The Prince’s Verdict
The travel from confrontation ground to climax arena consumed the next hour. Headlights cut cold through the gathering dusk.
The golden light of the chandeliers did little to warm the chamber. The Privy Council had gathered in full, their dark wool and velvet robes a wall of somber authority, and the Prince Regent sat at the head of the long oak table like a hawk perched above a field of mice. The air smelled of beeswax, old paper, and the sharp tang of fear.
Sebastian laid the ledger on the table. The sound was soft, yet it cracked through the silence like a pistol shot. He did not release it immediately; his fingers lingered on the corner, a deliberate pause, letting every pair of eyes in the room fix on the worn leather, the gold-tooled crest of the Covington family that marred its cover.
“Take these lies to the throne if you dare,” Sebastian said. His voice carried across the silence like a blade being drawn. “I will follow with the truth—and the truth will choke you.”
Beckett Covington’s face was a mask of aged granite, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of something quick and feral. Cole, standing at his father’s right, had gone the color of tallow. His hands were clenched at his sides, and his gaze kept darting to the single door at the far end of the chamber, as if measuring the distance.
The Prince Regent leaned forward. His fingers, heavy with signet rings, tapped once against the mahogany. “The Duke of Ashworth speaks of truth. I find the notion refreshing, given the volume of filth that has been flung across this table this evening.” He turned his cool gaze to Beckett. “You have accused him of fraud, of hiding an heir, of conspiring against the Crown’s revenue. You have presented ledgers and testimonies. Now, the Duke presents a ledger of his own.” He gestured with a gloved hand. “Let us see it.”
Beckett’s jaw moved, a slow grinding motion. “Your Highness, I must protest. That document was stolen from my private offices by a woman of ill repute and a common servant. Its provenance is tainted. It cannot be entered into evidence.”
“I did not steal it,” a voice said.
Nova stepped forward from the shadow of the pillar where she had been standing. She had not been permitted a seat at the council; a woman of her station was expected to wait like a servant, silent and unobtrusive. But she had been listening, cataloging every accusation, every sneer, every pointed finger that had been aimed at her character. Her hands were steady. In her mind, she counted the stitches on the hem of her sleeve—a trick she had learned in the workhouse when the world became too loud and she needed to find a quiet place inside herself. Sixteen stitches. Then seventeen.
“I did not steal it,” she repeated, and her voice was clear enough to carry to the far corners of the room. “I was given it. By a man who could no longer bear the weight of what he knew.”
Beckett’s lip curled. “A man,” he repeated with mocking emphasis. “And who is this phantom? A footman? A groom? No doubt you have many men who are eager to give you gifts.”
“He was your clerk,” Nova said. “Joseph Marsh. He died six months ago of a wasting fever, but before he died, he wrote a confession and placed it in the front pages of that ledger. He was the one who forged the original land deeds that stripped the Ashworth estate of its northern holdings. You paid him in gold and threatened his sister when he asked to leave.”
A whisper rippled through the council. The Prince Regent picked up the ledger and opened it. His eyes moved down the page, then stopped. He read the scribbled confession, the shaky, dying hand of a man who had wanted to cleanse his soul before the end. His expression did not change, but his knuckles whitened slightly.
Cole found his voice. “This is an outrage. She is a harlot and a liar, and she has coached this nonsense to suit her benefactor’s purposes. We all know what the Duke has done to protect his baseborn brat. He would parade a whore before the King himself if it meant keeping his precious title.”
The insult hung in the air. Nova felt the sting of it, but she did not flinch. She had been called worse. She had been called worse in front of Toby, and that had been a wound that cut deeper than any word thrown at her own person. Instead of answering, she turned to the Prince Regent and curtsied, a clean, precise motion.
“Your Highness, I was a seamstress in the Covington household for three years. During that time, I witnessed the preparation of the forged deeds. I held the papers while the ink was still wet.” She lifted her head and let her gaze sweep the assembled lords. “I did not know what they were at the time. I was told it was a matter of property transfer, that the Duke had agreed to sell his northern lands after a gaming debt. I believed it, because I had no reason to doubt my employer.”
Beckett opened his mouth, but the Prince Regent held up a hand. The gesture was small, but it carried the weight of a guillotine falling.
“Continue,” the Prince said.
