The grand ballroom of Lady Weatherby's mansion shimmered under the blaze of a thousand candles. Crystal chandeliers cast prisms of light over swirling silks and satins, the air thick with expensive perfume, clinking glasses, and the low thrum of orchestrated conversation. It was Sandra's first major society event since the trial, and the atmosphere crackled not with welcome, but with a predatory curiosity.
Paul stood beside her, an immovable mountain in impeccably tailored black evening wear. His arm beneath Sandra's hand was rock-solid, radiating contained power. His expression was the carefully cultivated mask of the Barton heir – impassive, intimidating, a silent warning to those who might approach with malice. Sandra felt the weight of countless stares, the whispers that rippled through the crowd like startled birds as they entered. *The Beast and his Replacement Bride. Did you hear what she said at the trial? Daring creature. And him… can you trust a man who turned on his own father?*
"Remember," Paul murmured, his voice barely audible above the music, his gaze scanning the room like a general surveying a battlefield, "you are the Viscountess of Blackwood. They are beneath your notice unless you choose otherwise."
Sandra squeezed his arm lightly, drawing strength from his solid presence and the secret life growing within her, hidden beneath the emerald silk of her gown. "I notice everything, Paul," she replied softly, her own gaze sweeping the assembly with calculated calm. "Especially the snakes." She spotted Lady Weatherby bearing down on them, a fixed smile plastered on her face that didn't reach her shrewd eyes.
"Lord Barton! Lady Barton!" Lady Weatherby trilled, air-kissing near Sandra's cheek without making contact. "So *brave* of you to attend! After such… *trying* times." Her eyes darted between them, hungry for a reaction.
"Lady Weatherby," Paul inclined his head, his tone glacial. "The city's business continues, trials notwithstanding."
"Indeed!" Lady Weatherby's smile tightened. She focused on Sandra. "And you, my dear. Such a stirring performance at the courthouse! Quite the little defender. Though," she lowered her voice conspiratorially, leaning in slightly, "one must wonder at the… *temperament* one faces at home, after such public defiance." Her gaze flickered pointedly towards Paul.
Sandra felt Paul's arm tense like steel cable. Before he could react, Sandra laughed, a light, musical sound that startled the older woman. "Oh, Lady Weatherby! You make it sound like a taming act! Lord Barton values intelligence and loyalty above blind obedience. A refreshing change, wouldn't you agree?" She delivered the barb with a sweet smile, turning the implication neatly back on the gossipmonger. "Now, if you'll excuse us, I believe I see Lady Fitzhugh beckoning. She's been so kind." Sandra gently steered Paul away, leaving Lady Weatherby momentarily speechless.
"Nicely done," Paul murmured, a flicker of grim approval in his eyes as they navigated the crowd.
"It's a dance," Sandra replied, her smile still in place but her eyes sharp. "Step, counter-step. Watch Lord Hemsworth near the champagne fountain. He's been observing us since we arrived."
Paul's gaze snapped to the indicated spot. Hemsworth stood, impeccably dressed, holding a glass, engaged in conversation but his eyes, cold and assessing, were fixed on them. He raised his glass in a mock salute, a subtle, challenging smirk on his lips.
"Circling," Paul growled. "Testing the waters."
"Let him test," Sandra said coolly. She spotted Eleanor standing near a potted palm, looking slightly overwhelmed but composed in a simple gown of dove grey Sandra had helped her select. "Eleanor needs rescuing. Lady Penworth has cornered her."
They moved towards Eleanor. Lady Penworth, a notorious harpy, was holding forth, her voice carrying. "...simply vanished, my dear! Such a scandal! And now to be back… well, one wonders about the *circumstances*. And living at Blackwood again? With *him*?" She gestured vaguely towards Paul with her fan.
Eleanor stood pale but straight, her hands clasped tightly. "The circumstances, Lady Penworth," she said, her voice clear and carrying surprising steadiness, "involved unlawful coercion and exile. As for Blackwood, it is a place of sanctuary now, offered freely. Something I find vastly preferable to baseless speculation." She met Sandra's approaching gaze, a flicker of relief in her eyes.
"Lady Penworth," Sandra interjected smoothly, arriving at Eleanor's side and looping her arm through hers in a show of solidarity. "How delightful to see you. Are you regaling Miss Vance with tales of the season? She's been quite removed from society, as you know. We find her insights refreshingly untainted by the usual… chatter." Sandra's smile was polite but held an edge that silenced Lady Penworth's next insinuation. The older woman huffed, muttered an excuse, and retreated.
