look where we are.”
“You sold pieces of him,” Blanche whispered. “And lied. And watched me search for them with a smile on your face.”
Isabella’s expression hardened. “You think I enjoyed it? You think it was easy? You’ve no idea what it’s like to hold everything together while you indulge your whims like a little girl playing at being clever.”
Blanche’s heart pounded with fury.
“I am not a little girl,” she said, every syllable laced with fire. “And if holding everything together means betraying the memory of the only man who ever saw value in who I was, then I want no part of it.”
They stood there, breathless, the silence crackling between them.
And then, in the hush, something darker flickered in Blanche’s thoughts.
If her mother had been capable of this—of deceit, of theft—what else had she done? What other desperate acts had she committed beneath that veil of respectability?
The realisation hit Blanche like a cold wind.
She looked at her mother—truly looked—and for the first time, she did not see the woman who had raised her, who had styled her hair for her first ball, or whispered sharp-edged encouragements in drawing rooms. She saw a stranger cloaked in silks and secrets, a woman with eyes too proud to weep and a heart too cold to break.
Isabella, ever imperious, met her daughter’s gaze with a tilt of the chin and a voice sharpened by scorn. “The only reason Leopold was granted holiday from his precious boarding school,” she said, her tone clipped and bitter, “is because the fees are long overdue. If you must direct your outrage somewhere,Blanche, consider that. Consider what I’ve done to protect him. To protect all of us.”
The words landed like a slap.
Blanche's breath caught as her mind reeled. Her sweet, innocent brother—dragged into the mire of unpaid debts and desperate schemes. The image of him, bounding out to greet Philip with joy in his eyes, twisted in her chest. He had no idea. He never had.
