"I want this engagement dissolved. I will not marry that man!"
The double doors to the dining room swung open with a dramatic creak as Juliana swept inside, her face flushed and her voice echoing like a thunderclap through the morning stillness.
Lord Valmont had only just departed, and his absence left behind a tension that now surged through Juliana like a storm. Leila, seated at the table with a half-eaten bowl of porridge before her, glanced up mid-spoonful. Across from her, Lady Helen sat with quiet composure, with the grace of a woman long accustomed to her daughter's outbursts.
"I cannot do this, Mother," Juliana went on, her voice rising. "He's a monster. Do you expect me to survive marriage to a man who, according to the rumors, keeps company with five women a night women who end up missing or dead the next day? Am I to be next?"
She struck the table with her gloved palm, sending a tremor through the silverware. "And still you sit there, silently agreeing!"
Lady Helen said nothing. Her expression, while calm, was touched with something quieter than indifference, resignation, perhaps.
Juliana's breath caught with frustration. Then, in a fit of rage, she swept the remaining dishes from the table with a single violent motion. Porcelain shattered across the tiled floor, gravy pooled near Leila's feet, and the silence cracked wide open.
Leila froze, her spoon still in the air, a dollop of porridge halfway to her lips. She blinked slowly, then stared at the wreckage on the floor. Was this girl mad? She hadn't even finished her breakfast.
Juliana's chest rose and fell rapidly as she turned back to her mother, her voice low now, bitter and aching.
"Why, Mother?" she asked. "Why did you agree to this arrangement… when you knew full well that I was meant to marry Lord Henry?"
Leila slowly set her spoon down, her appetite fading beneath the weight of Juliana's outburst. Her mind lingered on the words just spoken, more than five women every night, vanishing without a trace. Could such rumors truly be more than idle gossip? And if so… why had no one intervened? Where was the council? The law? The conscience of the upper class?
Her thoughts were interrupted sharply.
"What are you staring at?!" Juliana snapped, her voice harsh, unladylike, jarring against the quiet room.
Leila's eyes narrowed, a frown forming. The audacity of the woman was astounding. Her instincts flared, and she was ready to deliver a cutting remark but before she could speak, Lady Helen's voice rose gently above the tension.
"Leila, dear," she said softly, "might I ask you to give us a moment? I wish to speak with Juliana privately."
The sudden calm in her tone stood in stark contrast to the chaos. Leila turned to her, and her expression immediately softened into polite compliance.
"Of course, Lady Helen," she replied with a graceful nod, rising from her chair.
As she passed Juliana, she cast her a lingering glance, cool, unreadable, but heavy with warning. Something in Leila's gaze made Juliana's skin prickle. It was the look one gave a corpse before burial, quietly final, devoid of emotion.
Yet Juliana, proud to a fault, refused to flinch. She lifted her chin high and turned up her nose, her posture that of a queen dismissing a servant. But still she could not deny the fact, she felt scared for a minute.
Leila gently closed the door behind her, muffling the sound of Juliana's voice as it rose once more in petulant protest. She lingered in the corridor, her expression unreadable. What a spoiled brat, she thought. Juliana had the luxury of a mother who adored her, a mother who still drew breath yet she tossed that love aside like an ill-fitting ribbon.
Leila exhaled quietly and closed her eyes. An image formed, unbidden: her own mother, sharp-tongued and cruel, the kind of woman whose love was conditional and whose praise was poison. Was she rotting in the grave or reveling in flames? Leila gave a small, dry laugh. Surely hell. Heaven would have shut its gates.
"Eavesdropping again, Miss Leila?"
The cold voice cut through the silence like a blade. Leila turned to find Elliot leaning against a marble pillar at the far end of the corridor, his arms crossed and his expression twisted in disdain. He didn't bother to hide it.
"A commoner will always be a commoner," he sneered, "no matter how well you polish the silver."
