The summons came a week later.
Not to Mira.
To Daniel.
But it might as well have been addressed to her, for how it made her stomach twist.
“You have been called to testify,” Ellison said, sliding the parchment across Mrs. Willoughby’s writing table.
Daniel stared at the seal. “Of course I have.”
Mira’s fingers tightened on the back of her chair. “About what, precisely?”
“Your involvement with Godwin & Pell,” Ellison said. “Your knowledge of Harcourt’s arrangements. Your opinion, no doubt. They love opinions in court. Makes them feel they’ve considered all angles.”
“Arden?” Daniel asked.
“Yes,” Ellison said. “He is presiding. He is also…nervous. This is bigger than his usual fare of brawls and petty theft.”
“He will be fair,” Lady Bennett said. “As fair as men in wigs can be. Which is to say, partially.”
Mira’s heart thudded. “Will I…be called?”
Ellison hesitated. “Not…yet. They are loath to put ladies on the stand. Especially ladies who read ledgers. It unnerves them.”
“Good,” Mrs. Willoughby said. “Let them be unnerved at a distance.”
Mira sat.
“What will they ask you?” she asked Daniel quietly.
“Whether I introduced Godwin to Pell,” he said. “Yes. Whether I warned him. Yes. Whether I profited. No. Whether I knew of Harcourt’s more…creative…shipments. Some. Enough to suspect. Not enough to stop.”
“Do you fear…implication?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said, with his usual bluntness. “Men like Harcourt’s barrister will love suggesting that I am simply bitter. That I am trying to shift blame from myself to my betters.”
“You will tell the truth,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “They may twist it. But I will not lie. I owe Godwin that.”
Ellison cleared his throat. “There is another…aspect,” he said reluctantly. “They may…mention…you.”
Mira blinked. “Me?”
“As a…motivation,” Ellison said delicately. “For Mr. Ferris’s…continued involvement. As a…distraction. As evidence that his judgment is…clouded.”
“He is too fond of you,” Lady Bennett translated. “They will call you his weakness.”
Mira’s spine stiffened. “I am not a…flaw.”
“You know that,” Lady Bennett said. “They do not.”
“They will suggest,” Ellison went on, “that Mr. Ferris is more interested in…pleasing…you than in justice. That his testimony is colored by…affections.”
Mira’s jaw clenched. “And they will suggest it without mentioning that I have done more actual work than half the men they will call?”
“Yes,” Ellison said. “Because they are cowards.”
She exhaled slowly.
Lady Bennett’s eyes gleamed. “You must be there,” she said. “In the gallery. When he speaks. Let them see that you stand with him, not behind a curtain.”
Mira hesitated. “Will that not make it worse?”
“Yes,” Lady Bennett said. “For them. It will confuse the narrative. They love neat stories. You must refuse to fit.”
“Also,” Mrs. Willoughby said briskly, “if you are not there, I shall have to sit between Eliza and Reggie and prevent them from whispering through the proceedings. I cannot be expected to manage that alone.”
Eliza, who had perched on the window seat, swung her feet. “I will be silent as a statue,” she promised. “A very interested statue.”
Mira looked at Daniel.
He met her gaze, grey eyes steady.
“Would you…prefer I did not?” she asked softly. “Attend?”
“No,” he said at once. “Please. I would like to know, when they try to paint me as a fool in love, that the fool in question is…present.”
She smiled, despite the tension.
“Very well,” she said. “We shall give them a performance.”
***
The courtroom smelled of dust and sweat and old wood.
High windows let in slashes of light that turned motes to gold. Benches creaked under the weight of bodies. Murmurs buzzed.
Mira sat in the second row of the gallery, between Mrs. Willoughby and Eliza. Lady Bennett occupied the aisle seat like a guard dog. Reggie fidgeted behind them. Cobb sat stiffly near the back, hat clutched in his hands.
Down below, at the front, Arden sat in his wig and robes behind a raised desk, expression grave.
To one side, Harcourt sat with his barrister—a sleek man with sharp eyes and a voice like oiled steel. Harcourt’s color had not improved in the days since Good Friday. He looked smaller, somehow.
To the other, Daniel.
No counsel.
He had chosen to speak for himself.
“Because,” he’d said, “no one can make me sound more ridiculous than I can. And I’d rather hang for my own words than someone else’s spin.”
Mira’s stomach had tied itself in knots at that.
Now, as she watched him stand, back straight, hands clasped behind his back, she felt a fierce, painful pride.
“State your name,” Arden intoned.
“Daniel Ferris,” he said. “Second son of Felix Amesbury, Earl of Amesbury.”
A ripple ran through the room.
Titled connections always did that.
“Your occupation?” Arden asked.
“Currently?” Daniel smiled faintly. “Useless. Formerly, a clerk and minor partner in the trading firm of Godwin & Company.”
“Do you know the defendant, Mr. Harcourt?” Arden asked.
“Yes,” Daniel said. “Regrettably.”
Titters. A hissed “Order” from Arden.
