Chapter 29

Chapter Twenty-Nine

B eatrice sat with Catherine in the drawing room, feeling much calmer after having poured out her heart to her dear friend.

Catherine's expression was simultaneously sympathetic and indignant as she listened to Beatrice's tale.

"I swear, I'm going to kill Kenneth for treating you this way," she declared, her eyes flashing with anger.

Beatrice managed a small smile, placing a hand on Catherine's arm. "Please, spare your energy in your condition, my dear. It's not worth the strain."

Catherine sighed, leaning back against the sofa cushions. "You're right, of course. But it doesn't make me any less furious on your behalf."

Beatrice hesitated for a moment then took a deep breath, deciding it was time to share the truth she had kept hidden for so long. "Catherine, there's something I need to tell you," she began, her voice soft but steady. "Something I've kept secret from almost everyone, but I trust you more than anyone in the world."

Catherine leaned forward, her brow furrowed with concern. "What is it, Beatrice? You know you can tell me anything."

Beatrice nodded, steeling herself for the revelation. "It's about my art, about how I've been able to continue painting even after everything that happened with Patrick and the scandal."

She paused, collecting her thoughts.

"The truth is, I've been selling my work under a pseudonym. That's how Eric Westback was born. It was my way of maintaining anonymity and protecting Mother and myself from further scandal."

Catherine's eyes widened. "Eric Westback? Beatrice, that's incredible. I've heard so much about his— your —work. It's famous."

A small smile tugged at Beatrice's lips. "It's been a lifeline, truly. But now, it's become a source of trouble."

"What do you mean?" Catherine asked, concern etched on her face.

Beatrice sighed, her shoulders slumping. "Lord Eastfold has discovered my secret. He's blackmailing me, threatening to expose my identity if I don't paint for him and sell my work through him."

Catherine gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "That's horrible! How did he find out?"

"He tracked down my dealer and blackmailed him into revealing my identity," Beatrice explained, her voice trembling slightly. "And now, he holds all the power. If I don't do as he says, my career as an artist will be over."

Catherine reached out, taking Beatrice's hand in hers. "Oh, Beatrice. I'm so sorry. This must be incredibly difficult for you."

Beatrice nodded, tears pricking her eyes. "It is. And to make matters worse, Kenneth and I had a terrible fight. Lady Featherwell tried to proposition him, and when I confronted him about it, he was so cold and dismissive."

Catherine's eyes flashed with anger. "The nerve of that woman! And Kenneth… how could he treat you like that?"

"I don't know," Beatrice whispered, her voice cracking. "I thought we were building something real, but now… I don't know what to believe."

Catherine squeezed Beatrice's hand, her expression thoughtful. "Beatrice, I think you should confront Lord Eastfold. Try to reason with him, to make him see how wrong this is."

Beatrice looked up, surprise and doubt flashing across her face. "Confront him? But what if it only makes things worse?"

"It's a risk," Catherine acknowledged. "But you can't let him control you like this. You have to fight for your art, for your freedom."

Beatrice considered her words, a flicker of determination sparking in her eyes. "You're right, Catherine. I can't let him win. I have to try."

Catherine smiled, pride shining in her eyes. "That's the Beatrice I know and love. Strong, brave, and willing to stand up for what's right."

Beatrice felt a rush of gratitude for her friend, for the unwavering support and love she offered. "Thank you, Catherine. I don't know what I would do without you."

Catherine waved away her thanks. "That's what friends are for, my dear. Now, let's talk about something more pleasant. Would you be so kind as to give me a demonstration of your artistic skills? I believe there are some old art supplies somewhere in the house."

Beatrice felt a rush of excitement at the prospect, her fingers itching to hold a brush once more. "Of course, Catherine. It would be my pleasure."

As Catherine called for a servant to fetch the supplies, Beatrice felt a sense of peace settle over her. Here, in the company of her dearest friend, she felt a renewed sense of purpose, a determination to forge ahead with her life, no matter what challenges lay ahead.

I will survive this. I will find my way, with or without Kenneth by my side.

Kenneth sat in his study at Dunford Castle, a glass of brandy in hand, staring listlessly at the pile of correspondence before him. The room felt cold and empty without Beatrice's presence. He reached for another letter, hoping to distract himself, when a particular envelope caught his eye.

The handwriting was unfamiliar, and the paper was of poor quality. Frowning, Kenneth broke the seal and unfolded the letter. As he read, his mood darkened, his anger building with each word.

To His Grace, the Duke of Dunford,

I hope this letter finds you well, brother-in-law. I trust you and my dear sister are enjoying marital bliss. I write to you from my continued exile, a situation I'm sure you understand is entirely based on unfounded accusations.

Life abroad has its challenges, and I find myself in need of financial assistance. A sum of five thousand pounds would go a long way in ensuring I can maintain my distance from England, sparing our family any further scrutiny or gossip.

I'm certain a man of your means would find this a small price to pay for family harmony. After all, we wouldn't want any misunderstandings about past events to resurface, would we?

I eagerly await your swift and generous response.

Your brother-in-law, Lord Afferton.

