The sky bled indigo into gold as Eliza picked her way through the dew-laden meadow, her cloak clutched tight against the dawn chill. Mr. Ashford waited by the brook that bordered Willowmere, his figure silhouetted against the rising sun. He stood motionless, a statue in a landscape of secrets.
"You came," he said, not turning.
"Curiosity outweighs caution," Eliza replied. "And you owe me answers."
At last, he faced her. Shadows hollowed his cheeks, his eyes raw from sleeplessness. "What do you know of my father?"
"Only that he left you a legacy of thorns."
A bitter smile. "Thorns, debts, disgrace—take your pick." He paced, boots crushing frosted grass. "Five years ago, he gambled away Willowmere in a London hell. The creditors allowed me to keep it, provided I repaid the sum within a decade. A fool's bargain."
Eliza's breath clouded the air. "And the stranger last night?"
"Corbyn. A vulture who buys debts to feed on desperation. The term expires in a month. If I fail…" His voice frayed. "Margaret will be destitute. Worse."
"Worse?"
He hesitated. "There was a duel. My father killed a man. Corbyn's employer holds the proof—proof that would see Margaret's name dragged through scandal, even in Italy."
Eliza's mind raced. "So Corbyn wants more than money. He wants vengeance."
"He wants me to beg."
The words hung, sharp as frost. Eliza stepped closer. "What will you do?"
"What I must." His gaze seared hers. "Sell the estate. Marry a merchant's heiress. Dance on the strings of whoever pays."
The image struck like a slap—Mr. Ashford, shackled to a stranger, his fire smothered. Eliza's chest tightened. "There must be another way."
"You presume there's nobility in this?" He laughed harshly. "I am not Darcy, Eliza. I have no Pemberley, no convenient fortune. Only choices between ruin and ruin."
She flinched at his use of her name, the raw ache beneath his anger. "Then let me help."
"Why?"
The question hovered, fragile as the dawn. *Why indeed?*
Before she could answer, hoofbeats thudded in the distance. Corbyn's voice sliced through the stillness: "Ashford! We've terms to discuss!"
Mr. Ashford's hand closed around Eliza's wrist, yanking her behind an oak. "Stay hidden," he hissed.
Corbyn reined in his horse, sneering. "Sentimental strolls won't save you, boy. My employer grows impatient."
"I've told you—I'll have the funds."
"Funds?" Corbyn spat. "You're out of time. But…" He leaned forward, voice slick as oil. "There's another currency. Your sister's letters from Italy. *Intimate* letters. Sell them to the scandal sheets, and we'll consider the debt… adjusted."
Mr. Ashford went rigid. "Never."
"Then enjoy your final days as a gentleman." Corbyn spurred his horse, vanishing into the mist.
Eliza emerged, trembling. "He can't mean to—"
"He does." Mr. Ashford's voice was ash. "Margaret wrote to a man in Naples. A married man."
The pieces clicked. Blackmail. Shame. A sister's ruin. Eliza's resolve hardened. "We'll find the money."
"*We*?" His laugh was hollow. "What *fantasy* do you—"
"You left me *Camilla*," she snapped. "You brought me here. If you wanted solitude, you'd have vanished like your ghosts. But you didn't."
Silence. Then, softly: "No. I didn't."
The admission hung between them, taut and trembling. Eliza reached into her cloak, producing the burned letter. "Start with this. Who else knows?"
He stared at her, defiance and hope warring in his eyes. "You'll regret this."
"I regret nothing."
* * *
At Ivy Cottage, chaos reigned. Mrs. Woodhouse wailed over a torn lace fichu; Marianne wept into the pianoforte. Clara cornered Eliza in the hall.
"Where were you?" she hissed. "You smell of horses and *heartache*."
Eliza ignored her, retreating to the garden. Beneath the arbor, she unfolded a crumpled page from her sleeve—a list of creditors, scrawled in Mr. Ashford's hand. At the bottom, a single line:
*"Meet me tonight. The stables. —T.A."*
Thunder rumbled in the distance. Somewhere, a clock tower chimed.
Eliza tucked the note into *Camilla*, her pulse a wild, hopeful drum.
The game had changed.