MY RUIN: In Love With My Step-Uncle-Chapter 80 - Eighty: The Hawk-eyed Stare

//CLARA//

A small tin of dried tansy leaves sat on the bedside table, tied with a bit of twine, and a note in his sharp handwriting: "Steep for five minutes. Do not skip."

I smiled despite myself. That thoughtful, beautiful bastard.

And I was the idiotic, lovestruck fool who had let him baptize me in the copper tub until water sloshed over the sides and soaked into the floor.

I glanced at the damp spot near the rug, purely to keep from moaning out loud from the memory.

"Jesus, Clara. Get a fucking grip."

Finally feeling like myself again, I brewed the bitter tea and drank it in three swallows, grimacing at the taste, and rinsed the cup before Hattie could see. Then I tucked the canister away for next use.

By mid-morning, Hattie trailed me like a lost puppy, her eyes darting to my right foot every time I winced. It was a classic 19th-century helicopter-parent vibe, and it was getting on my last nerve.

"Miss Eleanor." Her voice sounded small. Her hands were doing this weird fluttering thing toward me—hovering, then retreating—like she couldn’t decide if she wanted to catch me or tackle me to the ground. "You shouldn’t—you can’t possibly—"

"I’m going down for luncheon, Hattie," I said, stepping past her into the hallway. "The doctor said movement helps, as long as I don’t go full marathon."

"But your foot—" She scurried after me, her slippers doing this nervous little shuffle on the carpet that perfectly matched my uneven stride. "Please, Miss Eleanor, at least let me fetch a cane, or a proper walking stick. The stairs—"

"I’ve got it, Hattie. I’m a big girl." I didn’t slow down, even though my knuckles were turning white from how hard I was death-gripping the banister as we started the descent.

Every jolt was a fresh reminder that my arch was currently on fire, but I locked my jaw and kept my breathing as steady as a runway walk.

She hovered right at my elbow, close enough to catch me if I pulled a total Jennifer Lawrence at the Oscars, her anxiety coming off her in waves. It was so thick I could practically taste it.

The dining room felt like a different planet after being stuck upstairs. The afternoon sun was making everything look way more expensive and peaceful than it actually was.

Aunt Cornelia was already at the table, her spine so rigid she looked like she’d been taxidermied in place. She was holding a cup of chocolate that had probably gone cold ages ago.

Casimir was not there.

He had been gone since dawn, attending to whatever matters had pulled him from my bed. I told myself it was better this way. Fewer opportunities for the old bat to stick her nose in somebody else’s business. Fewer reasons for her to suspect.

She did not look up when I entered. Her gaze was pinned out the window, her face looking like it had been hacked out of granite by an angry sculptor. But I could feel her judgement like the air five minutes before a tornado hits a trailer park.

I took my seat without waiting for her to acknowledge my presence, arranging my skirts to hide my injured foot beneath the table. The movement made me wince.

"Your foot troubles you still." Her voice emerged flat, stripped of the customary venom that usually spiced her observations. Which was worse.

"It improves daily," I replied, matching her I-don’t-care energy. "The doctor has been very... thorough."

"The Hungarian, I’m told." Her lips thinned into a line so sharp she could have used them to letter-open the morning mail. "Casimir insisted on his expertise."

"Dr. Varga is very good at his job." I reached for the teapot and poured myself a cup. "He’s exceptional, and his treatments actually work."

The silence that followed was long enough to be awkward, even by gilded age standards.

Her pale eyes finally settled on me, tracking my hands like a hawk watching a mouse with a broken leg. Something had shifted in her since the other night. She was probably piecing together every glance, every moment Casimir and I had lingered too close.

And she was right.

That knowledge hung between us like a bad smell no one wanted to acknowledge. We were not playing by the rulebook. We had never played by the rulebook. And now she knew it.

She just could not prove it yet.

"I feel much better," I said, giving her a look that was about ten percent too bold for my station. "It’s amazing what one can accomplish when they stop worrying about everyone else’s expectations and just focus on... surviving."

