Arthur stepped aside so that both mothers had a full view of Abigail. She remained seated, though she had straightened her back with dignified grace. Despite the tears, despite the injury, she did not appear as a figure of pity—but of quiet, resolute strength.
“And you,” Gillian continued, turning to Arthur at last, “are quite certain?”
“I am,” he said, more certain of this than anything in his life. “It is no longer a matter of duty. Iloveher.”
Something unreadable flickered in Gillian’s eyes—then, slowly, she nodded.
“Then you shall have my full support.”
A fresh wave of whispers rustled through the watching crowd. But the tone had changed. It was no longer pure gossip, or gleeful condemnation. There was something else there now—admiration, perhaps, or at least reluctant respect.
Lady Harriet, still trembling, drew herself up.
“Then it seems,” she said in a brittle voice, “the matter is settled.”
Arthur turned to Abigail once more, his voice quiet enough that only she could hear.
“I know this has been… unbearable. But if you are still willing—if you can bear it—I will make this right.”
Abigail looked up at him, the tears drying on her cheeks, her hand reaching for his without hesitation.
“You already have,” she said softly.
Their fingers wove together, warm and certain.
Just beyond the periphery of his immediate focus, Arthur became dimly aware of motion among the onlookers—two familiar figures who had remained curiously silent during the most dramatic heights of the confrontation now edged into view.
Lady Sophia Carter stood like a marble statue—elegant, polished, perfectly composed—but the mask of social decorum could not entirely conceal the narrowing of her eyes or the way her gloved fingers tightened ever so slightly around the delicate fan she held.
Her husband, the ever-diplomatic Lord Carter, remained dutifully at her side, his expression unreadable save for a faint furrow of confusion. But it was Sophia who commanded Arthur’s attention. The faintest hint of color had risen along the crest of her cheekbones—more anger than embarrassment—and her gaze flitted rapidly between Abigail and himself, her mouth tightening into a line so fine it might have vanished altogether.
Arthur held her stare only a moment, just long enough for his message to register. The past had no hold over him now.
Sophia looked away first.
Then came the other figure, elbowing his way through the crowd with the graceless urgency of a man whose scheme had unraveled before it could reach fruition.
Edward.
His complexion, usually ruddy with smug self-assurance, now bore a sallow hue. His eyes darted like those of a cornered fox, the smug grin long gone, replaced by a sneer so brittle it cracked under the weight of his own mortification. He had no more speeches left to give. No further pronouncements. His audience had turned—against him, or worse, away from him altogether.
And yet, Arthur noted with a flicker of cold satisfaction, Edward lingered. Not to offer remorse or retreat in silence, but to glare.
If Arthur had once feared what the man might do, he no longer did. He understood Edward now for what he was: petty, manipulative, and—most damning of all—powerless in the presence of something genuine. The man had tried to ruin a reputation and found himself diminished by it.
“Beaumont,” Edward said at last, his voice low and bitter as he passed by, “a curious choice, don’t you think?”
Arthur raised a brow.
“Not to one with discernment.”
And with that, Edward turned and stalked into the crowd, swallowed at last by the very society he had sought—and failed—to manipulate.
It was only then that another familiar voice broke the moment, warm and breathless with indignation.
“Abigail!”
Charles Wescott arrived at last, his hand still tugging at one glove, his brows drawn in concern.
