The heavy double doors of the drawing room swung open with a groan. The guards escorted a man inside.
Mr. Silas walked in. He wore a velvet coat that was too expensive for a commoner but too gaudy for a noble. He clutched a leather portfolio to his chest as if it contained his own heart.
He looked around the room. He saw the angry merchants with their bruised faces. He saw the guards. And he saw the three women sitting in judgment.
He stopped in front of the Dowager Duchess and bowed deeply, sweeping his hat off his head. Then he turned and bowed to Marissa.
"Your Grace," Silas said smoothly. His voice was like oil sliding over stone.
He brought out his own copy and showed it to Beatrice, confirming what the merchants said.
Ashlyn sat in her chair, her hands folded in her lap. She watched the scene with hawk-like intensity. Her heart was pounding, not with fear, but with a twisted sense of anticipation.
