The study was bathed in the amber glow of the fireplace, but the warmth couldn't touch the cold reality of the documents spread across the desk. The Silent Swan manifest was a death warrant, and both Elenora and Darius knew that once this card was played, there was no turning back.
Darius leaned back in the leather chair, his face still pale from blood loss, but his eyes were sharp, calculating. "Montclair is no fool. He'll know the attackers failed the moment they don't report back. By dawn, he'll be erasing every other trail he's ever left."
Elenora paced the room, her silk gown whispering against the floorboards. She stopped in front of a mirror, looking at the smudge of soot on her cheek and the blood on her cuffs. She looked like a woman who had just crawled out of a grave—which, in a way, she had.
"We cannot go to the King directly," she reasoned, her mind working like a clockwork machine. "Montclair has spent decades placing his people in the Palace. If we hand this over to the wrong official, it will disappear before it reaches the throne."
"Agreed," Darius said, his voice dropping an octave. "We need a public execution. Not with a blade, but with the truth. And there is no stage more public than the Royal Masquerade Ball tomorrow night."
* * *
The plan was as dangerous as it was brilliant. The Masquerade would provide the perfect cover for Montclair to move—and for them to trap him.
"You want to confront him in the middle of the ballroom?" Elenora asked, turning to face him. "The scandal would be immense. It would stain the Warwick name forever, even if we are vindicated."
Darius stood up slowly, suppressing a wince as his shoulder protested. He walked toward her until he was only inches away. The scent of iron and expensive tobacco followed him.
"The Warwick name is already stained by your father's silence, Elenora," he said, his voice surprisingly gentle. "This is how you wash it clean. You don't hide the rot; you cut it out in front of everyone so no one can ever question your integrity again."
He reached out, his thumb brushing the smudge of soot from her cheek. The intimacy of the gesture was startling, a sudden break in their professional armor. Elenora didn't pull away.
"And you?" she whispered. "What do you gain from this scandal? You are the Minister of the Interior. If the government falls, you fall with it."
Darius's gaze darkened. "I told you once, Duchess. I am a man of the people. I didn't climb out of the slums to serve a King who is surrounded by traitors. I gain a clean slate. And perhaps..." his hand lingered near her jaw, "...I gain the satisfaction of seeing you truly free."
* * *
The rest of the night was spent in a feverish preparation. They divided the evidence. Darius would keep the original logbook, while Elenora would carry the personal letters—the emotional proof of the betrayal.
As the first light of dawn began to bleed through the curtains, a strange, quiet understanding settled between them. The "Enemies" part of their contract was being eroded by the shared weight of their secret.
"There is one more thing," Darius said, looking at the marriage contract that still sat on the corner of the desk, its wax seal mocking them. "If we fail tomorrow, Montclair will frame us both. He will say we conspired to steal those arms ourselves. He will use our 'sudden' marriage as proof of a criminal alliance."
Elenora picked up a pen. She didn't look at the contract, but at Darius. "Then we make sure the alliance looks real. No more separate wings of the house. No more cold glances in public. If we are to survive the Masquerade, we must convince everyone—including Montclair—that this marriage is fueled by a passion so reckless it made us blind to everything else."
Darius felt a surge of something he couldn't quite name—admiration, or perhaps something more dangerous. "A performance, then?"
"The performance of our lives," Elenora replied, her eyes flashing with a predatory light.
She stepped closer, closing the final gap between them. She reached up and began to unbutton his torn waistcoat, her movements clinical but her gaze intense. "Now, let's get you cleaned up, Minister. You have a Ball to attend, and a Duchess to adore."