Kenneth crumpled the letter in his fist, fury coursing through him. The audacity of the man to claim his actions were "unfounded accusations" when Kenneth knew the truth of what had happened to Catherine!

He stood up abruptly, pacing the length of his study, the memory of Thomas recounting Catherine's ordeal fresh in his mind.

His first instinct was to ignore the letter, to let Patrick rot in whatever hole he'd dug for himself. But as his anger cooled, Kenneth found himself thinking of Beatrice. Despite their estrangement, he couldn't bear the thought of her brother returning to England and causing her more pain.

With a heavy sigh, he sat at his desk and pulled out a fresh sheet of paper. He dipped his quill in the inkpot and began to write, his hand steady despite his inner turmoil.

Lord Afferton,

Your attempt at extortion is as contemptible as your character. I will not be manipulated by thinly veiled threats, especially not from a man who has brought nothing but pain and shame to his family.

Your claims of "unfounded accusations" are laughable. We both know the truth of your actions, and I assure you, there are those in England who have not forgotten.

However, for Beatrice's sake, I will give you a one-time sum of one thousand pounds. This is more than you deserve, and it comes with a warning. If you ever attempt to return to England or contact me or Beatrice again, I will use every resource at my disposal to ensure you face the consequences of your past actions.

The funds will be sent through my solicitor. Do not write to this address again.

The Duke of Dunford.

Kenneth sealed the letter, his jaw clenched. As he rang for a servant to have it sent, he found himself wishing he could share this burden with Beatrice. Despite their arguments, despite the distance between them, he missed her counsel, her strength.

For a moment, he considered writing to her, telling her about Patrick's letter. But pride and hurt held him back. Instead, he poured himself another glass of brandy and raised it in a bitter toast.

"To justice," he muttered sardonically, downing the drink in one swallow.

As night fell over Dunford Castle, Kenneth remained in his study, haunted by thoughts of Beatrice and the growing certainty that, somehow, he needed to find a way to heal the rift between them. The weight of protecting her, even from afar, settled heavily on his shoulders.

Beatrice stood before the imposing oak door of Lord Eastfold's London residence, her heart pounding in her chest. The impropriety of her visit—a married lady calling on a bachelor—weighed heavily on her mind. But the risk of scandal paled in comparison to the threat hanging over her head.

Taking a deep breath, she raised the brass knocker and rapped sharply. After a moment, the door swung open, revealing a stern-faced butler.

"I'm here to see Lord Eastfold," Beatrice declared, her voice steady despite her nerves. "It's a matter of some urgency."

The butler's eyes widened slightly at the sight of her, but he maintained his composure. "Of course, Your Grace. Please, come in."

Beatrice followed him through the opulent foyer, her footsteps muffled by thick carpets. The house exuded wealth and power, much like its master.

Lord Eastfold was waiting in his study, a glass of brandy in hand. His eyes lit up with amusement as she entered.

"Your Grace," he drawled, setting down his glass. "What an unexpected pleasure. To what do I owe this… clandestine visit?"

Beatrice steeled herself, lifting her chin. "Lord Eastfold, I've come to appeal to your better nature. This arrangement between us cannot continue."

Eastfold's smile widened, revealing teeth that seemed too sharp. "Oh? And why is that, my dear?"

"It's wrong," Beatrice said firmly. "You're using my art, my passion, for your own gain. Surely you can see how unethical this is?"

Eastfold chuckled, the sound grating on her nerves. "Ethics? My dear, this is business. You create; I sell. It's a mutually beneficial arrangement."

"Mutually beneficial?" Beatrice repeated, incredulous. "You're blackmailing me!"

"Such an ugly word." Eastfold tsked, rising from his desk and moving closer to her. "I prefer to think of it as… motivation. After all, your secret remains safe, and your art reaches an adoring public. What could be better?"

Beatrice felt her resolve weakening in the face of his smug confidence. "Please, My Lord. I'm begging you to reconsider."

His eyes gleamed with a predatory light. "Begging? Now that is a pretty picture. Speaking of which…" He paused, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "I think I'd like a Westback original for my personal collection. No commission, of course. Just a little… gift, shall we say?"

Beatrice's stomach churned with disgust, but she kept her expression impassive. "And if I refuse?"

Eastfold's smile turned cold. "Then perhaps it's time the world learned the truth about the mysterious Eric Westback. I wonder how your dear husband would react to such news?"

The threat hung in the air between them. Beatrice wanted to scream, to rage against the injustice of it all. But she knew it would do no good. Eastfold held all the cards, and he knew it.

With a supreme effort of will, she nodded curtly. "Very well. You'll have your painting."

"Excellent," Eastfold purred, clearly savoring his victory. "I knew you'd see reason, Your Grace. You're so much more… agreeable than your husband."

Beatrice felt her skin crawl at his insinuation, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. Without another word, she turned on her heel and strode out of his study, her back ramrod straight.

It wasn't until she was safely in her carriage, hidden from prying eyes, that she allowed a single tear to fall. But even as it traced a path down her cheek, she felt a spark of determination ignite within her.

This isn't over. I will find a way to beat you, Lord Eastfold.