She nodded and returned to her plate.

I could not trust her silence. It was a weapon she wielded so expertly. But I would not give her the satisfaction of rising to the bait.

So I ate my lunch and I drank my tea. I answered her questions with civil, measured responses.

The day crawled past.

I retreated to the drawing room. Hattie had stationed herself by the door, pretending to dust, clearly watching me closely.

Around three in the afternoon, the front door opened.

I heard voices in the entrance hall, it was Higgins and coming from someone familiar. Before he could announce the caller, Beatrice rushed into the room entirely too fast for any proper lady with decorum.

"Eleanor!"

Her hat askew and her face a blotchy, panicked red. The moment her eyes landed on me, she let out a sob of pure relief and threw her arms around me. I winced as her weight shifted onto my right foot, but I didn’t pull away.

"Thank God," she breathed into my shoulder. "You’re alive. You’re truly here. I heard—I was so afraid—"

"I’m here." I held her steady. "I’m here. I’m safe. I’m fine. Breathe, Beatrice. Just breathe with me."

She pulled back, her eyes scanning my face. "Are you? Are you truly?"

"I am getting there."

She nodded, swallowing hard, and for a moment, she simply held my hands, as if reassuring herself that I was real.

Then her expression shifted. The relief hardened into something sharper.

"Beatrice, what is wrong?"

"Oliver," she managed, the name emerging like a wound opening. "They’ve taken him. They’re saying—" She broke off, a fresh sob convulsing her. "They’re saying he helped that man. That he was part of it."

The blood drained from my face so fast I felt lightheaded. "What?"

"There is a preliminary hearing tomorrow afternoon," she scrambled to explain. "To determine if there is sufficient cause to bind him over for trial. Oliver has been charged as an accomplice. For accessory to—"

She broke off, unable to finish the full charge.

"But he did not send that letter." I snapped, my brain already shifting into crisis-management mode. "He would never—"

"I know." Beatrice’s voice cracked. "He’s still being held. They wouldn’t release him on bail—the magistrate said flight risk, said the charges are too serious."

"Who’s representing him?" I asked.

Beatrice shook her head. "His family’s solicitor, but he’s—he’s too overwhelmed to speak for himself. The evidence they presented, it’s—"

The room seemed to tilt for a second. A white-hot flash of anger replaced the chill in my limbs. Casimir. Why the hell hadn’t he cleared Oliver’s name yet? Oliver was innocent, and I wasn’t about to let him become collateral damage in whatever game was being played.

"Where is the hearing to be held?"

"Eleanor—" Beatrice’s eyes widened, understanding dawning through her despair. "You can’t. You mustn’t involve yourself. The risk—after everything you’ve already endured—"

"I asked you a question." I held her gaze, unyielding. "The location. And the time."

She faltered, her resolve crumbling under my stare. "Old Bailey. Four o’clock. But Eleanor, please... maybe you can just ask Mr. Guggenheim to drop the—"

I let out a short, jagged laugh that sounded way too much like a tea kettle hitting its breaking point. Yeah, right. Like that beautiful, morally bankrupt bastard would just drop the charges because I asked him nicely over scones.

Or maybe he would? Maybe if I asked him while naked? God, I did not even know anymore.

My life had become a blur of bad decisions and excellent sex. My moral compass had spun clean off its axis and embedded itself in the mahogany paneling.

Now I was wondering if a pretty please or the persuasive power of a well-timed pout would work on a ruthless magnate who probably treated the legal system like his personal game of Monopoly.

Modern feminism was weeping. And honestly? So was I. Well, fuck it.

"I will be there, Beatrice."

I released her arms, finally stepping back to steady myself against the arm of the sofa. My right foot was screaming in protest, but I ignored it.

"And I’m going to speak. I’ll testify to his character, his integrity, and the sheer impossibility of him being involved in this mess. I’m making this right Beatrice."