The crash echoed through the upstairs hallway.
Malcolm Fotheringham ran from the nursery, expecting an intruder. Instead, he found Lady Beatrice sprawled on the Persian runner rug, a shattered crystal decanter of scotch beside her.
“Grandmother,” Malcolm gasped, kneeling beside her.
Beatrice groaned, her breath heavy with alcohol. “I can’t… I can’t keep him in there, Malcolm. He looks at me. Even when his eyes are closed, he looks at me.”
She grabbed Malcolm’s lapel, her face gray with exhaustion. “The auditor knows. Cross knows. If he finds Alistair… if he finds out what I did with the tea… I’ll go to prison. I can’t go to prison.”
Malcolm looked up at William, who had just arrived at the top of the stairs. They exchanged a grim look. The “Regency” was over. Beatrice was the Fragile Jailer, and the guilt had finally broken her spine. She could no longer hold the line against Sebastian Cross.