For a terrible moment, as her back rose and fell, and she hung her head, Sebastian thought the mask wasn’t there. However, seconds later, she lifted it from its hiding place where it had remained concealed for twelve years and held it up for them all to see.
Although faded from time, dark stains still marked the delicate material. Rose’s hands trembled as she passed it to the constable. “I was right.” Her voice was flat, almost hollow. “It’s over.”
Wentworth sneered. “She never understood what I sacrificed. She would have thrown it all away.”
“She was trying to protect me,” Rose said.
“She was trying to unravel everything I’d built. She couldn’t see the necessity of it. The cost of power.”
Stephens stepped forward. “Are you admitting to the murder of Eleanor Wentworth?”
Wentworth ignored him, eyes fixed on his daughter. “She gave me no choice. She would have gone to the magistrate. She would have destroyed us.”
“So you killed her,” Rose said.
“I did what was required,” he said coolly. “I preserved the family name.”
“And you let an innocent man hang for it,” Stephens said.
Wentworth’s face darkened with something close to grim pride. “Ashford was hardly innocent. He lived a charmed life. The title. The land. The admiration. He took what should have been mine.”
Rose stepped forward. “You mean Lady Ashford? The woman you loved?”
Wentworth’s voice dropped, bitter and full of old wounds. “She was meant to be mine. But Ashford had the name. The fortune. She chose him, and I was left with scraps.”
“My mother was not a scrap,” Rose said. “But that aided in your temper, didn’t it? When she mentioned his name? He’d told her about what you were really doing, so you wanted to punish him for it.”
“You destroyed him,” Sebastian said. “For simply telling the truth to your battered wife about who you really are. Isn’t that right?”
Wentworth turned sharply. He stared at Sebastian. His gaze narrowed. “Who are you?”
Sebastian stepped forward. “I’m Sebastian Ashford. Son of the man you murdered. Son of the woman you coveted.”
Recognition dawned in Wentworth’s eyes, followed by blazing fury. “You?” His voice shook with outrage. “You’ve been under my roof all this time?”
“Waiting,” Sebastian said. “Watching. Doing everything I could to bring you down.”
“You dare to judge me?” Wentworth roared. “Your father took everything I ever wanted.”
“That’s a lie you’ve told yourself, but we all know the truth,” Sebastian said. “Every lie, every cruel act, brought you here. You are to blame for it all.”
“You were a child. I should have dealt with you then,” Wentworth spat.
“That’s enough,” Stephens said. “Lord Wentworth, you are under arrest for the murder of Eleanor Wentworth, the framing of Lord Ashford, the death of Lizzie Morrison, and for criminal smuggling. You will be taken into custody and held until your trial.”
Wentworth’s eyes flicked toward his desk.
Sebastian tensed. “He’s going for something—”
In one violent motion, Wentworth lunged, slammed his shoulder into Stephens, and yanked open the drawer. He seized a pistol, spun, and leveled it.
“I built this life! You think I’ll be marched through the streets like a thief? I am Lord Wentworth!”
“Put it down,” Stephens ordered.
“I will not swing from the gallows. I choose my end.”
Rose met his eyes. “Then choose it. At least be honest in the end.”
