A Scandal By Any Other Name-Chapter 87 - Eighty Seven

Rowan sat behind the great oak desk of his study. The only sound in the room was the heavy, rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. He rubbed his eyes with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. He was exhausted. The games on the lawn, the tension with Delaney in the woods, the stifling presence of Lady Farrington at lunch—it all weighed heavily on his broad shoulders.

A sharp knock came on the heavy wooden door of his study.

Rowan dropped his hand from his face. He sat up straight, instantly adjusting his posture into that of the perfect, unbothered Duke.

"Come in," Rowan replied. His voice was steady and deep.

The brass door handle turned. Mr. Simmons came in. The butler moved with his usual quiet efficiency, holding a silver tray in his white-gloved hands. Resting on the tray was a thick, brown paper parcel and a sealed white letter.

"This arrived for you, Your Grace," Simmons said softly. He stepped forward and placed the items carefully in the center of the clean desk blotter. "By special messenger from the city. From your solicitor."

Rowan looked at the parcel. A knot of unease tightened in his stomach.

"Thank you, Simmons," Rowan said.

Simmons bowed deeply. He turned and walked out of the room. The door clicked shut, leaving Rowan completely alone once more.

Rowan stared at the brown parcel. He had sent a trusted rider to his solicitor in London late at night on the day Hawksley came to the house. He had sent the marriage contract that Lord Hawksley had handed him in the hallway, along with a copy of the railway business contract he had proudly signed at the consortium office.

Delaney’s words echoed in his mind.

Investigate the document before doing anything. Something is fishy in that family.

Rowan reached out. His fingers felt slightly numb as he picked up a silver letter opener. He slid the sharp edge under the red wax seal of the letter first. The wax cracked into pieces.

He unfolded the thick parchment. He read the neat, slanted handwriting of his chief man of business.

Your Grace, I have received the documents you sent by rider. I stayed awake through the night to review them with my team. Per your instructions, we looked for any anomalies, traps, or unfair advantages.

Rowan swallowed hard. He read on.

The marriage settlement itself is surprisingly standard. It outlines Lady Celine’s dowry, her pin money, and the properties that will pass to your future children. There is nothing suspicious in the marriage document. Rowan let out a breath. He leaned back in his leather chair. The knot in his stomach loosened slightly. Perhaps he had been overly suspicious. Perhaps Hawksley was just a difficult man, but not a criminal.

Then, his eyes moved to the next paragraph.

However, Your Grace, the danger does not lie in the marriage contract. The danger lies in the business contract you have already signed.

Rowan froze. The air in the study suddenly felt very thin, as if the fire in the grate had sucked all the oxygen from the room. He gripped the edges of the letter tightly.

I direct your attention to page four, paragraph seven of the railway agreement. Buried within the financial jargon regarding land transfer is a sub-clause. I have enclosed a highlighted copy in the parcel.

Rowan dropped the letter. He grabbed the brown parcel and ripped the paper open. His movements were no longer smooth or elegant; they were frantic.

Inside were copies of the legal documents. He pulled out the railway contract—the very same contract he had signed that morning, with Delaney sitting right beside him in her burgundy velvet dress.

He flipped the heavy pages. One. Two. Three. Four.

His eyes scanned down to paragraph seven. The solicitor had drawn a thick black line under a block of dense, complicated text. Rowan read the words.

...and Furthermore, the transfer of the Hampshire land rights, and the agreed valuation of said shares, shall be entirely contingent upon the legal joining of the House of Hamilton and the House of Farrington in holy matrimony...

Rowan’s heart pounded against his ribs. It felt like a war drum. He kept reading.

...Should the Duke of Ford fail to execute the marriage to Lady Celine Farrington within thirty days of signing this document, the land shall be forfeit to the Consortium without payment, and a penalty of one million pounds shall be levied against the Hamilton estate for breach of faith...

The paper slipped from Rowan’s hands. It drifted down to land on the desk.

Rowan stared at the words, though they blurred before his eyes.

One million pounds. Land forfeit.

He had signed it. He had signed his name, his title, and his family’s future on the dotted line. He had been so focused on winning the negotiation, so distracted by the smell of cigar smoke and Delaney’s presence, that he had not read the fine print.

He had allowed Hawksley to blind him.

Hawksley had known exactly what he was doing. He had mixed the business of the railway with the business of the marriage. He had woven them together into an unbreakable net.

Rowan stood up. His chair scraped violently against the wooden floorboards, the sound sharp and ugly.

He raised his hands and grabbed his hair. He gripped the dark locks tightly, pulling at the roots until his scalp ached. He squeezed his eyes shut.

"What have I done?" he asked himself. His voice was a harsh, broken whisper.

He opened his eyes and looked around the study. He looked at the ledgers on his shelves. He looked at the map of his lands on the wall. He had spent his entire life working to protect this estate. He had sacrificed his youth, his freedom, and his happiness to ensure that his family would never face ruin.

And now, with one stroke of a pen, he had handed the keys of his ruin to Lord Hawksley.