While the garden reunion unfolded, Malcolm Fotheringham walked into the East Wing. He found Lady Beatrice packing a suitcase, preparing to leave for her city residence to command the legal battle from afar.
“You won’t win this, Beatrice,” Malcolm said, leaning against the doorframe.
“I have the law on my side,” Beatrice snapped, snapping the latches shut. “This house is a moral sewer.”
“Perhaps,” Malcolm mused. “But if we start discussing morals in court, we might have to open the archives. Specifically, the birth records from November 1992.”
Beatrice froze. Her hands gripped the handle of the suitcase until her knuckles turned white. She turned slowly to face him.
“What do you know?” she whispered.
Malcolm stepped closer, invading her personal space. He lowered his voice to a chilling whisper. “I know about the spare heir. I know about the ‘adoption protocol.’ And I know exactly where the bodies are buried because you handed me the shovel when you hired me.”
Beatrice stared at him, looking at the port-wine stain on his neck, and for the first time in decades, the Matriarch looked terrified. She realized she wasn’t fighting a lawyer; she was fighting the ghost of the son she had thrown away.