Reborn: The Duke’s Obsession

Lady Margaret looked back at the other ladies in her gossip circle, a smug, satisfied smile on her face. Her scandalous story had them completely captivated.

"Doesn't that also mean," one of the girls said, her eyes wide, "that the Duke himself must have an unusual, and perhaps very low, taste in women?" They all giggled at the thought.

"No, not at all," Margaret replied, her tone now one of a worldly expert. "I think His Grace is just more naive than you would think. He is an honest man of business. He would not know how to handle a woman like her. If someone like Delia decides to seduce a man, it is game over for him. I am sure that is exactly what happened at her own house."

"Ohhh," another girl breathed, leaning in closer. "What happened? Tell us everything! How many of those stable boys did you see her seduce at once?"

"Well," Margaret began, ready to spin another, even more elaborate lie.

But George didn't stay to hear another word. He couldn't. The vile, untrue words were making him physically sick. He got up from the bench and walked away, his own reputation as a tragic, jilted lover a small, cold comfort in the face of the utter destruction of Delia's.

He went straight home. As he entered the drawing room, he was met with a surprising sight. His mother, Lady Pembroke, was not weeping. She was elated, her face beaming with a happiness he hadn't seen in months.

"George, you're home!" she exclaimed. "The debt collectors just returned your dear father's portrait, and the mantelpiece clock as well! I am so happy. Oh, our Evelin did such a good job!"

George ignored his mother's cheerful report. The new, ill-gotten gains meant nothing to him right now. "Where is Evelin?" he asked, his voice a low, angry growl.

"She is in her room, my dear," Lady Pembroke replied, her smile faltering slightly at his dark mood.

George sprinted up the stairs and banged on his sister's locked door with his fist. "Evelin, open this door! Now!"

Her voice, full of a proud, cheerful energy, came from the other side. "Oh, you are back, brother! Did you see the gossip that is spreading all around Albion? I should become a pamphleteer, you know. I am quite good at it." She opened the door, a triumphant grin on her face.

George came into her room and was met with the sight of her surrounded by a sea of new, expensive dresses, the ones Anne had bought her. "Evelin, are you completely mad?" he said, his voice shaking with a mixture of anger and fear. "All of those terrible things you wrote in that pamphlet… they are false! They are vicious lies!"

Evelin was too busy checking out her reflection in the mirror, holding a new silk gown up to her body, to care about his moral outrage. "The rumors have been going on for a while now, brother," she replied with a dismissive shrug. "Besides, people need those kinds of juicy details to really believe in a story, to be interested in it. It's just good marketing."

"I want you to take it down," George demanded. "Right now."

"I can't," Evelin replied, her tone bored as she tried on a different dress. "I don't know where the pamphleteer is. And besides, it has already spread like wildfire through the city. It is impossible to do so now." She completely ignored George, who had just sat down on her bed, his head in his hands, a look of full fear on his face.

"I knew exposing the contract wouldn't get me into trouble because it was actually true. They did it. But now, this gossip. We are doomed," he said, his voice a miserable whisper. "Completely and utterly doomed. Eric will get to the bottom of whoever is slandering Delia's image and we won't be spared."

Meanwhile, in his study at the dye company, Eric sat behind his desk, his fingers drumming a slow, angry rhythm on the polished wood.

Aiden, who stood before him, reported the latest news. "The Duchess is not at the residence, Your Grace. Neither is Mr. Rye. I do not think she has gotten a whiff of what is going on just yet." He looked at his master, at the cold, silent fury on his face. "What should we do, Your Grace?"

The third man in the room, an informant named Mr. Ford whom Aiden had hired to find the source of the pamphlet, spoke up, his voice full of a foolish, professional self-importance. "Before we act, Your Grace, we need to confirm the contents of the story with the Duchess. We need to confirm with her if any of it is true before we proceed."

Aiden looked at the informant with a look of pure, horrified shock. Eric looked at him with a gaze so full of a cold, quiet rage that it seemed to suck all the air out of the room.

"Confirm what, Mr. Ford?" Eric asked, his voice dangerously quiet. "Tell me, what exactly are we confirming? Are we going to confirm if my wife, the Duchess, moves from man to man like a common trollop? Or are we going to confirm if my wife seduces men for her own personal gain?" His voice began to rise, the quiet menace turning into a full-blown roar. "Tell me, Mr. Ford! What are we confirming here?"

Mr. Ford, his face now pale with terror, began to apologize profusely. "I-I am so sorry, Your Grace! I only meant…"

Just then, a letter came in, delivered by a distraught-looking worker. It was for Eric, and it was marked as urgent. It was from an anonymous source. He tore it open and read the simple, direct words.

Good day, Your Grace.

You don't need to know who I am, but your wife knows. If you want to save her reputation, and if you want to find the man who printed these lies, this is tha address where you will find him, the pamphleteer.

The sooner you leave, the faster you will be able to catch him.

Eric folded the paper and stood up, his rage now channeled into a clear purpose. He turned to Aiden.

"Relieve Mr. Ford of his duties, immediately," he commanded, his voice as sharp and as cold as steel. "His services are no longer required in this matter."

Without another word, he left the study, his long strides eating up the distance ahead of him.