The Gazette hit the streets at dawn. By mid-morning, copies were already spread across café tables, tucked under gentlemen's arms, and whispered over in every parlor. What had once been smoke was now flame, words inked in black for all of New Albion to see.
"Vale's Secret Affections?"
"A Statesman's Grief, A Statesman's Shame?"
The articles spoke with feigned delicacy, cloaking venom in sympathy.
A certain gentleman of rising influence, they wrote, known for his eloquence and sudden tragedy, may not have been the faithful husband society believed him to be.
The piece alluded to an actress — unnamed, but easily guessed — who had known him intimately. The tale grew: of gifts given under false pretenses, flowers delivered, promises whispered in salons across the city.
By noon, the city was buzzing. In the council hall, colleagues avoided Adrian's gaze. In the coffeehouses, young clerks whispered eagerly over their papers. In drawing rooms, matrons sighed with theatrical sorrow for poor Evelyn, deceived even in death.
Adrian Vale sat in his study, the Gazette spread before him. His jaw clenched as he reread the lies, each line more poisonous than the last. Flowers? He had never sent Clara a single bloom. Gifts? Not a coin, not a trinket. His only words to her had been guarded, cautious. And yet here they were, dressed in the ink of authority, believed by thousands.
He shoved the paper aside, rising abruptly. He could not sit idle while Evelyn's memory was torn apart, while his own honor was dragged through the mud. He would go to Clara. He would demand she retract every word, deny the story, end this farce before it grew.
The streets of New Albion were slick with rain as he arrived at Clara's apartment — a narrow building tucked between a milliner's shop and a bookseller. The gas lamps cast a watery glow upon the pavement, reflecting the steady trickle of carriages and umbrellas. Adrian pulled his coat tighter and mounted the steps two at a time.
He had raised his fist to knock when he froze. Laughter spilled through the door, high and mocking. Voices drifted out into the dark corridor. He tilted his head, listening.
Clara's voice rang clear, velvet and cruel.
"Oh, darlings, you should have seen the way he looked at me in those days. Always so solemn in public, but in private?" She gave a low, throaty laugh. "Like a lovesick poet. Flowers every week, sometimes two bouquets if he'd had a good day in council. And the gifts! Silk gloves, a brooch shaped like a swan… as though I were his secret queen."
The women with her gasped and giggled, urging her on. Clara lowered her voice, but the walls were thin, and Adrian heard every word.
"He swore once — hand on his heart — that he would have chosen me if not for his precious Evelyn being a Hartwell. He married her for the wealth and image. Imagine! And now they weep for her as though she were a saint. If only they knew the truth."
Adrian's blood turned to ice. None of it was true. Not a single syllable. And yet, he could hear in her voice the same measured cadence she used onstage, the performer's instinct for persuasion. With an audience of women ready to carry tales back to every corner of society, Clara did not need truth — only performance.
His fist hovered, then fell back to his side. To burst in now would be folly. They would twist his anger into proof of guilt. Confrontation would give Clara more material, more words to poison him with. No — this was not chance. This was orchestration. Someone had wound her strings and set her to dancing. Crowne.
The name seared across his mind like a brand. Of course it was him. Clara was clever, but not strategic. She would never have dared risk such invention without powerful hands guiding her. Crowne's envy, his careful malice — it all fit. The trap was too well-laid to be hers alone.
Adrian turned from the door, his boots striking the wet pavement as he descended. He walked quickly, his breath clouding in the cold night air. He felt the fury in him coil tight, but he forced it down. To strike blindly was to lose. He needed strategy, patience — Gray's words echoed back to him:
Endure. Hold fast. Choose your ground.
At home, he cast aside his coat and paced the length of his study. The Gazette still lay upon the desk, its headline glaring up like an accusation. He stared at it, jaw set, until the words blurred. Evelyn's face rose before him — her smile, her steady gaze, her hand resting against his cheek. For her, he must not falter. For her, he must not be baited into folly.
Adrian sank into his chair at last, pressing his hands together. He would not confront Clara. Not yet. Instead, he would listen, watch, gather proof. He would trace the threads of rumor back to their source, and when the time came, he would unravel them before the entire council.
But tonight, he allowed himself one moment of weakness. He closed his eyes, bowed his head, and whispered Evelyn's name into the silence.
Then he straightened, opened his eyes, and began to plan.