The jurors murmured in agreement. Eleanor felt the thrills of hope.

And then Grave dropped his coup de grâce. He called a surprise witness.

The name struck Eleanor like a blow to the body.

"Mrs. Lydia Carrington."

The room gasped. Eleanor's childhood friend, Lydia, the very one she'd thought she could trust, emerged from the darkness. Her silk gown whispered as she moved to the stand, her face worn with sorrow but unyielding.

Eleanor's breath was taken. She hadn't seen Lydia since before Henry died.

Lydia spoke softly, but her words carried as much weight as lead. "I cared for Eleanor as a sister. But I couldn't keep quiet. She told me, in her own words, that she wanted Henry dead. That his life was a prison, and that his fortune should be hers."

The room burst into whispers.

Eleanor staggered forward. "Lydia, no! That's a lie!"

The judge's gavel came down like a drum. "Silence, Mrs. Whitmore!"

Jonathan stood there, white with shock. "Objection! That's hearsay, meant to corrupt the jury against my client."

But the damage was done. Eleanor's heart twisted, not merely out of fear but out of betrayal. Lydia—loving, loyal Lydia—had turned venomous.

When the session closed, Eleanor collapsed onto the wooden bench in their private room. Her veil still lay on the ground, her face pale as parchment.

Jonathan shut the door behind them, his jaw clenched. "This changes everything."

"Why would she do this?" Eleanor breathed. Her voice cracked like glass. "Lydia loved me once. She knew Henry's temper, she knew my misery, why now, why here?"

Jonathan paced the room, pushing a hand through his black hair. "Because someone has reached her. Bribed her, perhaps. Threatened her. Grave wouldn't risk jeopardizing her testimony otherwise. There is something more involved here than jealousy or betrayal."

Eleanor's tears burned, but under them was a fierce spark. "Then uncovered. She is not the enemy I need to fear—she is a puppet, and I must learn the hand that controls her."

Jonathan stood frozen, staring at her as if seeing her for the first time. She concealed steel beneath the sorrow.

"Mrs. Whitmore," he breathed, "you may yet be declared innocent. But that will not be enough to free you. We must prove the guilt of another."

Eleanor got up, brushing off her tears. "Then let us find the truth, Mr. Jonathan. For if Lydia Carrington is the dagger, I intend to find the hand that thrust it into my back."

The following day, Jonathan arrived at court earlier than his time. He had not slept: the night had been occupied with parchment and ink, with missives dispatched in secret and inquiries made undercover. He had a single thread, narrow but promising.

When Eleanor encountered him in the defence chamber, he slipped a crumpled piece of paper into her hand.

"What is this?" she asked, unrolling it. Her eyes widened at the name on it.

"Lydia Carrington," Jonathan said darkly. "Her gambling debts to the gaming houses are legendary in half of city. She owes more than she can ever repay. Someone bought her silence, or better still, her betrayal."

Eleanor's heart was racing. "And you believe Grave knows?

"Graves?" Jonathan's lip curled. "No. He is a blunt instrument. But there are others. Your husband's rival in business, Lord Winthrop. He would benefit most if your inheritance were stripped from you. If you are convicted, the estate is up for grabs, and he will swoop down like a vulture."

Eleanor's hands gripped tightly over the sheet of paper. "Then Lydia is his pawn."

The court bells clanged, summoning them back into the lion's den.

Inside, the trial resumed. Graves paraded more witnesses: the butler, who testified to Eleanor's late arrival home that night Henry had been murdered; the dealer, who reported that the poison used would be available to anyone who had enough money. Each witness placed Eleanor in a corner.

Lastly, Jonathan rose. His voice sounded robust.

"I call Mrs. Lydia Carrington to the stand."

The gallery buzzed. Lydia reemerged, though her initial confidence seemed wavering now. Her eyes darted, briefly, toward the back of the room, to a figure standing there, a tall one in darkness.

Eleanor's gaze followed it and she stood frozen. Lord Winthrop.

Jonathan shifted closer to Lydia as she took the oath. "Mrs. Carrington," he began suavely, "yesterday you testified that Mrs. Whitmore had said she wanted her husband dead."

Lydia's lips compressed in a small nod.

"Do you deny," Jonathan insisted, his eyes narrowing, "that you yourself are owing considerable amounts of debt? That certain individuals might fare better if you chose to portray Mrs. Whitmore as guilty in this court?"

Gasp swept the assembly.

Lydia's composure crumpled. Her hands trembled against the rail. She opened her lips, then closed them again. Her eyes flashed momentarily at Winthrop.

The judge frowns. "Answer the question, Mrs. Carrington."

Her lips parted. For a moment, Eleanor permitted herself to believe.

But Lydia's expression changed, set, as if some unconscious command had braced her spine. She lifted her chin.

"I deny it. Everything I'd said was true. Eleanor Whitmore wanted her husband killed, and she told me so."

The room erupted.

Eleanor fell back in her chair, the wind kicked out of her. Jonathan's knuckles whitened on the bench. He had wagered Lydia would break under pressure. She had doubled down. 

Descending from the stand, Lydia slipped. For an instant only, her eyes flashed toward Eleanor. And at a momentary glance, Eleanor saw fear. Not malice, not triumph. Fear.

The kind of fear that is not guilt, but danger.

The gavel came down. "Court adjourned until tomorrow."

The gallery spilled out into the corridors, a tide of scandal and rumour. Jonathan guided Eleanor out of the room with a hand on her elbow.

"She's lying because she must," Eleanor spat. "Someone is holding her rein. You saw it."

"I did." Jonathan's jaw tightened. "And if I'm right, she may not live long enough to tell the truth."

Eleanor's stomach churned. "What do you mean?"

Jonathan glanced over their shoulders, his voice barely above a whisper. "Winthrop was here today. He does not attend trials for entertainment. He was watching Lydia. And if he believes she could crack."

His words trailed away.

They arrived at the steps of the courthouse, where the crowd surged with questions. Eleanor's veil shielded her, Jonathan's stern gaze bullied a path through. A carriage stood on the edge of the square, its horses nervous in the fall chill.

But as Eleanor lifted her skirts to mount the stairs, a scream shattered the air.

They spun around. On the opposite side of the square, Lydia Carrington was sprawled on the cobblestones, her silk gown spread out around her like spilled wine.

Her lips foamed white. Her eyes bulged in horror.

The crowd shrieked and ran. One man shouted for the doctor. Another shrieked, "Poison!"

Eleanor's blood turned cold. She clutched Jonathan's arm, rigid with shock.

He stared across the chaos, his face grim, his voice barely in a whisper.

"They've killed her."