Leila smiled lazily, the expression not quite reaching her eyes. Her footsteps were unhurried as she approached him, calm and deliberate, as though she were greeting an insolent child.
"And what, pray tell," she said in a low, silken voice, "is so vile about being a commoner? Is it because we work? Because we bleed without silk gloves to hide it? Tell me, Elliot what does that make you?"
She leaned in slightly, voice cold as frost. "A dog in livery, barking for the people you'll never become."
Elliot's smirk faltered, just for a moment. "How dare you!" Elliot snarled, his composure cracking like thin porcelain. "I'll teach you a lesson you won't forget, you filthy little daughter of a wh..."
Before he could finish the slur, his arm shot upward in a fit of rage, hand poised to strike. It was instinct, not thought.
But Leila moved faster.
Her hand lashed through the air with startling precision, catching his wrist mid-swing. Her grip was firm unnaturally so and her gaze met his with eerie calm.
"Tsk," she murmured, her tone clipped and amused, "has the loyal hound finally chosen to bare its teeth?"
She tilted her head, almost playfully, though the pressure in her fingers increased. Elliot winced, clearly not expecting such strength from a girl half his size.
"I wonder," she continued softly, "What Lady Helen might say if she saw you now. Striking at the guest you're meant to protect? I daresay it would do your reputation no favours. Not in this household, not in any drawing room worth its silver."
She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper only he could hear. "Such a grand man, reduced to raising his hand against a helpless little girl like me. Tell me, Elliot were you born without manners, or did you toss them away to crawl closer to power?"
Elliot hissed through his teeth, trying to yank free, but her grip only tightened.
"Be careful," she said, her smile curving at the edges with a strange glint. "They say madness runs in the blood. Perhaps I'm not so different from my dear mother after all. And who knows…"
She leaned in, eyes glinting like cold steel. "You may yet wake up missing a limb or two."
Elliot paled.
He froze, his breath caught in his throat. For all his arrogance, he had not expected such fire nor such threat from the seemingly unremarkable girl before him. But there it was, plain as day: a storm churning in her eyes, dark and unyielding. She meant what she said.
He'd struck a nerve, and he knew it. The moment he invoked her mother, the shift in her aura was unmistakable. He had not just provoked her he had trespassed on sacred ground.
Before he could gather himself, a new voice cut through the thick silence behind them.
"What is going on here?"
Leila blinked, then released Elliot's wrist at once, her posture softening like silk falling from a hook. She turned, adjusting the pleats of her dress as she met Jack's gaze with a smile so serene it bordered on angelic.
"Oh, nothing serious," she said sweetly. "Just a little conversation between friends. Right, Mr. Elliot?"
Elliot stood stiffly, rubbing his wrist, unable to meet Jack's eyes. Leila, meanwhile, tilted her head ever so slightly, her expression still pleasant but to anyone observant enough, there was the faintest flicker of something else. A warning, veiled beneath charm.
Standing rigid, jaw clenched tightly, he fought the urge to cry out. Pain throbbed up his arm, the girl had dislocated his wrist, he was almost certain of it. The shock was nearly as great as the agony.
And yet, as Leila turned her gaze upon him sweet, composed, with just a glimmer of warning tucked behind her lashes he found himself nodding without thought, a puppet bound by invisible strings.
Jack, observing the tension with narrowed eyes, broke the silence. "i did not know you two were friends. Come with me, Miss Leila," he said curtly, turning on his heel with the quiet authority of a man used to being obeyed.
Leila dipped her head graciously. "Of course." Then, glancing over her shoulder at the stunned and silently suffering Elliot, she offered a final, honey-laced farewell.
"It was lovely speaking with you, Mr. Elliot. I do hope we'll have such pleasant exchanges again."
With that, she glided after Jack, leaving behind the scent of lavender and the memory of a grip that still ached like sin.
