Tomorrow's Crimes ll Moriarty the Patriot

The True Face of Lady Adelaide

The Blackwood Estate loomed before them like a fortress of judgment, its countless windows gleaming with accusation in the late afternoon sun. As the grand carriage bearing the ducal crest rolled to a stop, Adelaide could see faces pressed against every pane—servants who had clearly been warned of their approach, their expressions a peculiar mixture of horror and fascination. Some quickly ducked away when they caught her eye, while others continued to stare openly, their judgment as clear as the blood drying on her knuckles.

Her mother maintained an iron grip on her arm as they descended, though Adelaide noted with hollow amusement that Her Grace was careful to keep her own pristine gloves away from the crimson stains marring her daughter's dress. The perfect duchess, even now. Even here. The hypocrisy of it all made Adelaide's stomach turn. It made her think of her mother—her real mother—who would have been asking if she was okay, checking her for injuries, demanding to know what had happened before passing judgment.

"Good heavens!" Mrs. Potter, the housekeeper, clutched her chest at the sight of Adelaide's disheveled state. Her gaze traveled from the torn dress to the missing shoe, from the wild hair to the blood spattered across what had been, just hours ago, a pristine morning dress worth more than a maid's yearly wages. Several servants huddled behind her like frightened birds, their whispers providing a steady undercurrent of shock and scandal.

"Not. One. Word." Lady Catherine's voice could have frozen hell itself. "Henderson, fetch Lord Blackwood and the young masters. Tell them to meet us in his study. Immediately."

The footman practically sprinted away, no doubt eager to spread the news of the scandal throughout the servant's quarters. Adelaide caught snippets of whispered conversation as Elizabeth and Margaret frog-marched her through the grand entrance hall:

"—never seen anything like it in all my years of service—"

"—blood all over her hands like some common street brawler—"

"—speaking such strange things lately, talking about future events—"

"—completely mad, they're saying—"

"—bound to end badly, mark my words—"

"—such a shame, she was the crown jewel of the Season before—"

"—what will become of the Blackwood name now?—"

"—surely they'll send her to Bethlem—"

"Silence!" Margaret's voice cracked like a whip, sending the servants scattering.

Adelaide remained eerily silent, allowing herself to be pulled along like a rag doll. The marble floors echoed with their footsteps as they ascended the main staircase, her bare foot making a peculiar slapping sound against the stone that seemed to mock the gravity of the situation.

They arrived at the duke's study just as Henderson re-entered, the Duke flanked by James and Victoria. Her father's expression darkened menacingly at the sight of her, while his eldest son appeared to have aged a decade, his face contorted with disappointment and shame. Lady Victoria, his pregnant wife, stood pale and tense, both hands cradling her swollen belly as if Adelaide's mere presence could jeopardize the future heir.

"What in God's name—" James began, but Lady Catherine cut him off.

"Inside. All of us. Now." She practically shoved Adelaide through the door, the rest of the family following like a funeral procession.

The heavy oak door closed behind them with the finality of a coffin lid. Duke Blackwood took his place behind the massive desk, while Lady Catherine positioned herself at his right hand. Elizabeth, Margaret, and Victoria huddled together on the settee, as far from Adelaide as possible, Mary stood at the side, looking out the windows, while James flanked the door like a guard. Or perhaps a warden.