Chapter 3 - THE MARQUESS AND THE MAIDThe drawing room of Ashborne Estate was a masterpiece of intimidation. High gilded ceilings, oil paintings of ancient Montgomery ancestors clad in armor, and massive bay windows looking out over miles of manicured estates were all designed to make visitors feel small.
At ten o'clock the following morning, the Marquess of Westbury sat in a wingback leather chair, looking distinctly unimpressed.
Westbury was seventy years old, with thin white hair, a face lined by decades of unyielding privilege, and a gold-headed pocket watch he checked every two minutes. Flanking him were two senior barristers in dark suits, holding thick leather satchels.
Sitting across from them was Julian Montgomery. He had not offered them tea. He had not offered them wine. He sat behind a dark oak desk, calmly reading through a stack of legal documents.
Standing beside the Duke’s desk, dressed in a high-collared navy wool gown—a gift ordered hastily from the finest dressmaker in Reading—was Clara. Her right arm was securely bound in a white linen sling beneath her dress, her face pale but her posture impeccably straight.
"This is absurd, Julian," the Marquess barked, snapping his pocket watch shut with a loud click. "You keep us waiting for forty minutes, and then you bring a maid into a private conference between peers?"
"Miss Higgins is not here as a servant, Westbury," Julian said smoothly, not looking up from his papers. "She is here as the injured party. Anything you have to say regarding your nephew's atrocious behavior on my terrace will be said in her presence."
One of the barristers, a sharp-nosed man named Mr. Finch, cleared his throat and stepped forward.
"Your Grace, if I may," Finch said, unrolling a parchment document. "We are all gentlemen here. Lord Reginald deeply regrets the... chaotic nature of the evening. He was under the influence of spirits and distressed by financial losses. He had no intention of striking young Lord Leo, nor this young woman. It was a tragic misunderstanding."
"He raised a cane against a six-year-old child who was having an asthma attack," Clara spoke up, her voice clear and cutting through the quiet room.
Finch shot her a look of supreme condescension. "My good woman, you are hardly an objective witness. You are a domestic employee who saw an opportunity to insert herself into a high-society squabble."
"She is the daughter of Thomas Higgins," Julian interrupted coldly, setting his papers down on the desk.
The Marquess of Westbury froze. His eyes flicked from Julian to Clara, narrowing sharply. "Thomas Higgins? The speculator from the '73 railway crash?"
"The gentleman investor who was ruined by the '73 railway crash," Julian corrected smoothly. "A crash, if I recall my legal history correctly, that was engineered by a consortium of bankers led by... ah, yes. Your brother-in-law, Lord Fitzroy senior."
Clara gasped softly. She looked at Julian, her heart pounding.
When she had written her father’s details down for the Duke the previous night, she had no idea of the connection.
"That was fifteen years ago!" Westbury snapped, his pale cheeks flushing red. "It has no bearing on this matter!"
"It establishes a pattern of predatory behavior by the Fitzroy family against the Higgins family," Julian countered, leaning back in his chair and interlocking his fingers. "Which brings us to your proposed settlement. Mr. Finch, read the terms."
Finch swallowed nervously, adjusting his spectacles. "We are offering Miss Higgins a lump sum of five hundred pounds, plus an annual stipend of fifty pounds, on the condition that she signs a non-disclosure agreement and relocates to the north of England immediately."
"And what of Lord Reginald?" Julian asked. "What is his penalty for shattering a woman's collarbone on my property?"
"Reginald will take a leave of absence from his parliamentary duties and travel to the Continent for two years," Westbury said stiffly. "It is a generous compromise, Julian. It spares everyone the embarrassment of a trial."
Julian looked at Clara. "Miss Higgins? You heard the offer. What is your response?"
Clara stepped forward, her left hand resting on the edge of Julian’s desk for support. She looked directly into the eyes of the Marquess of Westbury—a man who had helped destroy her father and was now trying to buy her silence.
"Keep your money, My Lord," Clara said, her voice shaking slightly with emotion, but remaining firm. "My collarbone will heal in six weeks. But your nephew’s character is permanently broken. I will not sign your paper. I will state the truth under oath in open court."
Westbury stood up so fast his chair nearly tipped backward. "You arrogant little peasant! You think Julian can protect you? When the newspapers get hold of this, they will tear your reputation to shreds! They will call you an ambitious maid who threw herself in front of a lord to trap a duke into giving her a pension!"
"If anyone attempts to slander Miss Higgins," Julian said, his voice dropping into a low, terrifying growl as he too stood up, "I will buy the newspapers that print it and ruin the editors who signed off on it. Mr. Carson!"
The heavy mahogany doors flew open instantly. Carson stood outside, flanked by two footmen.
"Show Lord Westbury and his legal team to the gates," Julian commanded. "If any of them step foot on Ashborne property again, have the groundskeepers set the hounds on them."
Westbury’s face turned purple with rage. "You are making a catastrophic mistake, Julian! The House of Lords will not sit quietly while you destroy one of our own for the sake of a servant!"
"Let them try to stop me," Julian replied coldly. "Good day, Westbury."
As the furious Marquess and his barristers were marched out of the room, the heavy doors slammed shut, leaving a heavy, charged silence in the drawing room.
Clara leaned against the desk, her legs suddenly feeling like water. The adrenaline that had sustained her through the confrontation vanished, leaving her breathless and lightheaded.
Julian was around the desk in an instant. He didn't call for a maid. He caught her by her uninjured arm, supporting her weight with remarkable gentleness, guiding her back into the soft leather armchair.
"You held your ground splendidly, Clara," he said softly, using her given name for the very first time.
Clara looked up at him, her vision slightly blurred by unshed tears. "They are going to attack you, Your Grace. They will say you are using your power to crush a peer over a servant."
"Let them say what they wish," Julian said, his hand remaining on the arm of her chair, his face inches from hers. "For three years, I have lived in this house like a dead man, managing accounts and waiting for night to fall. Today, for the first time since my wife died, I felt alive. Because today, we fought for something that actually matters."
From the doorway, a small voice broke the intensity of the moment.
"Papa?"
They both turned. Lord Leo stood at the entrance, holding his wooden horse, looking anxiously between his father and Clara.
"Is Clara going away?" the boy asked, his bottom lip trembling.
May you like
Julian looked down at his son, then back at Clara. A soft, resolute warmth entered his grey eyes.
"No, Leo," Julian said, his voice carrying a quiet promise that echoed off the high gilded walls. "Miss Higgins is never going away again."
