Episode 21

In the dim lighting of a private club, Whitaker leaned back in an armchair, a glass of whiskey in hand. He had already drunk more than he should have, but not enough to forget what had happened with Lilian, to forget the look of disgust on her face when he had tried to kiss her. The air was thick with smoke and muffled laughter, but he found no joy in it. His eyes burned with anger as he thought about her.

“Bitch,” he murmured to himself, his fingers tightening around the glass so forcefully that it seemed ready to crack. “Does she think she can defy me? That she can escape?”

The memory of the ball returned with sharp clarity, the way Lilian had avoided him, the audacity of Gabriel Sinclair confronting him on the balcony. The humiliation still stung, and the whiskey couldn’t drown the feeling that everyone was laughing behind his back. He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees as he stared into the flickering fire.

“And that damned Sinclair… He thinks he can interfere? I’ll make sure he regrets coming back. First, I’ll break Lilian. I’ll shatter that stubbornness of hers and make an example of her. Then, Sinclair... I’ll deal with you.”

The slow, predatory smile that formed on Whitaker’s lips was almost a promise. His mind was already devising a plan. “I’ll make sure everyone sees who is in control. No one defies me without consequences.”

One of the men beside him, already drunk, cast him a curious glance. “Whitaker, you seem tense. Trouble with a lady?”

Whitaker let out a low, bitter chuckle. “No, she just needs… guidance.” He raised his glass in a silent toast, his gaze lost in the flames. “And everyone will know what happens to those who challenge me.”

As he murmured those final words, the atmosphere in the room shifted. The tension, once buried beneath laughter and cigar smoke, became palpable. One man set his whiskey down, avoiding eye contact. Another cleared his throat, adjusting his collar as if, suddenly, the room had become unbearably warm. Even among those who indulged in the same vices and corruptions, there were unspoken limits. And Whitaker was crossing them.

“Whitaker…” one of them began hesitantly. “Perhaps you should be careful about how you handle this. The Duke might not react well if...”

“The Duke?” Whitaker laughed, a sound devoid of humor. “The Duke is old and blind. He wants his daughter’s name to remain untarnished and his inheritance secured. He doesn’t care about the rest.”

A heavy silence followed. No one dared contradict him, but the discomfort was evident. Some of them were immoral, yes. But there was something about Whitaker’s tone that controlled obsession that sent a chill down their spines.

***

The morning sun bathed London’s streets in a golden light as Lady Penelope supervised the final preparations for the ball. Her instructions were clear and meticulous, though her thoughts remained focused on her goddaughter.

“I hope Lilian finds some comfort tonight,” she mused, casting a glance through the window toward the garden. The recent events had left her deeply concerned about Lilian’s emotional state. “She carries so much in silence,” she reflected, before exhaling quietly and turning her attention back to the floral arrangements at the entrance. “Tonight must be perfect, for her. And if it goes well, perhaps she’ll see that there are paths beyond the ones her father has forced upon her.”

Lilian, however, had chosen to take advantage of the crisp air and went for a ride. As she galloped through Hyde Park, the cool morning breeze brushed against her face. For a fleeting moment, she felt free from the expectations imposed upon her. Yet, the freedom was an illusion. Her thoughts quickly returned to the ball that night. It would be the moment when all eyes would be upon her. The shadow of Whitaker loomed over her, but it was Gabriel’s gaze that continued to haunt her. There was something about him, that intensity, which concern masked as teasing, that unsettled her convictions.

“What am I going to do?” she thought, pulling the reins slightly as she gazed at the horizon.

Inside the house, Clara was in Lilian’s room, organizing some of the trunks brought from Cavendish Manor. Among old fabrics and accessories, something caught her attention — an aged envelope, bearing a crest that seemed oddly familiar. Hesitant, she furrowed her brow as she picked it up, her heartbeat quickening with each second.

“Where did this come from?” she murmured, her eyes scanning the details of the crest. The resemblance to her own locket was undeniable, but the presence of the envelope among Lilian’s mother’s old belongings posed a mystery. “Was it mere coincidence or something more?”

For a moment, Clara considered opening it right then and there, but an inexplicable apprehension held her back.

“What if I don’t like what I find? What if this changes everything?” She slipped the envelope into the pocket of her apron, deciding to investigate later. However, the unease remained.

As the morning progressed and the sun reached its peak, Lady Penelope’s house pulsed with energy and anticipation. Every servant, every decoration seemed to whisper about the grand event ahead. Yet, away from the commotion, small moments unfolded in silence — Lilian facing her demons on horseback, Clara tucking away the enigmatic envelope, and Lady Penelope contemplating choices that could change everything.