Chapter 31

Chapter Thirty-One

" E astfold!"

Kenneth burst into Eastfold's club, his eyes scanning the room with predatory intensity. He spotted his quarry lounging in a leather armchair, a smug smile playing on his lips as he sipped his brandy. The sight of him, so calm and self-satisfied, made his blood boil.

He crossed the room in three long strides, his hand shooting out to grab Eastfold by the lapels of his expensive jacket. With a forceful yank, he pulled the man to his feet, their faces mere inches apart.

"Eastfold," Kenneth growled, his voice low and dangerous. "We need to talk."

Eastfold's eyes widened in surprise then narrowed in annoyance. "Your Grace," he said, his tone dripping with false politeness. "This is most unexpected. And might I add, most inappropriate. Unhand me at once."

Kenneth's grip only tightened. "Inappropriate?" he snarled. "You want to talk about inappropriate? How about blackmailing my wife? How about forcing her to paint for you under threat of exposure?"

A flicker of fear crossed Eastfold's face before he schooled his features into a mask of innocence. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about, Your Grace. Perhaps you've had too much to drink?"

Kenneth's patience snapped. He shoved the man back into his chair, looming over him menacingly. "Don't play games with me, Eastfold. Beatrice told me everything. How you discovered her secret, how you've been using it to control her."

Eastfold's composure cracked. He glanced around nervously, noticing the other club members watching the scene with avid interest. "Your Grace, please," he said in a low voice. "This is hardly the place for such a discussion. Perhaps we could adjourn to a more private setting?"

"No," Kenneth uttered flatly. "We'll have this out here and now. I want witnesses to your shame, Eastfold. I want everyone to see what kind of man you really are."

Eastfold's face paled. "You're making a scene, Your Grace. Think of your reputation, your standing in Society."

Kenneth laughed, a harsh, bitter sound. "My reputation? That's rich, coming from you. A man who would stoop so low as to blackmail a woman, to threaten her with ruin if she doesn't comply with your demands."

He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper. "Tell me, Eastfold, how long did you think you could get away with this? Did you really believe I wouldn't find out?"

Sweat beaded on Eastfold's brow. "Your Grace, please," he pleaded. "It wasn't like that. I was merely trying to help Her Grace. To provide an outlet for her talent without risking scandal."

Kenneth's eyes flashed dangerously. "Help her? By threatening to expose her secret? By forcing her to paint on your schedule to your specifications?"

Eastfold squirmed under his gaze. "I… I may have been overzealous in my approach," he admitted. "But surely you can see the benefit? Her paintings have been selling for unprecedented sums. I've made her famous!"

"You've made yourself rich," Kenneth corrected, his tone icy. "At the expense of my wife's peace of mind and her freedom to create as she chooses." He straightened up, his voice rising so that everyone in the club could hear. "Well, it ends now, Eastfold. You will never contact Beatrice again. You will forget you ever knew the name Eric Westback. You will cease all dealings in her artwork immediately."

Eastfold's eyes widened in panic. "But… but the upcoming exhibition! The auction! I've already made arrangements, sent out invitations!"

"Cancel them," Kenneth said flatly. "I don't care how you do it, but you will end this charade. If I hear of a single painting by ‘Eric Westback' being sold after today, I will hold you personally responsible." He leaned in once more, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "And believe me, Eastfold, you do not want to face the consequences of crossing me again. I will destroy you. I will use every ounce of my influence, every connection I have, to see you ruined. Do you understand?"

Eastfold nodded frantically, his face ashen. "Yes, Your Grace. I understand. It's over, I swear it. You'll never hear from me again regarding this matter."

Kenneth held his gaze for a long moment, searching for any hint of deceit. Finally satisfied, he stepped back.

"See that I don't," he said coldly. "Because this is your only warning, Eastfold. Cross me or my wife again, and it will be the last thing you ever do in polite society."

With that, he turned on his heel and strode out of the club, leaving a stunned silence in his wake.

As he emerged onto the street, Kenneth felt a surge of grim satisfaction course through him. He had protected the Spencer name, the dukedom, and by extension, Beatrice.

The cool night air filled his lungs as he walked, his steps purposeful and steady. He had done his duty as the Duke of Dunford, defending his family's honor and putting Eastfold in his place. It was a victory, albeit a bitter one.

Yet, as the thrill of the confrontation began to fade, Kenneth felt the weight of his unresolved issues with Beatrice settle back onto his shoulders. He had eliminated the threat of Eastfold, yes, but the rift between him and his wife was still there.

I've done what needed to be done. I've protected her, even if she doesn't know it. Even if she doesn't want it.

Beatrice arrived at Catherine's home, her body weary and her mind in turmoil. As she was shown into the parlor, she saw Catherine rise from her seat, a look of concern etched on her face.

Catherine, heavily pregnant, moved forward as quickly as she could to greet her friend. "Beatrice, my dear, what's happened now?" she asked, her voice filled with worry.

Beatrice collapsed onto the sofa, her shoulders slumping in defeat. "Oh, Catherine, everything's fallen apart."

Catherine lowered herself beside her, taking her hand. "Tell me everything."

Beatrice took a shaky breath. "I confronted Lord Eastfold about his blackmail as you suggested. But he… he refused to stop. He's demanding even more paintings now with impossible deadlines. I've been painting non-stop, and it's horrible. The art… it feels tainted, corrupted by his greed."