Nova breathed out. Eighteen stitches. “When I discovered the truth—when I learned that the Duke had never consented to any sale, that the deeds were fabricated to ruin him—I tried to leave. I took only what was mine. But I was carrying a child, the Duke’s child, and Mr. Covington learned of it. He saw an opportunity. He threatened to have me charged with theft unless I went to the Duke and convinced him to drop his pursuit of the northern lands.”
“You tried to blackmail me,” Sebastian said. There was no accusation in his voice. He was stating a fact, laying it bare for the council to see.
“I tried to protect my son,” she corrected. “I failed. You sent me away, and I thought it was because you believed the worst of me. I spent six years angry at you, my lord. I spent six years telling myself that you were a cold, cruel man who had used me and cast me aside. But I was wrong.” She turned to face the council, and her voice did not waver. “The Duke thought he was protecting his child from a woman who had betrayed him, and he took the burden of that decision upon himself. He believed the lie, and the lie was paid for in Covington gold.”
The chamber was silent. The clock on the mantel ticked, a sound like a metronome counting out the seconds before a verdict.
“And the boy?” the Prince Regent asked quietly. “Toby. He is in the antechamber, I believe. Bring him in.”
The guards at the door hesitated, then stepped aside. One of them disappeared into the corridor and returned a moment later with a small hand clasped in his own.
Toby entered the chamber with his chin lifted, though his eyes were wide and darting, taking in the unfamiliar faces, the heavy robes, the gilt-framed portraits staring down from the walls. He was dressed in a sober gray coat, his hair combed flat, and he looked, for all the world, like a small soldier walking into battle.
Nova’s chest tightened. She did not reach for him. She knew better than to draw attention to herself, but she watched him, every step, every blink.
Isadora followed a pace behind. Her face was pale, but her gaze was fierce. She carried a leather satchel pressed against her side, and she kept her free hand on Toby’s shoulder until the guard released him. Then she stepped back, letting the boy stand alone before the Prince Regent.
The Prince Regent studied Toby for a long moment. “You are called Toby Lennox?”
“Toby Davenport,” the boy said, correcting him without hesitation.
A ripple of surprise moved through the council. Sebastian’s eyes went wide.
The Prince Regent smiled. It was a thin, humorless expression, but there was a glint of something in it. “And who is your father, young master?”
Toby looked around the room. He found Sebastian standing by the table, his tall frame motionless, his face unreadable. He took a step forward, then another, and then he walked across the floor of the Privy Council chamber, past the lords, past the table, until he stood directly in front of his father.
He pointed. “He came back.”
The silence that followed was absolute.
Nova felt the tears threaten to spill, and she blinked them back, counting the stitches again. Nineteen. Twenty.
“He came back,” Toby repeated, and his small voice was steady as a drumbeat. “He didn’t know about me, but he came back anyway. He told me he would never leave again.”
Sebastian’s hand moved. It was a small gesture, almost unconscious, and he rested it lightly on Toby’s shoulder. He did not say a word, but the touch was enough. The boy leaned into him, trusting, unafraid.
“This is all very touching,” Beckett said, and his voice was acid. “But it proves nothing. A boy will say whatever his mother tells him, especially if she has her eye on a ducal coronet.”
Isadora stepped forward. She had been waiting, her hand resting on the satchel, and now she unclasped it with deliberate calm. “Your Highness, I am Lady Isadora Ashworth, cousin to the Duke. I have known of the forgery for the past two years. I did not know of the child until recently, but I did know that my cousin was being robbed in the dark.” She pulled a bundle of letters from the satchel and laid them on the table. “These are letters from Mr. Joseph Marsh to the late Mrs. Covington, the mother of the accused. They discuss, in detail, the method by which the deeds were to be falsified. They mention a ‘seamstress’ to be used as a scapegoat. They mention ‘the whelp in her belly’ as additional leverage.”
The Prince Regent picked up the first letter. He read it. Then the second. Then the third.
Beckett’s face had gone gray. Cole’s eyes were wide, and his hand, hidden at his side, had begun to shake.
“These letters are forgeries too,” Beckett tried. “Lady Isadora is clearly besotted with her cousin. She would do anything to protect him.”
“I have known Lady Isadora since we were children,” Sebastian said. “She does not lie. She does not scheme. And she does not need to protect me, because I have done nothing worth protecting.”
