Clara
The effect was swift. At Lady Davenport's musicale, Clara was approached by a pair of young wives who, with innocent smiles, asked after the bouquet Adrian had supposedly sent her.
"Oh yes," Clara answered carelessly, "orchids, delivered weekly."
The next evening, at Lord Atherton's dinner, another woman pressed her: "How curious. I had thought you said lilies were his favorite token?"
Clara faltered, then laughed it off, but the whisper spread. The contradictions were noted, catalogued, exchanged behind fans and in carriage rides home.
Soon it was not just Emily or Charlotte but a growing chorus of society women who confronted Clara in parlors and gardens, smiling sweetly as they drew her into snares of her own making.
And though Clara still smiled, still carried herself with poise, a crack began to show.
That night, Adrian sat at his desk, the ink still drying on his speech, and allowed himself the faintest smile. Crowne was relentless, but he was not alone in this fight. With Gillingham's weight behind him and Emily and Charlotte's quiet war in society, the tide was shifting.
New Albion might yet be his to serve — and to save.
Clara slammed her gloves onto the table, her cheeks flushed with rage. "They're turning on me, Crowne. One after another — smiles to my face, daggers behind their fans. It's that Wilson woman, I know it. She's poisoning them against me."
Lord Crowne sat by the fire, swirling brandy in his glass. His calm only infuriated her more. "Poisoning? No, my dear. Simply outmaneuvering. You've grown careless."
"Careless?" Clara's eyes blazed. "Do you think it easy, weaving story upon story while they pick me apart like vultures? I've carried this scandal on my back for months. Without me, Vale would still have their sympathy."
Crowne set down his glass with a sharp click. "Without me, you'd still be performing tawdry plays in a provincial theatre. Do not mistake your role, Clara. You are the spark, not the flame."
She froze, wounded pride flickering across her face. "And what am I to do when the spark dies out? When they've stripped me bare with their questions, their smug little tricks?"
Crowne rose, crossing to her in two swift strides. He seized her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. His voice dropped, low and cold. "Then you adapt. You weep if you must, you rage if you must, but you do not falter. Vale cannot be allowed to stand untarnished. If you falter, you are useless to me."
Clara's eyes glittered with unshed tears, though her voice was steel. "I have given everything to this scheme —my reputation, my nights, even you. Do not tell me I am useless."
Crowne's expression softened slightly; he released her chin, stepping back. "You are useful. But you must be better than them. Lady Wilson is clever, yes — but cleverness alone does not win wars. Persistence does."
Clara turned away, pacing the length of the room. "They will corner me again, Crowne. They are circling like wolves. What shall I do when they demand proof of what I claim?"
Crowne's smile was slow, deliberate. "Then we give them proof."
Clara stopped. "False proof?"
"Of course. Letters. A token or two conveniently discovered. Something Vale cannot disprove without looking guilty. They want blood? We'll give them enough to feed on until they choke."
She stared at him, both unnerved and strangely reassured. He had an answer for everything, a plan for every turn. Still, a shiver ran through her. "And if it fails?"
His eyes hardened. "It will not fail. Vale may have Gillingham's blessing and a few sharp-tongued women on his side, but I hold the purse strings of half this city. Influence speaks louder than gossip. We are not finished —not by a long stride."
Clara's breath steadied, her mask of confidence slowly returning. "Very well. I will play my part. But I warn you, Crowne — if I go down, I will not go down alone."
He regarded her for a long, unreadable moment. Then he lifted his glass once more. "Then let us ensure neither of us goes down at all."
The fire crackled between them, throwing shadows across the room. Both knew the game had entered a more dangerous stage. And both, in their own way, relished it.
Adrian
The marketplace of New Albion hummed like a beehive, every stall crowded, every lamppost plastered with broadsheets bearing Adrian Vale's name. For weeks he had struggled beneath rumor and suspicion, yet now, the city seemed to have awoken to his cause. At first, it was only craftsmen and dockworkers pledging their support. But soon guild leaders, clerks, and even a scattering of merchants joined their ranks. Vale's quiet determination, his refusal to smear his opponents, gave him an air of integrity rare in politics.
The turning point had come not from his speeches, but from the pen. Emily Hartwell and Charlotte Wilson had orchestrated a masterstroke. In the glittering society pages of two national newspapers, they published carefully documented evidence exposing Clara's falsehoods — details of dates that did not align, receipts from shops she claimed gifts had come from, even a sworn statement from a seamstress who had sewn a gown for her, which was paid for by Clara herself, not Adrian Vale. The tone was sharp but elegant, the kind of prose that society devoured. The effect was devastating.
Whispers became laughter, laughter became open mockery. Where once Clara had turned heads when she entered a salon, now parasols tilted to hide smirks, and conversations fell silent only to resume in bursts of gossip as soon as she passed. She had been the queen of whispers, and now she was their target.
For Adrian, the relief was twofold: his honor reclaimed and his campaign set alight. Crowds grew larger, applause louder. Unexpected allies came forward — an alderman who had previously dismissed him, a war veteran with sway among the working classes, even Lord Gillingham's rivals who, out of spite for Crowne and his circle of supporters , threw their weight behind Vale. The city felt as though it were tilting, and for once, tilting in his favor.
But in the quiet chambers of Lord Crowne's townhouse, a different drama unfolded.
"She's become a liability," Crowne muttered, pacing with restless energy. "Every day she lingers, the more her lies rebound upon me. I've had to deny ever supporting her."
His secretary shifted uneasily. "What will you do with her, my lord?"
Crowne stopped, his expression cold. "What must be done."
That night, while Clara slept off an evening's worth of brandy and fury, a carriage without crest or lantern drew up to her lodgings. Three men cloaked in dark coats moved with practiced silence. A rag was pressed over her mouth before she could scream. Her jewelry box and a scattering of dresses were left behind, carefully arranged to suggest a hurried flight. Within the hour, she was gone — spirited out of New Albion as if she had never existed.
By morning, the rumors were irresistible. "Clara fled!" people exclaimed at market stalls. "She couldn't face the shame!" Others insisted she had gone abroad with a secret benefactor. The scandal was neatly tied off, and Crowne appeared in council the next day with a solemn shake of his head. "A terrible business," he remarked, "but hardly surprising when her deceit was brought to light."
Adrian read the news with mixed feelings. Relief, yes. —but also unease. Something about Clara's sudden disappearance rang false. Yet there was no trace of her, no one to question, nothing to hold onto. For the time being, he had no choice but to let it rest.
Instead, he poured his focus into the campaign. He had been vindicated in the eyes of the people. Now came the greater test: whether he could turn their sympathy into lasting trust, and their trust into victory.
However, Crowne and his hunger for power had only sharpened.