Catherine's eyes flashed with anger. "That despicable man! How dare he continue to threaten you!"

"That's not even the worst of it," Beatrice continued, her voice cracking. "Kenneth… he found out I'd been speaking to Eastfold. I tried to explain about the blackmail, but he wouldn't listen. He's been so volatile lately, his emotions swinging wildly. One moment he's cold and distant, the next he's accusing me of betraying him."

Catherine squeezed her hand. "Oh, Beatrice. I'm so sorry you're going through this."

"I'm just so angry, Catherine," Beatrice said, tears welling up in her eyes. "Angry at Eastfold for his manipulation, angry at Kenneth for not trusting me, and angry at myself for getting into this mess in the first place."

Catherine wrapped an arm around her friend's shoulders. "You have every right to be angry, my dear. But none of this is your fault. Eastfold is a scoundrel, and Kenneth… well, he's being a fool."

Beatrice leaned into Catherine's embrace. "I don't know what to do anymore. I thought Kenneth and I were building something real, but now… How can we have a marriage without trust?"

"Men can be stubborn creatures," Catherine said softly. "Kenneth's pride has been wounded, and he's lashing out. But that doesn't excuse his behavior."

Beatrice nodded, wiping away a tear. "I just wish he would listen to me—truly listen. I've tried to explain about Eastfold, about why I kept it secret, but he seems determined to believe the worst."

Catherine furrowed her brow in thought. "Perhaps… perhaps it's time to force the issue. To make Kenneth see the truth of the situation."

"What do you mean?" Beatrice asked, looking up at her friend.

"I mean, my dear, that sometimes we must take drastic action to protect ourselves and those we love," Catherine replied, a determined glint in her eyes. "We need to find a way to neutralize Eastfold's threats and make Kenneth understand the gravity of the situation."

Beatrice felt a spark of hope ignite in her chest. "Do you really think it's possible?"

Catherine nodded firmly. "I do. You are not alone in this." Suddenly, her eyes lit up with a sudden idea. "Beatrice, my dear, I think I might have a solution—at least for part of your troubles."

Beatrice looked at her friend curiously. "What do you mean?"

"You've been painting as Westback, under the pressure of Eastfold's demands," Catherine began. "But what if you were to paint as yourself? Not for him, not for anyone else, but simply for your own peace of mind?"

Beatrice's brow furrowed. "I… I'm not sure I understand."

Catherine smiled softly. "Paint something that speaks to your heart, Beatrice. Something that represents your true self, your feelings, your struggles. Don't think about style or technique or what others might want. Just let your emotions flow onto the canvas."

Beatrice considered this for a moment, feeling a glimmer of excitement at the idea. "I haven't painted for myself in so long," she admitted. "It's always been about meeting Eastfold's demands or maintaining the Westback persona."

"Then it's high time you reclaimed your art for yourself," Catherine declared, taking Beatrice's hand and leading her toward the paints and canvas still on the easel from Beatrice's last visit.

Beatrice looked at the familiar setup. "I don't know if I can," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

"You can," Catherine insisted softly. "You must. Your art is a part of you, Beatrice. It's where you find your strength, your voice. Don't let anyone take that away from you."

Soon, Beatrice found herself standing before a new canvas, a palette of vibrant colors at her disposal. The sunroom was filled with warm, natural light, and the scent of blooming flowers wafted in through the open windows.

"Remember," Catherine said softly from her seat nearby, "this is for you and you alone. Let your heart guide your hand."

Beatrice took a deep breath, closed her eyes for a moment, and then began to paint. At first, her strokes were hesitant, uncertain. But as she allowed herself to sink into the familiar rhythm of creation, something shifted within her.

Colors flowed from her brush—deep blues of sorrow, fiery reds of anger, soft greens of hope. She painted her pain, her frustration, her longing to be understood. The canvas became a mirror of her soul, reflecting the tumultuous emotions she'd been grappling with.

As she worked, she felt a weight lifting from her shoulders. Each brushstroke was an act of catharsis, releasing the pent-up feelings she'd been holding inside. She lost track of time, completely absorbed in her painting.

When she finally stepped back from the canvas, the sun was setting, casting a golden glow over the room. Beatrice gasped softly as she took in her work.

The painting was unlike anything she'd ever created before. It was raw, emotional, and deeply personal. At its center was a figure—clearly her—surrounded by swirling colors and abstract shapes that somehow managed to convey the complexity of her current situation.

Catherine moved to stand beside her, her eyes wide with awe. "Beatrice," she breathed, "it's magnificent. I've never seen anything quite like it."

Beatrice felt tears welling up in her eyes, but for the first time in days, they were tears of relief rather than sorrow. "I feel lighter," she murmured softly. "As if I've poured all my turmoil into this painting."

Catherine squeezed her hand. "That's exactly what you've done, my dear. You've reclaimed your art, your voice. This is the true Beatrice, not the mask of Eric Westback."

As Beatrice stared at her creation, she felt a renewed sense of purpose. This painting represented her truth, her journey. It was a reminder of her strength, her passion, and her resilience.

"Thank you, Catherine," she said, turning to embrace her friend. "You were right. I needed this more than I realized."

Catherine smiled warmly. "Sometimes we need to return to our roots to find our way forward. This painting is a testament to your spirit, Beatrice. Don't lose sight of that, no matter what challenges you face."