Reborn: The Duke’s Obsession

Philip looked at him, a sense of dread washing over him. "What is he up to?" He thought to himself.

"More important questions, Your Grace?" Lord Hawthorne asked Eric.

Eric brought out another set of papers from his coat, these ones filled with testimonies from patrons and merchants. He shared them as well and began to explain. "These," he announced to the room, "are the endless complaints that have been coming in from our most recent, just-concluded collection line. Complaints about low-quality materials, shoddy workmanship, and increased costs…"

He looked directly at Philip, his voice now that of a prosecutor delivering his final argument. "What is the matter, Mr. Acting President? Are we suddenly running so low on funds that the great Carson Textile Establishment, a company known for its impeccable quality for over Thirty years, is now selling low-quality, inferior materials for such ridiculous, inflated prices to gather money?"

Everyone at the table now looked at Philip, their expressions a mixture of shock, anger, and deep, profound disappointment.

Philip cleared his throat. "I… I do not see why I need to answer that," he stammered.

"Because," Eric replied, his own gaze serious and as hard as stone, "as the new director of this department, it is now my job to ask these questions."

Philip was quiet. He was completely and utterly defeated.

Eric relaxed back in his seat, the picture of a man who had just won a war. "Please, Your Grace," he said, his voice now a low, final warning. "Stop obsessing over someone else's wife. In the world of business, we can all just focus on our own roles and our own duties, and you can finally leave my wife out of your pathetic little plans. Do you understand?"

Philip didn't answer. He just clutched the armrest of his seat, his knuckles turning white, his entire body trembling with a silent, impotent rage.

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The crisp, formal letter lay open on the polished desk in Baron Edgar's study, the thick red wax of the Carson seal staring back at Augusta. She read the last, damning sentence for the third time, her knuckles white as she gripped the edges of the thick, expensive parchment.

"…Therefore, I will be coming to your residence tomorrow afternoon to discuss this matter further with the Baron. I expect you and your daughter, Lady Anne, to be present."

The letter was signed with the elegant, authoritative script of Duchess Lyra Carson.

Augusta let the letter fall from her fingers. She looked at the other paper on her desk—the cheap, hastily printed gossip pamphlet containing Lord George's full, humiliating confession. The two documents, one of high society and the other of the common gutter press, were the twin pillars of her current ruin.

"Prescott?" Augusta called out, her voice a low, dangerous sound in the quiet, sunlit room.

In moments, her informant and aide appeared at the door. "Yes, Baroness?" he said with a respectful bow. " You called for me?"

"You will take care of all my duties at the Ellington Textile Establishment tomorrow," Augusta said, her voice now calm and controlled, the voice of someone preparing for a battle. "I will be completely occupied for the entire day. I have a… family emergency… that I must sort out."

"I will do my best to manage things in your absence, Baroness," Prescott bowed again.

"One more thing," Augusta asked, her sharp eyes fixing on him. "Have you found that old man yet? Or have you heard anything at all about him?"

Prescott shook his head, a look of genuine regret on his face. "Nothing, Baroness. My sources have checked every inn, every carriage house, every possible hiding place. It is as if Baron Edgar has simply disappeared into thin air."

Augusta nodded her head slowly, a thoughtful, frustrated expression on her face. "Keep looking for him. He's around, I can feel it." She waved her hand. "You are dismissed," she said.

Prescott bowed one last time and left, closing the door softly behind him.

Augusta dropped her gaze on the table and picked up the gossip pamphlet again, her eyes scanning the words, the headline that had sealed her daughter's fate.

"About the Royal Colors Dye Establishment's Owner, Duke Eric Carson of Elinburgh's wife, Duchess Delia Carson: This Is The Truth."

Anne, who had been sitting silently in an armchair in the corner of the room, her face pale and scared, finally spoke, her voice a small, pathetic whisper.

"No, Mama," she began, her own voice trembling. "Evelin Pembroke did it all on her own. I swear it. She came to me first mama. She came on her own accord and said she wanted to take revenge on Delia. I just… I just let her do what she wanted to do. I didn't help her."

Augusta continued reading the pamphlet, not even looking up at her daughter's weak, transparent lies. "The official receipts for the dresses you bought her," she said, her voice a cold, flat monotone, "and the sworn testimonies of the eyewitnesses who saw you meeting with Lord George, are all now in the custody of the criminal and justice division. And Duchess Lyra herself is coming here, to this house, tomorrow, to see your father."

She finally looked up, her gaze pinning her terrified daughter to her seat. "It is of no use to continue denying it, Anne."

"Then what do I do?" Anne asked, her own voice now rising with a frantic, childish panic. "Will I be arrested? Will they send me to the prison?"

Augusta looked at her daughter, at the beautiful, foolish, and now completely broken creature she had created. The time for coddling, for lies, and for gentle reassurances was over.

"Anne," she said, her expression now dead serious. "Listen to what I am about to say to you. And listen to it very, very carefully. Do you understand me?"

Anne, her eyes wide with fear, could only nod her head, a silent, terrified obedience finally returning to her.