The Gazette lay folded on the low table in Emily's parlor, its headline peeking out like a taunt. She had not been able to bring herself to read it in full — each line her friends repeated to her had been agony enough. Evelyn's name whispered with pity, Adrian's with scandal.
Her hand trembled as she poured herself tea she did not drink.
Gifts. Flowers. Promises. Lies, every one of them. Emily knew Adrian's devotion to her sister had been real. He was too proud, too burdened by his own ideals, to debase himself with such deceptions.
And yet society believed it. Or at least, they delighted in pretending they did.
Emily sat straighter, her grief hardening into resolve. If Adrian could not fight this battle openly, then she would. She had been overlooked, dismissed as frivolous, light-minded, a butterfly in silks. Let them think so still. She would flutter into drawing rooms, smile sweetly, listen keenly, and carry back every poisonous whisper to Adrian. If Clara wished to play the actress, Emily would learn to play the spy.
Adrian was already setting similar wheels in motion. Days after his abortive visit to Clara, he dispatched trusted friends to the coffeehouses and taverns where rumor ran swiftest. He sent discreet inquiries to printers, asking who had supplied the Gazette with its source. Each report came back the same: Clara's name whispered in confidence, Clara's sorrowful tale repeated as though gospel.
But the hand behind it — the steady, guiding hand —remained invisible.
One evening, as the city lights flickered against the rain-slick cobbles, Adrian sat at his desk, notes scattered before him. He had written out Clara's claims one by one, countering them with the truth. Yet the truth alone could not fight lies that people wanted to believe. He needed proof — not only that Clara lied, but that someone else orchestrated it. Crowne.
The suspicion gnawed at him. He could see the man's smug composure in council, his faint, mocking smile when Adrian spoke. It was too perfect, too precise. Crowne was the spider at the center of the web. Adrian just needed to trace the threads.
Elsewhere in the city, Crowne stood by a roaring fire in his private chambers, a glass of brandy in hand. Clara lounged upon the chaise nearby, her gown a silken pool around her.
"You've done well," Crowne said, swirling the amber liquid. "The Gazette was but the opening act. Soon, we shall give them a special performance — one that leaves Vale gasping for air."
Clara's lips curved. "What role do you have for me this time? More tears? Another confession?"
Crowne shook his head. "Not yet. The first seed has taken root. Now, we must water it. Something tangible — fabricated, yes, but undeniable. Letters, perhaps. Love notes written in his hand, delivered by your own maid. Or a gift — something easily traced back to him."
Clara's brows arched. "You would forge his hand?"
"I would see it done," Crowne replied coldly. "A man so hungry for power deserves to be undone by the very thing he covets — his reputation."
Clara toyed with the hem of her gown, considering. "And when the people spit his name in disgust, what then? Do you step forward as savior?"
Crowne's eyes glinted. "Exactly. A steady hand, a loyal servant of the state, untouched by scandal. They will welcome me when they cast him out."
Clara leaned back, laughter low and dangerous. "And I? What is my reward in this new order you're building?"
Crowne's smile was thin as glass. "You rise with me — or fall if you displease me. Do not forget, Clara, actresses are easily replaced."
Her smile faltered, just for an instant. But then she masked it with a languid stretch, hiding the flicker of unease.
By week's end, the city was a furnace of speculation. Emily returned to Adrian's house under cover of night, her cheeks flushed with anger.
"They say they've seen receipts," she told him in a hurried whisper. "Proof of gifts — perfumes, silks, even a necklace. All in your name. It's spreading already."
Adrian's head snapped up. "Receipts? Forged, no doubt. Crowne is tightening the noose."
Emily's eyes burned. "Then we must loosen it. Let me help you, Adrian. Let me listen where you cannot. I may be dismissed as a foolish girl, but that makes me invisible. And invisibility is power."
For a moment, Adrian saw not the playful younger sister who had teased Evelyn at dinners but a woman sharpened by grief and fury. He inclined his head. "Very well. But be careful, Emily. These are not games you're walking into. Crowne plays for blood."
She met his gaze steadily. "So do I."
In the weeks to come, whispers would thicken into a storm. Forged letters would surface, and the council itself would begin to doubt Adrian Vale. But on that night, as the rain beat against the windows and two grieving souls vowed to fight back, the first embers of resistance glowed against the darkness.
And in his chambers across the city, Crowne watched the fire burn low in the grate, already envisioning Adrian's ruin as though it were accomplished fact.