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“You would not dare!” he spluttered.
She smiled her sweetest smile. “In addition to reclaiming my entire dowry, the reinstatement of my good name would be well worth any embarrassment I might have to endure. You, on the other hand…”
“This is extortion!” he shouted. “I should have you—”
“Arthur!” hissed Aunt Jane, tugging on his arm hard enough to jerk his attention away. Braving his wrath, she leaned close, and Diana heard her whisper urgently: “If she petitions the Crown, His Majesty will hear her—her rank guarantees it. And she will have the right of it. You yourself said Avondale’s will ensured her dowry was well protected. And what if she should somehow manage to prove herself innocent? It would look very bad on you.” Her voice lowered further. “You would have had to part with the money when she married.”
Diana watched him struggle, his greed and loathing for her battling against prudence. His jaw worked, and the vein at his temple bulged as he tried to think of a way to rob her of her inheritance with impunity. She knew he’d never rescind his eviction—not that she’d stay now, even if he got down on his knees and begged her. His pride had suffered too much injury by her refusal to succumb to his bullying. “Aunt Jane is right,” she said quietly. “If you give me what is mine, I’ll have no legitimate grounds to petition the Crown. Or indeed to ever disturb you again,” she added for good measure.
He leveled his index finger at her, his fierce gaze belied by its trembling, his voice low and savage. “Three thousand, and not a penny more.”
It was more than she’d hoped for five minutes ago. She nodded acceptance, sending a silent prayer of thanks to God that he hadn’t called her bluff. In truth, she had no idea how to gain an audience with the king. Her father’s name might have held sway at court once upon a time, but ten long years had passed since his death.
“And another thing,” her uncle added, raking her with mean eyes. “After you leave, you are to have no communication with anyone in this household ever again. Is that understood? No visits and no letters. This family cannot risk further association with such as you.”
Though it pained her, she nodded again. Little Bellatrisse and Rowena were away visiting their grandmother and would not be back for a week. I won’t even be allowed to say goodbye, even in a letter… They were the closest things to sisters she’d ever had, and the thought of never seeing them again made her eyes smart. Steeling herself, she pushed her pain aside and focused on her outrage at his treatment of her.
“Well?” he demanded after a moment. “Will you not even thank me? I should think you’d be grateful for my generosity. A less kind man would have turned you out with nothing, regardless of your threats. I’d be well within my rights.”
Diana bit her tongue so hard she tasted blood. How dare he expect my gratitude for casting me out with only a portion of that which is mine to begin with? Still, she could little afford to provoke him further. Lowering her eyes, she forced the bile back down enough to say in what she hoped sounded like a meek tone, “Thank you.”
It seemed to mollify him somewhat. “That’s better.” He turned from her to face his wife. “A man ought to be more respected in his own household. I blame you for how this one turned out, Jane.”
Aghast, Diana tore her gaze from the floor to stare at her white-faced aunt.
Bolingbroke continued to berate his wife. “Had you done a better job of teaching her the importance of propriety, this would not have happened. I shall expect you to look upon this incident as a lesson to be applied to our own daughters whereas it pertains to instilling a sense of proper decorum.” He turned back to an infuriated Diana. “You’ve been bold here today, girl, but the world out there will teach you your place,” he said, jerking a meaty thumb toward the window. “I suggest you make good use of the time I’ve granted you, for it won’t be extended by so much as a minute.”
Oh, how I hate him! How could he blame either of them for something that hadn’t even happened? She wanted to rail at him, to claw a
t his eyes and tear the cruel smirk from his face. Instead, she stood in sullen silence, concentrating on the interminable ticking of the mantel clock, waiting to be dismissed.
“You may go,” he finally grumbled.
Turning on her heel, Diana stalked out and mounted the stairs on trembling legs. Upon entering her room, she closed the door and leaned against it, willing herself not to cry.
There wasn’t time to grieve. Three days. I have just three days to find a place to live and a means of supporting myself.
The money would be enough to rent rooms in a halfway decent part of Town and feed herself—if she were frugal—for a few years. And what good will that do? Cast out, my reputation in shreds, who will receive me? What man will consider marrying me? Without connections, how am I to make my way in the world?
Moving to the country was an alternative. The money would certainly last a lot longer there, but not indefinitely. And then what?
The question loomed before her like a great black cloud, obscuring all else. She could write and calculate sums, but neither of those skills would earn enough to support herself. No self-respecting mother would consider her for a governess once the tale of her “ruination” came to light. And none of the other feminine arts she’d learned at her aunt’s knee would afford her a living beyond that of the meanest poverty.
Three days. What could she do in three days except pack her things and sink into despair? I might as well leave now. She cast about, looking at the familiar room and wishing it was anywhere but in Bolingbroke’s house. Her newest ball gown hung on the wardrobe door, where her maid had left it to let out the wrinkles. She ran reverent fingers over the soft, petal-pink damask, noting how the diaphanous layer of fine gold silk covering the skirt panels made it look like a rose-tinted sunrise.
She was to have worn it to the Whitfield ball tonight.
Not anymore.
Her aunt would have no choice but to sequester herself until the “harlot” had been ejected from their house, thereby restoring her to her proper place amongst the moral majority.
Why not go without her?
The rebellious thought was so ridiculous she almost laughed. But at the same time it was so utterly appealing that she was tempted. Sorely tempted. She’d give just about anything to be out of this room, away from this place. She eyed the gown again.
Why not? The invitation still stood, after all. No one knew her aunt and uncle were about to disown her. She’d wait until everyone had gone to bed, which ought to be soon, considering her aunt had already complained of a headache. Her uncle would likely closet himself in his library, nursing his beloved brandy, until the wee hours. Her hair was already done. All she had to do was put on that gown and get out unnoticed. The servants’ stair would work. She could hire a carriage to take her to the ball, which would not end until dawn.
It would be her last chance—her only chance—to ensnare a husband. No doubt that, like her uncle, many had read the papers and were even now drawing their conclusions, but she’d not yet been ostracized. There might still be a way out of this.
