Lady Ines Scandalous Hobby-Chapter 154 - Hundred And Fifty Four

Priscilla stood alone in the center of the vast ballroom floor. The space around her felt like an island, cut off from the rest of the world by a sea of disapproving faces. She could feel the sweat trickling down her back, soaking into the silk of her violet dress. Her heart was beating a frantic rhythm against her ribs.

Her eyes darted wildly to the main entrance of the opera house. She looked past the masked guests, past the footmen, searching the darkness of the hallway.

Where is Mr. Finch? she thought, panic rising in her throat like bile. He is supposed to be here. He is supposed to be here with that woman by now.

She had paid him double. She had given him explicit instructions. Bring Gladys. Drag her in if necessary. Force her to point a finger at Ines and confess that the manuscripts belonged to the future Duchess. That Arthur Pendleton is Ines Hamilton.

But the doorway remained empty. There was no giant man. There was no frightened woman in a gray cloak.

Priscilla was alone.

She looked back at the crowd. The masks that had seemed festive earlier now looked twisted and mocking. She saw ladies whispering behind their fans, their eyes cold. She saw gentlemen shaking their heads. They were looking at her with disgust. They looked at her as if she were a madwoman who had lost her grip on reality.

The black book lay at her feet, a mute testament to her failure.

Priscilla clenched her hands into fists. Her fingernails dug into her palms. She would not lose. She had come too far, plotted too long, to be destroyed by a fake diary and a missing kidnapper.

If she could not prove the book was Ines’s with a witness, she would do it with words. She would destroy Ines’s character so thoroughly that no proof would be needed.

She looked up at the Queen. The Queen was looking at her with an expression of extreme impatience, her finger tapping against the arm of her velvet throne.

Priscilla took a deep breath. She decided to pull out the last card up her sleeves. It was a dirty card, a cruel card, but it was all she had left.

"Your Majesty," Priscilla replied, her voice shaking with desperate intensity.

She pointed a finger at Ines, who was standing quietly by the side of the dance floor, dabbing her eyes with a lace handkerchief.

"I am so adamant that Arthur Pendleton is Lady Hamilton," Priscilla declared, her voice rising to a shriek, "because she has done things no unwed lady should have done!"

The crowd gasped. This was not just an accusation of writing; this was an attack on Ines’s virtue.

Priscilla took a step forward, her eyes wild.

"The books!" Priscilla shouted. "The scandalous things that are written in that book... the midnight lessons... the affairs... they are not fiction, Your Majesty! They are her experiences!"

She looked around the room, trying to make eye contact with anyone who would listen.

"She writes what she knows!" Priscilla cried. "She is not the innocent flower she pretends to be. She is a woman of loose morals! That is why she writes filth!"

To her, it was a lie. A terrible lie meant to paint Ines as a fallen woman, unfit to marry a Duke, unfit to be in the Queen’s presence.

Ines lowered her handkerchief. She looked at Priscilla with wide, horrified eyes. She didn’t need to act this time. The cruelty of her words was shocking.

But before Ines could speak, the crowd parted.

A dark figure emerged from the shadows.

It was Carcel.

He moved with a deadly grace, his long legs eating up the distance between the edge of the room and the center circle. He was dressed in black, stark and imposing. His face was a mask of cold, controlled fury.

He walked past Ines. He didn’t stop to comfort her. He stepped in front of her, placing his body between her and Priscilla, shielding her from Priscilla’s words.

"Take my fiancée’s name out of your mouth, Lady Alworth," Carcel growled.

His voice was low, like the rumble of thunder before a storm, but it carried to every corner of the silent room.

He stepped into the center with Priscilla. He towered over her. Priscilla shrank back, intimidated by the sheer force of his anger.

Carcel turned his back on her. He faced the dais.

In his hand, he held a small, wooden box. It looked like a jewelry box, or perhaps a box for keeping letters.

He bowed to the Queen. It was a perfect, respectful bow, showing none of the rage that burned in his eyes.

"Your Majesty," Carcel said.

The Queen looked at him. Her expression softened slightly. She liked the Duke. He was a man of order and dignity.

"Duke Anderson," the Queen acknowledged. "This is a very messy evening."

"It is, Your Majesty," Carcel agreed, straightening up. "And I intend to clean it up."

He turned to Priscilla. He looked down at her with eyes that were cold as ice.

"You accuse my future wife of indecency," Carcel said. "You accuse her of writing a diary that clearly details the thoughts of a stalker. You accuse her of being an author who writes scandalous things. You claim she wrote it to frame you."

"She did!" Priscilla insisted, though her voice was smaller now.

"If you don’t have proof about Ines," Carcel said calmly, lifting the small box for everyone to see, "I have proof of yours."

The Queen raised a brow. She leaned forward, her interest piqued once more.

"What proof?" She asked.

Carcel answered, his voice steady and clear. "Proof that whatever was in the diary is true."

Another gasp and shock erupted from the crowd. The murmurs started again, louder this time.

"True?" someone whispered. "So she really did steal his personal belongings?"

"The diary is real?" another asked.

Carcel continued, holding the small box with both hands.

"Lady Alworth claims the diary is a forgery," Carcel explained to the room. "She claims she never wrote those words. She claims she is not obsessed."

He opened the lid of the box. Inside, tied with a pink ribbon, was a stack of folded papers.

"These are letters Lady Alworth has been harassing me with," Carcel declared.