“Answer the questions plainly, Mr. Ferris,” Harcourt’s barrister drawled. “This is not a theatre.”
“I beg your pardon,” Daniel said. “My life feels theatrical these days. I may be forgiven for lapsing.”
Arden’s mouth twitched, quickly suppressed.
“Did you introduce Mr. Thomas Godwin to Mr. Lysander Pell?” Arden asked.
“Yes,” Daniel said.
“Why?” Arden said.
“Ambition,” Daniel said simply. “Mine and Godwin’s. Pell seemed…connected. He spoke of opportunities I could not provide. I thought I was helping.”
Harcourt’s barrister rose. “Ah,” he said. “You *thought.* But you did not…know.”
“No,” Daniel said. “I did not know the extent of Pell’s…creativity. I should have. I should have asked more questions. I did not. That is on me.”
Mira’s throat tightened.
“Did Mr. Godwin rely upon your advice?” Arden asked.
“Sometimes,” Daniel said. “Not always. He was…his own man. Stubborn. As his widow can attest.”
A muted chuckle in the gallery.
Mira’s lips curved.
“Did you warn Mr. Godwin against certain arrangements proposed by Mr. Pell and Mr. Harcourt?” Arden asked.
“Yes,” Daniel said. “Repeatedly.”
Harcourt’s barrister stood. “Objection. We have only his word for that.”
“You have Turner’s ledger,” Daniel said calmly. “You have Godwin’s notes. You have letters in which Pell complains that I am ‘tediously cautious.’ I am sure your clerks have read them. They are very dull.”
A ripple.
Arden raised a hand. “The court will take judicial notice of the written evidence,” he said wryly. “Proceed.”
“What did you warn him of?” Arden asked.
“That promises of easy profit often hide easy ruin,” Daniel said. “That Harcourt and Pell’s arrangements with…certain men…on the river carried risks Godwin did not fully grasp. That diverting goods to avoid duties might anger not only the Crown but men less obedient to law.”
“Men such as…?” Arden prompted.
“Caine,” Daniel said. “And others.”
A murmur.
“Did Mr. Harcourt share profits from these arrangements equally with Mr. Godwin?” Arden asked.
“No,” Daniel said. “Not from what I have seen. When shipments went well, Pell and Harcourt took larger cuts than Godwin. When shipments went poorly—or were written off as ‘lost’—Godwin bore a disproportionate share of the loss.”
“Speculation,” Harcourt’s barrister said smoothly. “Mr. Ferris assumes—”
“I read numbers,” Daniel said. “They are less prone to flattery than men. The ledgers tell a story. It is not a flattering one—for anyone.”
“And you?” the barrister pounced. “Are you painted in shining light, Mr. Ferris?”
“No,” Daniel said without hesitation. “I am painted as a fool. A man who saw trouble and did not shout loudly enough. I do not pretend otherwise.”
The barrister blinked.
Mira’s heart swelled.
“And now,” the barrister said, recovering, “you seek to redeem yourself by pointing fingers. At my client. At Mr. Pell. At respectable men. While you—” He turned, sweeping an arm toward the gallery. “—spend your days in low establishments. In the company of widows. Are we to believe your motives pure?”
Mira felt eyes turn toward her.
Hot.
Assessing.
Daniel followed the gesture.
His gaze found hers.
Held.
“No,” he said. “My motives are not pure. They rarely are. I am angry. Guilty. In love. Bored. Hungry. All sorts of things. But I am also telling the truth. Those are not mutually exclusive.”
A murmur like wind.
“In love,” the barrister said, pouncing. “With whom?”
Mira’s pulse pounded in her ears.
Daniel did not flinch.
“With Mrs. Godwin,” he said distinctly.
A collective intake of breath.
Arden’s gavel rapped. “Order. This is not a salon,” he said sharply. “Mr. Ferris, keep to the matter at hand.”
“I am,” Daniel said. “They brought my motives into it. I am merely…clarifying.”
The barrister smiled thinly. “Ah. So your…testimony…is colored by affection for Mrs. Godwin. You are not an impartial witness. You are a man seeking to please a lady.”
“Yes,” Daniel said. “And no.”
“Which?” the barrister pressed.
“Both,” Daniel said. “I adore her. I would set myself on fire if it would warm her hands. I would also stand here and accuse Harcourt if I had never met her. Because I did once love Godwin as well. He was my friend. He trusted my judgment. I failed him. I will not fail her.”
Mira’s eyes burned.
Beside her, Eliza sniffed loudly.
Mrs. Willoughby fanned herself. “If he ever writes a novel, I will read it,” she whispered. “Twice.”
Lady Bennett’s eyes shone, though her mouth stayed firm.
The barrister paused.
Arden raised a brow. “Do you have a question, Mr. Sykes?” he asked mildly. “Or are you merely enjoying the view?”
Sykes, caught off guard, coughed. “Mr. Ferris,” he said, recovering his smoothness, “would you say Mrs. Godwin has…influenced…your view of these matters?”
