The next morning, the drawing room of the Thompson estate was cold. The air was heavy and still, all the windows closed, the heavy drapes drawn against the bright morning light.
Carlos and Ashlyn entered, arm in arm. Ashlyn was a picture of wifely devotion, her face composed in a mask of gentle, somber concern. She had spent the night in a state of smug, triumphant bliss. Her escape from Derek's men had been a success, her bargain with Carlos a necessary, if disgusting, price. And today, she was here to watch the final, glorious act of her plan: the public, irreversible disgrace of her sister. She expected to see Marissa kneeling, stripped of her title, exposed as a murderer.
She was not prepared for the scene in front of her.
"Kneel down."
The voice was the Dowager Duchess's, sharp and cold as ice. Beatrice was sitting in her high-backed chair, her face a grim, stony mask. But the command was not directed at Marissa.