The Prince Regent set the letters down. He looked at Beckett, then at Cole, and his gaze was cold and flat.
“Mr. Covington,” he said, “you have brought a grave accusation before this council. You have accused a nobleman of the realm of fraud and concealment of a rightful heir. You have done so based on testimony so threadbare it would not stand in a county court, let alone before the Crown.”
“Your Highness, I protest—” Beckett began.
“You have also,” the Prince Regent continued, as if Beckett had not spoken, “presented documents which my own examination has revealed to be inconsistent with the records of the Exchequer. You have claimed that the Duke of Ashworth owes significant back taxes, yet the ledgers you provided do not match the numbers in the Treasury’s own files. And now, we have a confession from a dead man, supported by letters which bear a seal that has been verified by my private secretary.”
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle.
“It is the opinion of this council that the claim of the Covington family is utterly without merit. The Duke of Ashworth is rightfully in possession of his lands and titles. The boy Toby is recognized as his legitimate issue. And the Covington family is hereby stripped of all claims to the Ashworth estate, and all pending debts owed to them by the Duke are declared void.”
Beckett’s eyes did something strange. They glassed over. He looked like a man watching his own funeral.
Cole moved.
It was sudden and violent, a blur of dark fabric against the pale marble of the floor. He lunged not for the door, not for Sebastian, but for the small figure standing at the Duke’s side. His hand came up, and in it gleamed a blade, short and sharp, a dagger hidden in his coat sleeve.
“You took everything!” Cole screamed. “You took it all!”
The guards were too far. The Prince Regent was rising, his mouth open. Isadora saw everything, and she could only watch, her body frozen by the horror of it.
But Silas was already moving.
He came from the shadows by the door, a broad, brutal shape in dark clothing. He did not shout. He did not draw a weapon. He simply inserted himself between Cole and the boy, and met the lunge with his shoulder.
The impact was sickening—a crack of bone and breath expelled in a rush. Silas’s arms locked around Cole’s midsection, driving him backward, driving him down. The dagger clattered across the floor, spinning beneath a chair. Cole hit the ground with a muffled grunt, and Silas was on top of him, one knee on his chest, one hand clamped around his wrist, twisting until Cole cried out.
“The boy,” Silas snarled, his voice low and vicious. “You’d have gutted a child in front of the Prince Regent. You’ll hang for this.”
Toby had not moved. He stood where he was, his hand still in the space where Silas had been. He looked down at the blade on the floor, then up at the struggling man beneath the security chief, and his face was very pale but utterly composed.
Nova crossed the room in four steps. She reached Toby, and she did not care who was watching. She dropped to her knees and took his face in her hands, turning it, examining him, her eyes searching for any sign of harm.
“I’m all right, Mum,” Toby said, and his voice was steady. “He didn’t touch me.”
The Prince Regent had not sat down. He stood with his hands braced on the table, his expression carved from ice. He looked at Beckett, who had not moved, who was watching his son being pinned to the floor by a hired guard, and there was no pity in the Prince’s eyes. Only disgust.
“Beckett Covington,” he said. “You are arrested for forgery, attempted embezzlement, and conspiracy against the Crown. Your son Cole is likewise arrested for assault with intent to commit murder, and for the attempted murder of a minor.”
Beckett’s shoulders sagged. He looked old, suddenly, a man hollowed out by his own schemes.
“Take them,” the Prince said.
The guards moved. They hauled Cole to his feet, his arm twisted behind his back. The dagger was retrieved and placed on the table, evidence of the night’s final foolishness. Cole, his face mottled with rage and humiliation, was dragged toward the door. Beckett followed in silence, his eyes fixed on the floor.
The door closed behind them with a click.
And then the chamber was quiet again.
Nova held Toby close, her cheek pressed to the top of his head, breathing him in. She felt Sebastian’s hand on her shoulder, a warm, solid presence, and she allowed herself to lean into it.
The Prince Regent sank back into his chair. For a long moment, he did not speak. He looked at the ledger, at the letters, at the small boy in the gray coat who was staring at him with wide, serious eyes.
Then he rose.
The candlelight caught the gold of his rings, the white of his cuffs. He gestured to an aide, who stepped forward, bowing.
“Tell the Archbishop to hold the chapel open,” he said, and his voice was tired, but there was a thread of amusement in it. “It seems the Duke has a wedding to arrange.”