“Yes,” Daniel said. “She has reminded me that numbers are not the only thing at stake. That behind every crate is a life. That every ‘lost’ shipment is bread from someone’s table. She has made me…angrier. More determined. That is not bias; that is…focus.”
Arden hid a smile behind his hand.
“So,” Sykes said, frustrated, “you admit you are no impartial observer.”
“No one is impartial,” Daniel said. “Not truly. We all bring our histories. Our loves. Our griefs. The question is not ‘Are you unaffected?’ but ‘Do you tell the truth despite your affections?’ I do.”
“And why should we believe you?” Sykes snapped.
Daniel’s gaze swept the room.
“Because,” he said quietly, “I have nothing to gain by lying.”
Harcourt shifted, jaw tight.
“Mr. Harcourt will continue,” Daniel went on, voice low, “to dine with certain men, perhaps in quieter rooms, perhaps with more caution. Mr. Milton will continue to shape policies that benefit those who already profit. Caine will continue to move like smoke through all of it. Mrs. Godwin will continue to be whispered about, whether she speaks or not. I, on the other hand, will continue to lose at cards and haunt coffee-houses and be scolded by my brother. My fortunes will not improve if Harcourt hangs or walks. But my *conscience* might quiet, a little, if I speak.”
Silence.
Then a cough.
A shuffle.
Even in the rafters, where ink-stained journalists hunched, pens poised, there was a pause.
Arden leaned forward.
“Mr. Ferris,” he said. “In your view, did Mr. Harcourt, knowingly and repeatedly, divert goods and manipulate accounts in a manner that unfairly harmed Mr. Godwin and others?”
“Yes,” Daniel said. “Absolutely.”
“And did Mr. Godwin understand the full extent of these manipulations?” Arden asked.
“No,” Daniel said. “He understood…enough to be uneasy. Not enough to see the cliff until he was at the edge.”
“Thank you,” Arden said. “You may step down.”
Daniel inclined his head.
He turned.
As he did, his gaze flicked up to the gallery once more.
Mira met it.
Held.
She did not smile.
But she dipped her chin, a tiny nod.
You did well, she meant.
His shoulders loosened, almost imperceptibly.
He left the stand.
Sykes called other witnesses.
Accountants. Clerks. Dockworkers.
They told similar stories, in drier language.
Mira’s mind remained half on Daniel’s words.
“With Mrs. Godwin.”
He had said it, in public, in front of half of London’s gossip-mongers.
Not as a weapon.
As a fact.
She ought to be mortified.
She was.
She was also…proud.
Afterward, outside the court, the street buzzed.
Reporters scribbled. Onlookers gawped. Carriages clogged the lane.
Mira and the others slipped out a side door, Arden having warned them that the main entrance would resemble a bear-baiting pit.
Daniel waited in the shadow of an archway.
When he saw her, his face lit.
“You were magnificent,” she said softly as they reached him.
“I talked too much,” he said. “Again.”
“Yes,” she said. “But for once, it helped.”
He smiled, a little dazed. “They will write it down,” he said. “All of it. In those little papers. My foolishness will be immortalized.”
“Good,” she said. “It will inspire other fools.”
He laughed.
Eliza and Mrs. Willoughby tactfully drifted ahead, talking loudly about hats.
Lady Bennett lingered just long enough to say, “Well done, Ferris. You have scandalized them more with your honesty than you could have with any lie,” before stumping after the others.
Left briefly alone in the noisy courtyard, Mira and Daniel shared a quieter moment.
“You said my name,” she murmured. “Like that.”
“Yes,” he said. “I did warn you I am terrible at subtlety.”
“You have given them so much to talk about,” she said.
“They were already talking,” he said. “We may as well give them a better script.”
She smiled.
He sobered.
“They will come for you, now,” he said. “Not just in print. In drawing rooms. In doorways. In whispers. They will say you have bewitched me. They will say you are reckless. They will say you are…not a proper widow.”
“I am not,” she said. “I have made my peace with that.”
He reached out, brushed a stray curl from her cheek.
“Then so have I,” he said.
She covered his hand briefly with her own.
“Come to dinner,” she said. “Tonight. Mrs. Willoughby will want to toast you. Eliza will want to interrogate you. Reggie will want to make terrible jokes.”
“And you?” he asked.
“I,” she said softly, “will want to sit beside you and know that, whatever they say, we did…something.”
He smiled, warmth flooding his tired eyes.
“Yes,” he said. “We did.”
They walked back toward Hanover Square together, side by side, shoulders occasionally touching.
The city clanged and muttered around them.
Somewhere, in a quiet room, Harcourt sweated.
Somewhere, in an office, Milton considered.
Somewhere, at a window overlooking the river, Caine smiled.
Somewhere, under the eaves of a Sussex house, Gilbert read the day’s paper and swore.
And in Mira’s chest, love and purpose burned, twin flames lighting a path she could not yet see the end of—but knew, with a conviction that surprised her, she would walk to its end with Daniel at her side.
*To be continued…*