"Thank you," Eleanor breathed, her posture relaxing minutely. "She was… persistent."
"You handled her beautifully," Sandra reassured her. "Truth is a powerful shield against venom."
Paul stood slightly apart, a silent, intimidating presence warding off further immediate approaches. His gaze, however, kept returning to Hemsworth, who had moved closer, weaving through the crowd.
The music shifted to a waltz. Hemsworth detached himself from his group and walked directly towards them, his smile now openly challenging. "Lord Barton. A pleasure, as always. Lady Barton." He bowed slightly, his eyes lingering on Sandra with an appraisal that felt intrusive. "And Miss Vance. An unexpected… return. The city is all abuzz."
"Lord Hemsworth," Paul acknowledged, his voice dangerously flat. "Buzz is often the sound of insignificance."
Hemsworth chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "Perhaps. Or the hum before the storm. I trust you've reviewed my offer for the Riverside Mills? Prime assets. Shame to see them languish under… uncertain management." He let the implication hang – *uncertain* meaning Paul, tainted by scandal.
"The mills are not languishing, Lord Hemsworth," Paul stated, his grey eyes locking onto Hemsworth's. "They are undergoing restructuring. Barton Industries is not in the habit of fire sales, especially not to scavengers circling perceived weakness."
Hemsworth's smile tightened. "Perceived? The trial, the… familial discord… it creates ripples, Barton. Investors get nervous. Stability becomes a premium." He turned his attention to Sandra, his gaze deliberately sweeping over her. "And then there's the matter of succession. A dynasty requires certainty. An heir. Something Blackwood has been notably lacking." His gaze lingered pointedly on Sandra's midsection, though the emerald silk revealed nothing.
Sandra felt a cold fury prickle her skin. Paul took an almost imperceptible step forward, his presence suddenly radiating a barely leashed violence that made Hemsworth blink and take a slight step back. Sandra placed a restraining hand on Paul's arm, feeling the coiled tension beneath the fabric. She met Hemsworth's gaze directly, her own eyes like chips of ice.
"My husband's lineage and the future of Blackwood, Lord Hemsworth," she said, her voice cutting through the nearby chatter, cool and precise, "are matters of profound certainty for *us*. They are not commodities for public speculation, nor bargaining chips in your attempts at corporate raiding. Your interest in Barton assets is noted. And declined." She offered him a smile as cold as his own. "Enjoy the champagne. I hear it's excellent. Though," she added, her voice dropping slightly, "one should always be wary of bubbles masking bitter intentions."
Hemsworth's face flushed. He opened his mouth, likely for another barb, but was interrupted by a commotion near the entrance. Mr. Davies, looking unusually disheveled and grim-faced, was arguing with a footman. His eyes scanned the crowd frantically, locking onto Paul. He pushed past the footman and strode towards them, ignoring the scandalized looks.
Paul instantly turned, the confrontation with Hemsworth forgotten. "Davies? What is it?"
Davies reached them, breathing heavily. He glanced around at the curious faces, then leaned in, his voice low and urgent. "Paul. A message just arrived. From the Riverside Mills. There's been an incident. A fire. In the main weaving shed."
Sandra's blood ran cold. *Scavengers circling perceived weakness.* Hemsworth's words echoed chillingly.
Paul's face went utterly still, the mask of control hardening into something terrifying. "Casualties?"
"Minor, thank God. Mostly smoke and panic. But the damage… the foreman says it looks deliberate. Accelerant near the new looms."
Hemsworth, who had been listening with undisguised interest, feigned shock. "Good heavens! A fire? At Riverside? How dreadful! And so… coincidental, given our conversation about stability." His tone was dripping with false concern.
Paul ignored him. His gaze, burning with a cold, controlled fury, met Sandra's. The message was clear: the battlefield had just escalated. The whispers in velvet had given way to the language of fire and steel. The scavenger wasn't just circling; he had struck.
"We leave. Now," Paul stated, his voice brooking no argument. He offered his arm to Sandra, his other hand instinctively hovering near her back, a silent shield against the renewed wave of stares and whispers erupting around them. He nodded curtly to Davies. "Get the carriage. And send for the investigator. Now." He didn't even glance at Hemsworth as he steered Sandra and a wide-eyed Eleanor firmly towards the exit, leaving the glittering ballroom and its poisonous whispers behind, the scent of smoke and sabotage already hanging heavy in the air. The storm Hemsworth had hummed about had arrived. And Blackwood would answer it.