Page 93 of Surrender Your Grace
“You never said—”
“Because it isn’t your burden. It’s mine. Your safety ismine.”
“And Maggie’s is mine,” Duncan thundered.
“Until you’re married,” Andrew snapped, “she’s stillmyresponsibility.”
“We were effective,” Maggie fired back. “Not foolish. Not reckless. And what exactly haveyoudiscovered?”
Andrew’s expression hardened. “The twitchy man with the cane is in custody. He confessed.” His gaze shifted to Cici, softening. “He confirmed Elizabeth hired him to eliminate you.”
“The price,” Duncan added grimly, “was twenty pounds.”
Maggie gasped.
Cici reeled, clutching the arm of the settee. “Barely enough for a day dress and gloves,” she whispered, her voice catching. “Not even a ballgown. Something…forgettable. Just like she always saw me.”
Tears welled, spilling despite her efforts. Her fingers trembled as they touched her lips. “My own sister. She wanted me gone so badly she’d erase me—like I was nothing.”
Andrew reached her in three strides and drew her into his arms. “She won’t touch you again,” he promised, voice rough against her hair. “Not ever.”
Duncan sat heavily on the settee and pulled Maggie down beside him. “This ends today. Show us everything you’ve got.”
Chapter 27
The study windows cast pale gold streaks across the paneled walls as the day waned. Outside, the lamps were lit with a hiss of gas and flame, and carriage wheels clattered on cobblestone, the city indifferent to the reckoning about to unfold inside the Earl of Benton’s townhouse.
Cici sat beside Andrew on the settee, fingers interlocked with his while her father read through the documents. Every so often he would pass one to his wife who sat beside him, a steady stream of tears running down her cheeks.
The door opened, and Elizabeth stepped inside.
She was dressed impeccably as always—her hair arranged in deliberate curls, her gown a delicate yellow—but her eyes were wary. Defensive.
“You sent for me?” she asked her father, tone clipped.
He gestured toward the empty chair. “Sit.”
She remained standing. Her gaze flicked to Andrew then to Cici. “What’s this about?”
No one answered, but Duncan shut the door, revealing his and Maggie’s presence. Elizabeth’s gaze shifted from them to her mother dabbing at her eyes with a kerchief while refusing to look in her elder daughter’s direction.
“Are we staging a family drama?” Elizabeth asked, her voice quavering despite her flip question.
Andrew’s voice cut through the tension. “We’re not staging a drama. We’re staging a reckoning.”
Lord Benton stepped forward, papers in hand—the note from the Staffordshire Ball, the journal scrap from her desk, corroborated testimony from the coachman and the shopgirl. “We know you were behind the attempts on Cecilia’s life, and, when those failed, tried to ruin her by spreading rumors about her legitimacy,” he said.
Elizabeth's jaw clenched. “That’s preposterous. Why would I do such a thing?”
“Jealousy, spite, pure evil,” Maggie suggested coldly.
“Jealous! Of Cici? Please,” Elizabeth scoffed, eyes sparkling with disdain. “She’s got a talent for catastrophe. Remember the Barnsworth ball? She tripped over her own feet and fell into the refreshment table, cherry-cordial punch bowl and all.” Her voice softened—mockingly. “I’m surprised it took this long for her to blame it on someone else.”
Cici’s face burned. That night still haunted her.
Elizabeth’s voice slithered on. “Honestly, she probably missed a step and stumbled. That staircase is steep—it wouldn’t take much.”
But Andrew had had enough. “You can stop the lies,” he said in a voice like a drawn blade. “We know exactly what happened.”
