Chapter 245: Chapter Two Hundred And Forty Five
The restaurant was a place of soft elegance, with the low murmur of conversation and the soft clinking of silverware creating a calm atmosphere.
But for Anne, the atmosphere was anything but calm. She sat at a small table by the window, her fingers tapping an impatient rhythm on the starched white tablecloth. She glanced toward the door for the tenth time in as many minutes, her brow furrowed with irritation. Philip was late.
To distract herself, she picked up the pamphlet that she had bought from a paperboy on the street. The bold, black headline seemed to scream at her, the words a public branding of her family’s shame.
[BARONESS AUGUSTA ELLINGTON ARRESTED FOR ATTEMPTED MURDER, FORGERY, AND ILLEGAL IMPRISONMENT. SHE IS TO SERVE HER SENTENCE AT NEWGATE PRISON.]
Anne’s hand tightened, crumpling the flimsy paper. She had read it a dozen times, each time feeling a fresh wave of humiliation and a cold, hard resolve. This was her mother’s world now. It would not be hers.
She was so absorbed in the article that she didn’t notice Philip slide into the chair opposite her until he cleared his throat.
Anne dropped the pamphlet onto the table as if it were hot. "You’re late," she said, her voice sharp.
Philip ignored her tone, picking up the crumpled paper. He glanced at the headline and chuckled. "Augusta’s arrest is everywhere. It’s on the lips of everyone on the street." He tossed it aside carelessly.
Anne folded her hands on the table, her expression hardening. "It doesn’t matter anymore. It is not good for us to be associated with her in any way. Isn’t that what you wanted? For her to be out of the picture?"
A smirk played on Philip’s lips. He leaned back in his chair, looking pleased. "I like how you think," he said smoothly. He opened the leather-bound menu that was on the table, his eyes scanning the list of dishes. "What would you like to eat? The duck is said to be excellent here."
His casual tone grated on her nerves. They had more important things to discuss than food. Anne unfolded her hands and leaned in closer across the table, her voice dropping to an intense whisper. "How long are you going to keep me at Willow’s Creek?"
Philip lifted his gaze from the menu, his playful expression vanishing. He looked at her with all seriousness, a silent warning in his eyes. But Anne was not deterred.
"I need stability," she continued, pressing her advantage. "Our child needs a stable environment to be healthy. How can I keep living there in that small manor, hidden away like a secret? It’s insulting."
Just as Philip was about to reply, a man in a discreet dark coat approached their table. It was his trusted aide, Lewis. He stood by Philip’s side, his presence an unwelcome interruption.
Philip turned to Anne, his voice low but firm. "Hold on."
Lewis bent down, his mouth close to Philip’s ear, and whispered something. Anne watched, her irritation growing. She couldn’t hear the words, but she saw the effect they had on Philip. The color drained from his face. His confident smirk was replaced by a look of pure shock, which quickly morphed into fear. His hand, which had been resting on the menu, gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles turning white.
"What?" Philip breathed, the word sharp and brittle.
Lewis simply nodded, his expression grim, confirming whatever terrible news he had delivered.
The change in Philip was immediate and absolute. He pushed his chair back, picked his cane and stood up, his earlier calm completely gone. He turned to Lewis. "Is the carriage ready? We need to leave. Now."
Before Lewis could speak, Anne’s patience snapped. "Where are you going?" she demanded, her voice rising. "We have to finish our conversation."
"It’s urgent," Philip answered coldly, his back already turned to her as he prepared to walk away.
His dismissal was the final straw. Anne stood up, her chair scraping loudly against the floor. "This is urgent for me too!" she cried, causing a few nearby diners to look over. She held the table and whispered, "I told you, I abandoned my mother and chose you. I have given up everything for you and this child!"
She sat back down with a thud, crossing her arms defiantly over her chest. Her fear and desperation hardened into a sharp, ugly arrogance. "We need to have a wedding before I start showing," she declared, her voice loud enough for him to hear clearly. "I need to protect my reputation. You will set a date to meet your family. Fast."
Philip stopped. He slowly turned to look at her, his face a cold, unreadable mask. He took in her arrogant posture, her demanding tone. He let out a short, sharp scoff—a sound of pure derision. Then, without saying another word, he turned his back on her and walked out of the restaurant, leaving her alone, humiliated, and seething in the silence.
Inside the dark, swaying carriage, the elegant facade Philip maintained for the public was gone. He sat stiffly, his face tight with anxiety. The rhythmic clatter of the horse’s hooves on the cobblestones did nothing to soothe his racing mind.
"What happened to him?" he asked Lewis, who sat opposite him.
Lewis’s voice was low and grim. "He collapsed right on the spot, Your Grace. At the workshop. The new dyes we were testing... they were too toxic. He was deeply affected." Lewis paused, taking a breath before delivering the worst of the news. "The physician has seen him. They are saying he will likely pass within the night."
Philip stared out the window into the darkness, his mind working quickly. The fear Anne had seen was gone, replaced by a chillingly calm focus. "So there’s still time," he said, more to himself than to Lewis.
Lewis looked at him, confused by his master’s strange reaction. "Your Grace?"
Philip turned his gaze from the window to his aide. His eyes were cold and hard as steel. "Contact the agent that brought the man in for hire," he commanded. "The one who finds temporary workers who won’t be missed."
A sense of dread crept over Lewis. He understood the implications, but he had to be sure. "What are you trying to do, Your Grace?" he asked, his voice hesitant.
Philip leaned back against the plush leather seat, the shadows in the carriage making his face seem like a predator’s mask. He laced his fingers together, perfectly calm, perfectly in control.
"The dead can’t speak, Lewis," he said, his voice quiet but laced with absolute ruthlessness. "A grieving family might ask questions. An agent can be paid for his silence and for a replacement. We can send a generous compensation to a family that will never know the real cause of death. But we will not, under any circumstances, take responsibility."