Dorothea wrung her hands, feeling the familiar bloom of anxiety rise in her chest. “Dominic earned a considerable sum during the war. I have yet to receive any of it.”
Matthew slammed the ledger shut. “And what did you expect?” he growled. “You married a man already at death’s door. He duped you. There is no fortune. There never was. And you are owed nothing.”
“I cared for him,” Dorothea said, her voice barely above a whisper.
Matthew laughed, harsh and bitter. “No, you cared for what you thought he had. It was your grand scheme, wasn’t it? Marry a soldier and secure a windfall. But the joke’s on you. And now what do you have? Nothing.”
“Dominic was entitled to compensation,” she pressed, her courage flickering like a candle. “As was Father.”
Matthew narrowed his eyes. “And what, pray tell, do you know about Father’s earnings?”
“I know he and his men took part in the seizure of land after one of their battles. Officers were allowed to keep a share of the profit,” Dorothea said.
“And?”
Dorothea lifted her chin. “Perhaps Dominic was owed something similar. I think it’s worth investigating.”
Matthew leaned back in his chair, studying her with contempt. “Do you truly believe you’re some long-lost heiress and I’ve somehow missed it?”
“Well, no?—”
He cut her off, rising to his feet with sudden violence. “When will you finally understand? Dominic Stevens was a poor soldier. He was a captain, yes—but barely. Father,ourfather, was a lieutenant-colonel. Had he lived, he never would’ve allowed you to throw yourself away on a man like that.”
Dorothea’s voice cracked. “He respected Dominic. He told me as much when I lived with him before his death.”
“Father indulged you too much,” Matthew insisted. “He should never have let you accompany him to the Continent. War is no place for a young woman.”
“I wanted to go with him,” Dorothea replied.
Matthew turned to Arabella, who had thus far remained silent, a smug smile playing on her lips. “What’s your opinion, Wife?”
Arabella’s smile widened. “Poor Dorothea is terribly naïve. No respectable woman marries a man on his deathbed. It was a scandal. And now look at you—widowed and penniless.”
Dorothea bit her lip as the familiar sense of helplessness swept over her. She couldn’t leave without permission—not after what happened last time. The locked bedchamber. The missed meals. The silence.
Matthew crossed the room to stand beside Arabella. “She’s right. You’ve ruined your prospects. No one of consequence will have you now.”
“I still have a dowry,” Dorothea said.
Matthew sneered. “You do. But word spreads quickly. A desperate girl chasing wealth? Society will cast you out.”
Arabella’s gaze swept her from head to toe. “And it doesn’t help that you’re so… plain. That red hair does you no favors.”
Dorothea reflexively tucked a loose strand behind her ear. It was the same soft copper shade as their mother’s. She had always cherished that connection—until now.
Arabella turned to her husband. “At least red hair is becoming on you, my love. So very dashing on a gentleman.”
Before Matthew could reply, a knock came at the door. Their elderly butler, Bennet, entered, bowing slightly.
“Forgive the interruption, sir, but a Lord Warwicke has come to call.”
Matthew arched a brow. “Warwicke? I’m not familiar with the man. Show him in, by all means.”
Bennet hesitated. “He has specifically requested an audience with Mrs. Stevens.”
Silence fell.
Matthew slowly turned to Dorothea, suspicion etching into every line of his face. “Why,” he said slowly, “would Lord Warwicke be calling on you?”
