"Isn't it? A convenient storm, a shortage of rooms, a young lady who just happens to end up in a duke's bed? It's the oldest trick in the book."
"You vindictive little..."
"Miss Worthing." James's voice cut through her response like a blade through silk. "How unexpected to see you here."
He stood beside Catherine, close enough that she could feel the anger radiating from him. He'd heard. Somehow, he'd heard everything.
"Your Grace," Miss Worthing simpered, though her triumph dimmed slightly at his expression. "I was just congratulating Lady Catherine on your upcoming nuptials."
"Were you? How kind. And what's that you're holding?"
"Oh, this? Just some interesting documentation I acquired."
James’s expression did not change, but Catherine saw the flicker of something dark in his eyes; anger so contained it was more terrifying than any outburst. He turned the paper over once, twice, as if idly examining the texture, though his jaw had gone rigid enough to crack marble.
Around them, the ballroom was frozen. Music had ceased; fans hung motionless in the air. London’s finest were gathered like vultures, the perfume of gossip sweet as blood. Catherine could hear her own heartbeat pounding in her ears, could feel every breath scraping through her chest.
“Fascinating,” James said at last, his voice quiet and even, the calm before the storm. “This is indeed from the Black Swan’s register.”
Miss Worthing’s smile brightened, triumphant. “Yes! From the night of the great storm. When Lady Catherine was supposedly traveling alone to London.”
“I see.” James’s gaze moved down the page, his tone almost conversational. “Mr. Wrentham and Miss Mayfer. The corner chambers.” He lifted his head, meeting Miss Worthing’s eyes with unnerving stillness. “Tell me, how did you acquire this?”
“That is hardly relevant.”
“Oh, but it is,” he interrupted softly, the edge in his voice silken and lethal. “Did you steal it, Miss Worthing? Or bribe someone to hand it over? Or perhaps you sent some unfortunate soul to lurk in hallways and peer through keyholes? Do enlighten us as to your methods.”
“I have a witness.”
“Ah, yes,” James murmured, stepping a fraction closer. “Your witness. Someone who, if I understand correctly, spent a stormy night skulking about an inn, spying on its guests. Charming.”
A ripple went through the crowd—gasps, murmurs, the faint crackle of suppressed laughter. The angle of the scandal had shifted; Miss Worthing was no longer the righteous accuser but the prying busybody.
Her cheeks flushed. “They saw Lady Catherine leaving your room!” she cried, voice rising to the brittle pitch of desperation. “In her nightclothes!”
Catherine’s breath caught. The words hung in the air like a cannon shot. She could feel the stares, the collective inhale of a hundred spectators waiting for the Duke’s fury or his shame.
James did not so much as blink. “Did they?” he asked, his tone soft enough to make the hairs rise on the back of Catherine’s neck. “Your witness saw Lady Catherine, specifically Lady Catherine, leaving a room at an inn during a storm?”
“Yes,” Miss Worthing said quickly, sensing victory. “They’re quite certain.”
“They’re certain?” James repeated, taking another slow step forward. “So certain they would swear it publicly? Before witnesses? Before the law?”
Miss Worthing hesitated. “I...well...yes, of course.”
“Because what you’re describing,” James said, still perfectly calm, “is slander. Criminal slander, in fact, since it involves a peer’s daughter three days before her wedding.”
A rustle of shock rippled through the crowd. Even the most hardened gossip looked uneasy.
Miss Worthing’s eyes flashed. “It is not slander if it’s true!”
That was her mistake.
James’s smile was slight and merciless. “Then by all means, let us test it,” he said, his voice dropping low, dangerous. “Produce your witness. Let them stand before this company and swear they saw Lady Catherine, my betrothed, at such an hour, in such a state. Let them admit they were prowling about an inn, peeping into rooms during a storm, committing acts so far beneath the standards of decency that even the servants would blush. Shall we?”
The silence that followed was absolute. Catherine could see Miss Worthing’s confidence faltering, her hand tightening on her fan, her color fading as she realized the trap closing around her.
James took another step, folding the register page neatly in half. “No? James’s voice rose, crisp and controlled, every syllable cast so that it reached the farthest corners of the ballroom. The effect was devastating: where once there had been a whirl of speculation and excitement, there was now a hush like the moment before a thunderclap.