The once arrogant butler stood rooted to the spot, his pride crushed beneath the lingering sting in his wrist. He stared blankly at the corridor where Leila had vanished minutes ago, her presence lingering like an unwelcome perfume.
Defeated. By her.
A mere girl, uncouth, common-born, barely fit to walk the polished halls of Lady Helen's estate. A filthy little parasite, surviving only on the charity of the household. And yet, she had bested him. Not with status. Not with influence. But with sheer, merciless force.
His jaw clenched, his face darkening with humiliation and fury. No, this would not be forgotten. He would not suffer the insult in silence. Let her enjoy her moment of triumph for now.
"Enjoy it while it lasts, you little pest," he muttered under his breath, voice low and venomous. A malicious look flickered in his eyes. "You'll regret crossing me. I'll see to that."
Unaware that Elliot's disdain had curdled into something far darker, hatred even, Leila followed Jack in silence as he led her through the hall and into the study. The heavy doors shut behind them with a soft click, muffling the distant clatter of servants and fading footsteps.
"Please, do sit," Jack said, gesturing politely as he pulled out a chair for her near the hearth.
Leila dipped her head in thanks, smoothing her dress before lowering herself with quiet grace. Though their paths had crossed often in the house, their exchanges had been infrequent, guarded, polite, and brief. It was rare for Jack to speak with her privately.
She watched him with mild curiosity, noting the tension in his brow as he moved to sit across from her.
"I suspect," he began after a pause, folding his hands together, "that you have already noticed… our household is not quite as tranquil as it may first appear."
His voice was low, thoughtful, touched with a certain weariness. He exhaled slowly, the weight of unspoken matters drawing shadows beneath his eyes.
"It's complicated," he admitted. "There are matters beneath the surface that would serve no one by being dragged into the light. But I want you to know whatever troubles exist within these walls, they will not touch you. You are under Lady Helen's protection. You may rest at ease."
Leila's gaze softened, though she said nothing.
Jack's eyes met hers then, and his tone grew gentler.
"I also know… you are still grieving. Your mother's sudden passing, what happened was a cruel blow. No child should carry such a burden so young."
For a moment, the room fell still, the only sound the quiet tick of the mantel clock. Leila looked down at her hands folded in her lap, her expression unreadable.
The pain of her mother's death was not one easily discussed especially when it was shrouded in scandal, suspicion… and secrets.
"And I want nothing more than for you to move on, Leila," Jack continued gently, his voice like warm woodsmoke. "I truly believe your mother would have wished for that as well."
Leila's lips curled faintly, not into a smile, but something colder. Her? That woman had wished her nothing but misery in life. She could well imagine her spirit still lingering, whispering curses from the grave.
She looked away, masking the bitterness in her eyes, but Jack pressed on, unaware or perhaps politely ignoring her reaction.
"I suspect you are curious about the engagement between Juliana and Lord Valmont," he said, his tone shifting into something heavier. "Given your place in this household now, I believe it is only fair that you understand."
He leaned back slightly, a flicker of discomfort crossing his features.
"Years ago, our family found itself in a rather desperate situation one I shall not detail here. But in our darkest hour, it was Lord Valmont who intervened and pulled us from the brink."
His fingers moved to his temple, massaging the space between his brows as if the memory pained him.
"As repayment for that intervention, we gave our word. We promised Juliana's hand in marriage." He paused. "And a promise, especially one made in desperation… is still a promise. We cannot go back on it now. The engagement must stand."
Leila's brows knit slightly. What could have possibly driven a noble family into such a bind that they would barter their daughter's future? But Jack seemed to close that door then, his expression becoming composed once more as though he had already said too much.
Instead, he reached into the desk drawer and produced two sealed envelopes, setting them on the desk before her with quiet gravity.
"These arrived for you."
Leila accepted them, curiosity knitting her brows. She turned them over in her hands, reading the names on the back. Her breath caught. The first was addressed in Margaret's hurried script. The second bore Mrs. Smith's more refined hand.
Brokley.