Chapter 66

Cecilia

I was in the middle of reviewing reports when my phone rang. Arthur's name flashed on the screen, and I answered immediately.

"Hey," I said, tucking the phone between my ear and shoulder as I continued typing. "What's up?"

There was a pause on the other end, long enough that I stopped typing and gave him my full attention.

"My grandmother wants to see you," Arthur said finally, his voice carefully neutral.

I blinked. "What?"

"Margaret Brahmore. She called me this morning and specifically requested that you come to her estate. Today, if possible."

My stomach dropped. "Arthur, is this some kind of—"

"I don't know what it is," he interrupted. "But I'm coming with you. Whatever she has to say, she can say it to both of us."

I sat back in my chair, my mind racing. Margaret Brahmore—the woman who'd orchestrated my humiliation at her birthday party, who'd called me a demon and a succubus, who'd tried to manipulate Arthur into marrying Madison—wanted to see me?

"This feels like a trap," I said.

"Probably," Arthur agreed. "But we're going anyway. I'll pick you up in an hour."

The drive to Margaret's Newport estate was tense.

"Whatever she says," I told him quietly, reaching over to cover his hand with mine, "don't let her get in your head. We've already won, Arthur. Madison's family is destroyed, the smear campaign failed, and we're still together. That's all that matters."

The estate loomed ahead of us. The butler, met us at the door.

"Mr. Winston. Miss Locke," he said with a slight bow. "Mrs. Brahmore is expecting you in her study. Please, follow me."

We walked through hallways lined with portraits of stern-faced ancestors, until we reached a heavy door. The butler knocked once, then pushed it open.

"Mr. Winston and Miss Locke, madam."

Margaret sat behind an ornate desk, her silver hair perfectly coiffed, her posture impeccable despite her age. She looked exactly as she had at the party—regal, formidable, utterly in control.

"Arthur. Miss Locke." She gestured to the two chairs positioned in front of her desk. "Please, sit."

Arthur's hand found mine as we sat, his grip tight and reassuring.

Margaret studied us for a long moment, her sharp eyes moving from Arthur to me and back again. Then, surprisingly, she smiled—a small, wry expression that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"I underestimated you, Miss Locke," she said finally.

I raised an eyebrow but said nothing, waiting for her to continue.

Margaret's expression shifted then, becoming more serious. "However," she continued, and I felt Arthur tense beside me, "I cannot—I will not—accept your relationship with my grandson."

The words hung in the air like a blade.

"Grandmother—" Arthur started, but Margaret held up a hand.

"Let me finish, Arthur." Her voice was firm but not unkind. "Miss Locke, you were Arthur's ward. A child placed in his care, under his protection. The fact that your relationship evolved into something... romantic... it goes against everything I was raised to believe about propriety, about duty, about the responsibilities we have to those in our care."

She paused, and I saw something complicated flash across her face—disgust, maybe, but also something softer. Regret?

"I find the entire situation deeply inappropriate," Margaret continued. "And I suspect I always will. "

My throat tightened, but I kept my expression neutral, refusing to let her see how much the words stung.

"However," Margaret said, and her tone shifted slightly, "I also cannot ignore the way you conducted yourself at my party. The grace with which you handled my... less than welcoming reception. The dignity you showed when I had you removed from my home."

She looked directly at me now, and I was surprised to see something like respect in her eyes.

"You could have made a scene," she said. "You could have fought back, created a spectacle, embarrassed Arthur and me both. Instead, you left quietly, and you let Arthur make his own choice about whether to follow you. That took remarkable self-control and maturity."

Arthur's hand tightened on mine.

"And then," Margaret continued, "there's the matter of the Hartley family. The way you orchestrated their downfall—it was brilliant, Miss Locke. Ruthless, certainly, but brilliant. You identified a threat to your relationship with Arthur, and you neutralized it with surgical precision. I may not approve of your relationship, but I cannot help but admire your ability to protect it."

She leaned forward slightly, her gaze intense.

"You are not the helpless orphan I assumed you to be," she said. "You are a formidable young woman with considerable intelligence and resources. And while I still believe your relationship with Arthur is inappropriate, I can at least respect your strength."

I found my voice finally. "Thank you, Mrs. Brahmore. Though I have to say, your respect doesn't change the fact that I love Arthur, and he loves me. We're going to be together regardless of whether you—or anyone else—approves."

Something flickered in Margaret's expression—surprise, maybe, at my directness. Then she smiled, small and genuine.

"Yes," she said. "I suspect you will be." She opened her mouth as if to say something more, then seemed to think better of it. Her jaw tightened, and she reached for a small bell on her desk, ringing it once.

The butler appeared almost immediately, carrying a velvet box.

"Thank you," Margaret said, taking the box from him. "That will be all."

He bowed and retreated, closing the door softly behind him.

Margaret set the box on the desk between us, her fingers resting on the lid but not opening it. She was quiet for a long moment, staring at the box like it held something both precious and painful.

"When Arthur was born," she said finally, her voice softer now, almost wistful, "I knew he would be special. I could see it even then—the intelligence in his eyes, the way he observed everything around him with such focus. I knew he would grow into a remarkable man."

She paused, her fingers tracing the edge of the box.

"So I did something perhaps foolish, perhaps presumptuous. I attended an estate auction in London, and there was this necklace—" She opened the box, revealing the most exquisite piece of jewelry I'd ever seen.

The necklace was platinum, delicate but substantial, with diamonds arranged in an intricate pattern that caught the light and threw it back in brilliant flashes.

Her voice taking on a reverent quality. "It was commissioned in 1847 by the Duchess of Cornwall for her daughter's wedding. It's been in private collections ever since, passed down through families, worn at coronations and state dinners and the most important moments in British aristocratic history."

She lifted the necklace from the box, and I could see her hands trembling slightly.

"I paid an obscene amount for it," she continued. "More than any reasonable person should spend on jewelry. But I wanted Arthur's future wife to have something extraordinary."

My breath caught.