Dawn broke over Ashwood Manor in a wash of pale light, but Eleanor felt no warmth from it. The ledger lay open on her bed, its pages a map of her father's betrayal—each entry a cut deeper than the last. She'd spent the night poring over it, tracing the dates to her childhood memories: the lavish parties, the new gowns, the way her father's laughter had filled the halls. All of it built on smuggled gold, a fortune squandered at the gaming tables. And Reginald had known.
She dressed with purpose, her hands steady despite the storm in her chest. A high-necked gown of deep green, severe and unyielding, matched her mood. No curls or ribbons today—she tied her hair back tightly, a soldier preparing for war. The ledger tucked under her arm, she descended to the breakfast room, where she knew her uncle would be nursing his morning brandy.
The room was quiet when she entered, the clink of silver against porcelain the only sound. Reginald sat at the head of the table, his thin frame hunched over a plate of kippers, his eyes bleary from a night of drink. Beatrice was absent—likely still abed, primping for the day—and Julian, mercifully, was nowhere in sight. Good. This was between her and the man who'd sold her future to bury his past.
"Uncle," she said, her voice cutting through the stillness.
He looked up, startled, his glass halfway to his lips. "Eleanor? What's this? You look like you've seen a ghost."
"Not a ghost," she replied, stepping forward. She dropped the ledger onto the table with a thud, the sound echoing like a gavel. "A truth you've kept from me."
His eyes widened, darting to the book, then back to her. "Where did you get that?"
"Does it matter?" She crossed her arms, her gaze unrelenting. "It's Father's, isn't it? His smuggling records. You knew, and you let me believe he was just a reckless fool."
Reginald's face paled, the glass trembling in his hand. He set it down with a clatter, his fingers fumbling for a napkin. "You don't understand, girl. It's not what you think—"
"Then explain it," she snapped, leaning over the table. "Explain how my father ran contraband through our harbor. Explain how you hid it while this house crumbled around us. Explain why I'm the one paying for it with my life!"
He flinched, his mouth working soundlessly before he found his voice. "It wasn't my doing, Eleanor. Your father—God rest him—he was a dreamer, always chasing the next grand scheme. The smuggling started small, a way to keep us afloat after the crops failed. But it grew. He couldn't stop. The money was too good, and the debts…" He trailed off, rubbing his temples. "The debts were monstrous."
"And you let him?" Her voice rose, sharp with disbelief. "You were his brother. You could've stopped him!"
"I tried!" Reginald barked, slamming a fist on the table. The kippers jumped, and a fork clattered to the floor. "I begged him to quit, to sell the ships, but he wouldn't listen. He said it was for you—for your future. By the time he died, the creditors were at our throats. I've been scrambling ever since to keep us from ruin."
"For me?" She laughed, a hollow, bitter sound. "Don't you dare pin this on me. You've had years to tell me, to sell this rotting pile instead of bartering me to a stranger!"
"Sell Ashwood?" He gaped at her, incredulous. "This is our legacy, Eleanor. Your grandfather built it, your father bled for it—"
"He bled for nothing," she cut in, jabbing a finger at the ledger. "This isn't a legacy—it's a lie. And now I'm the one shackled to Captain Harrow to clean up your mess."
Reginald's face hardened, a flush creeping up his neck. "You think I wanted this? I've no sons, no heirs. You're all I have left to secure this place. Harrow's a godsend—a man with coin and a spine. You could do worse."
"Worse than a profiteer who'd use our harbor for his own ends?" she shot back. "He's no savior, Uncle. He's a vulture circling the carcass you've left behind."
"Enough!" Reginald surged to his feet, his chair scraping against the floor. "You'll not speak to me like this, not under my roof. You'll marry him, and that's the end of it."
"Your roof?" She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "This is my home, too. And I'll not be your sacrificial lamb. You want me to marry him? Then give me the truth—all of it. What else are you hiding?"
He stared at her, his breath ragged, then sank back into his chair, defeated. "There's nothing else," he muttered. "Just debts and shame. The smuggling stopped when he died—I saw to that. But the damage was done."
She searched his face, looking for the lie, but found only exhaustion. It didn't soften her. "You should've told me," she said coldly. "Years ago. I deserved that much."
"Perhaps," he conceded, his voice barely audible. "But what's done is done. You've four days left with Harrow. Use them wisely."
She snatched the ledger from the table and turned to leave, her skirts swishing with each furious step. "Oh, I will," she said over her shoulder. "But not for you."
The rest of the morning passed in a haze. She retreated to the gardens, the ledger clutched like a shield, her mind a storm of anger and betrayal. The roses were bare, their thorns stark against the gray sky, and she paced the paths until her boots were muddy and her thoughts clearer. Her father's sins weren't hers to bear, but they'd shaped her fate all the same. And Julian—damn him—had known, had used it to draw her in.
She was still there, seated on a stone bench, when she heard footsteps behind her. She didn't need to turn to know it was him. His presence was a weight, a heat she couldn't ignore.
"Trouble at breakfast?" Julian asked, his voice low as he stopped beside her.
She glanced up, her eyes narrowing. He stood with his hands in his pockets, his coat unbuttoned, the wind ruffling his dark hair. "Eavesdropping now?" she said.
"Hardly." He nodded toward the manor. "The servants are buzzing. Seems you gave your uncle quite the dressing-down."
"He deserved it," she replied, her tone clipped. "Thanks to you and your little gift."
He sat beside her, uninvited, his thigh brushing hers for a fleeting second before he shifted away. "I didn't give it to you to wound you," he said. "I gave it to arm you."
"Arm me?" She turned to him, incredulous. "You handed me a blade that cuts both ways. My father's a stranger to me now, and you expect me to thank you?"
"No," he said, meeting her gaze. "I expect you to fight. You've got fire, Eleanor—more than I reckoned. Use it."
"Against you?" she challenged, her voice sharp.
"If you must." His eyes held hers, steady and unyielding. "But I'd rather you aimed it at the mess we're both tangled in. Your uncle's weak, your estate's bleeding, ascended to heaven. You're not going anywhere until you've got a solid plan."
She stared at him, her anger softening despite herself. "You're insufferable," she muttered, but there was no venom in it.
"Part of my charm," he said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Four days left, Eleanor. What's your move?"
She stood, brushing off her skirts. "You'll see," she said, her voice firm. "But it won't be what you expect."
As she walked away, she felt his eyes on her, a silent promise of the battle yet to come.