The double doors of the grand chamber slamd completely shut with a loud, final, echoing thud, sealing Lord Farrington’s terrible fate and locking the disgraced Earl out of the House of Lords forever. The loud, shocked murmurs of the hundreds of gathered noblen slowly died down, fading into the high, vaulted ceilings. The massive room settled back into an incredibly tense, and suffocating silence.
Rowan sat as rigidly as a marble statue. His shoulders were completely stiff beneath the fine, dark wool of his morning coat. His hands rested heavily on his knees, his fingers gripping the dark fabric of his trousers so tightly that his knuckles were stark white. His jaw was clenched so firmly that a sharp muscle ticked continuously in his cheek.
He kept looking back over his shoulder. He stared relentlessly at the closed door at the very back of the vast hall. His eyes searched the deep shadows of the entryway, desperately waiting for Hamish to appear. The Hamilton guard was supposed to bring the remaining, vital evidence— Lord Hawksley’s ledger and the original shipping manifest—directly from Delaney’s hands to the trial. But the tall clock in the corner of the chamber ticked steadily on, and there was absolutely no sight of him.
A cold terrifying knot of deep dread began to form and twist in the very center of Rowan’s chest.
"What must be keeping him?" Rowan asked himself softly. His deep voice was barely a rough, strained whisper, completely lost beneath the rustling of the peers settling back into their seats.
He turned his face forward again, staring blindly at the high desk of the chancellor, but his mind was racing wildly with dark, terrifying possibilities.
"Or is there trouble?" Rowan thought, his heart hamring a frantic, painful rhythm against his ribs. "Is sothing terribly wrong?"
The very thought of Delaney being in danger made Rowan’s blood run completely cold in his veins.
His muscles bunched tightly. He wanted absolutely nothing more than to stand up, turn his back on the House of Lords, walk directly out of the grand chamber, and ride his fastest stallion straight to the Kingsley country estate to ensure she was safe.
But he could not leave. He was entirely trapped by his duty. He had to finish the massive, complicated trial he had started. He had to ensure the final monster of them all was completely destroyed, so Delaney could finally have the safe, peaceful life she deserved.
Beside him, Carcel noticed his dearest friend’s panic. Carcel leaned over slightly, the fabric of his dark gray coat rustling softly. He placed a steady, calming, and firm hand on Rowan’s tense arm, offering a silent gesture of brotherly support. Carcel gave a tiny, reassuring nod, silently telling Rowan to hold his ground.
At the very front of the massive room, the High Chancellor picked up his gavel. He adjusted his long black robes and straightened his white wig.
Bang.
The single strike of the gavel called the grand hall to absolute attention.
"Let us continue with the final accused," the High Chancellor commanded loudly. His deep, booming voice echoed powerfully through every single corner of the quiet room. "Lord Hawksley."
The side doors opened smoothly on their well-oiled brass hinges. Two Crown Guards stepped into the room in perfect unison, leading the final man to the center of the hall.
Lord Hawksley was brought in.
But he looked entirely unbothered by the terrifying setting.
He stopped smoothly behind the defendant’s stand. He looked up at the high desk and offered a deep, highly respectful, and perfectly executed bow to the High Chancellor.
"Good afternoon, Your Lordship," Hawksley greeted him. His voice was smooth, warm, rich, and incredibly polite.
Rowan narrowed his eyes, glaring at the back of the man’s head. He absolutely hated him.
The High Chancellor did not return the pleasant, warm greeting. He looked down at his thick stack of parchnt papers, his lined face remaining entirely stern, cold, and profoundly serious.
"Lord Hawksley," the High Chancellor began, his deep voice carrying clearly and forcefully through the silent, anticipating room. "You stand before this House of Lords today accused of massive, unforgivable, and terrible cris against the Crown and your fellow peers."
The Chancellor picked up a piece of paper, reading the formal charges.
"You are directly charged with orchestrating the infamous Oakridge silk scam twenty long years ago," the Chancellor declared. "You are charged with high treason for putting the Crown at risk. And, most darkly of all, you are charged with paying Cole Kingsley a massive sum of money to murder Baron Arthur Kingsley and his innocent wife."
A low, quiet murmur of deep shock rippled through the gathered lords. To hear the charges spoken aloud in such a formal setting was chilling.
Hawksley did not flinch. He did not react like the other two n before him. He simply closed his eyes for a brief second. He let out a soft, incredibly sad, trembling sigh, acting exactly as if the very words pained his gentle, honorable heart to even hear.
The High Chancellor reached out and opened the ledger that had just condemned Lord Farrington to the gallows.
"The House has completely reviewed the ledger of the disgraced Earl, Farrington," the Chancellor stated, looking directly down at Hawksley.
The High Chancellor started reading Hawksley’s collaborations with Lord Farrington out loud.
"This book," the Chancellor read, tracing the faded ink with his finger, "details massive paynts of solid gold transferred directly from your private, hidden bank accounts to purchase the silks. It shows your exact na written explicitly next to Farrington’s. It details the exact dates you t to divide the profits."
The entire room waited with bated breath for Hawksley to panic. They waited for him to furiously deny the book existed, just exactly as Lord Farrington had foolishly done minutes before.
But Lord Hawksley had a plan in mind.
Hawksley slowly looked up at the High Chancellor. His expression was a perfect painting of deep, profound sorrow and heavy, tragic weariness.
"Your Lordship," Hawksley spoke gently. His voice carried a perfect, undeniable note of innocent victimhood. "I absolutely do not deny that my na is written clearly in that terrible book. I cannot deny the ink on the page. But I must speak the absolute truth today, no matter how much it deeply pains to speak ill of a fellow peer who has just been ruined and condemned."
Hawksley reached out and grasped the wooden railing of the defendant’s stand with both hands. He slowly looked around the massive room, making brief, highly sincere, and pleading eye contact with several powerful, influential lords, silently asking for their brotherly understanding and their rcy.
"Lord Farrington forged my signature by using my na," Hawksley declared softly, but clearly enough for every single man in the room to hear.
A loud, sudden murmur of surprise and deep confusion rippled rapidly through the wooden benches.
"It is true, my lords," Hawksley continued, nodding his head sadly, looking like a man carrying a terrible, heavy burden. "Lord Farrington was a highly ambitious, deeply wicked, and completely ruthless man. Twenty years ago, he secretly forged my signature on several highly important shipping docunts without my knowledge."
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