Lady Ines Scandalous Hobby-Chapter 155 - Hundred And Fifty Five

Priscilla’s eyes bulged. Her mouth dropped open.

"Letters?" she gasped. "I never sent you letters! I spoke to you at parties, but I never wrote..."

"Dozens of them," Carcel interrupted, ignoring her protest. He looked at the Queen. "For the past months, Your Majesty, I have received these notes. I kept them hidden because I did not want to embarrass Lady Alworth’s family. I hoped she would stop."

He pulled one letter from the bundle. He didn’t read it, but he held it up so the handwriting was visible.

It was the same loops. The same slanted script. The same handwriting as the black book on the floor.

"But when she attacks my fiancée," Carcel said, his voice hardening, "my patience ends."

He closed the box.

The Queen waved her hand.

"Kinton," she ordered.

The royal secretary stepped forward again. He walked down the steps, approached Carcel, and took the box.

Carcel handed it over willingly. He stepped back, standing tall, his hands clasped behind his back.

Kinton carried the box to the Queen.

Priscilla watched the box go. She felt like she was in a nightmare. She hadn’t written those letters. She knew she hadn’t. But she also knew that no one would believe her.

The Queen took the box. She pulled out the top letter. She unfolded the paper.

The ballroom held its breath.

The Queen read silently. Her eyes moved left to right.

My Dearest Carcel,

Why do you ignore me? I wore the lavender dress for you. I know you love me. Ines is nothing. She is a placeholder. I will wait for you forever.

Yours, P.

The Queen frowned. She folded the letter and picked up another one.

My Love,

I saw you riding in the park today. I wanted to run to you. One day, we will be together, and no one will stand in our way.

The Queen nodded slowly. It matched. The tone, the handwriting, the desperation—it all matched the diary that was lying on the floor.

She looked up. She looked at Priscilla.

It was a look of utter disappointment. It was the look a parent gives a child who has been caught in a terrible lie.

"The handwriting is identical," the Queen stated to the room.

Priscilla shook her head frantically. "No! No, Your Majesty! It is a trick! He forged them! The Duke forged them!"

The crowd groaned. Accusing the Duke of forgery? It was desperate. It was pathetic.

The ballroom was now filled with a sound much more dangerous: the sound of a reputation shattering.

"No wonder she was clinging to His Grace during Countess Beaufort’s ball," a lady in a green dress whispered loudly to her husband. She tapped her fan against her palm. "I remember it clearly. She was quite close to him. I thought it was improper then, but now..."

"I noticed it too," another woman chimed in, her voice carrying over the silence. She shook her head, her feathers bobbing. "I thought it was harmless. I thought she was just seeking advice on her estate. But to write letters? Dozens of them?"

"She must have mistaken the Duke’s kindness for affection," an older gentleman grumbled, adjusting his monocle to glare at Priscilla. "It is a sad thing when a woman cannot tell the difference between politeness and love."

"It is tragic," a debutante whispered, though her eyes were shining with the excitement of the scandal. "Everyone knows how much he loves Lady Hamilton. You only have to look at them."

Priscilla froze.

Clinging.

Harmless.

Mistaken.

They were rewriting her history. Moments she thought were intimate were now being painted as desperate. Her power was evaporating, turning into pity and disgust before her very eyes.

She turned back to the Queen. She needed one last chance. If she could just explain, if she could just claim insanity, or a misunderstanding...

Priscilla’s face drained of all color. Her lips trembled.

"Your Majesty..." she stammered, reaching out a hand. "No... I..."

"Silence," the Queen commanded.

She put the letters back in the box and closed the lid with a definitive snap. She gave the box back to her secretary.

"Brimsley, keep this evidence," the Queen ordered.

She turned her full attention to Priscilla.

"Lady Alworth," the Queen said, her voice dripping with ice. "You have wasted my time. You have insulted a Duke. You have slandered a future Duchess. And you have presented your own obsession as evidence."

The Queen stood up. She smoothed her golden skirts.

"I think it is time for you to leave," the Queen said. "And I do not wish to see your face at my court again until you have learned the meaning of shame."

Priscilla stood frozen. Her legs felt like jelly. Her world was crumbling around her. The plan to ruin Ines had backfired so completely that she couldn’t even comprehend it.

She looked at Carcel. He was looking at Ines. He offered Ines his arm, and she took it, her face buried in his shoulder as if she were still weeping.

But Priscilla saw it.

Just for a second, Carcel looked back at her.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t gloat. He just looked at her with a blank, indifferent expression. It was the look of a man who had removed an obstacle.

Two royal guards stepped forward, flanking Priscilla.

"My Lady," one of them said sternly. "This way."

Priscilla looked around for help. But there was no one. The ton had turned its back.

She was ruined.

The Queen turned her back on Priscilla. She signaled to her ladies-in-waiting.

"Come," the Queen ordered. "The air in here has become stale."

With a sweep of her golden skirts, she descended the back steps of the dais. Her entourage—a flock of ladies in silk and footmen in livery—swarmed around her. They moved, marching toward the exit.

As the Queen passed Ines and Carcel, she paused for the briefest second. She nodded to Ines. It was a tiny movement, barely noticeable, but it was everything. It was an acquittal.

Then, the Queen was gone.