CHAPTER 120: CHAPTER HUNDRED AND TWENTY

Baroness Augusta sat behind the large, imposing desk of the Ellington textile study, a deep frown on her face as she stared at the open ledger before her.

"How were last month’s sales?" Augusta asked her informant and assistant, Mr. Prescott, her voice sharp with an anxiety she was trying to hide.

Prescott, standing respectfully before the desk, cleared his throat. "Compared to the month before, Baroness," he answered, his tone carefully neutral, "they have gone down by a great margin. The rumors about the family’s... instability... have made some of our patrons hesitant."

"What will I do now?" Augusta murmured to herself, a rare moment of uncertainty flashing across her features. She sighed, her mind racing for a solution. After a minute, her expression hardened again.

"Slash the prices," she commanded. "Slash the prices of the pieces we have in stock now." She looked at Prescott, her eyes cold and decisive. "I don’t care how you do it. Think of ways to sell as many pieces as possible, and do it fast. We need the capital."

Prescott nodded, a worried look on his own face. "Yes, Baroness."

Knock...

knock...

knock.

The sound echoed in the quiet, tense study. "Who is it?" Augusta asked, her eyes still glued to the damning figures in the ledger.

Prescott went to open the door, but before he could reach it, the person who had knocked opened it themselves. Delia popped her head into the room, a wide, brilliant smile on her face. Augusta looked up, her expression one of pure, unfiltered shock.

Delia came all the way in, looking around the large, book-lined room with an air of playful curiosity. "Wow," she said, her voice full of a light, cheerful energy that was completely out of place. "I never knew my father’s study was this big. It’s quite impressive."

She turned her bright smile first to Prescott, then to Augusta. "You must be so exhausted," she said, her voice dripping with a feigned mocking pity. "Trying so hard to increase the sales, all by yourself, just to be able to please Father." She tilted her head. "Do you need any help?"

Augusta scoffed, a short, ugly sound of disbelief. "You?" she asked, looking Delia up and down as if she were a piece of dirt on her shoe. "How could you possibly help? What kind of help could you offer?"

Delia’s smile didn’t falter. "Me, I’m the help." she said simply.

"What?" Augusta asked, her patience wearing thin.

Delia turned back to the open door. "Are you still there?" she called out sweetly. "Please, you can all come in now."

Three men, pamphleteers from the city’s most popular gossip sheets, entered the study, their eyes wide with a hungry curiosity as they took in the opulent surroundings.

"Good day, Baroness," they greeted her, one after the other, bowing their heads.

Augusta was completely and utterly shocked. She was trapped.

Delia went to her stepmother’s side and, in a shocking display of public affection, put a familiar arm around Augusta, holding her in a gesture that looked like a loving, mother-daughter embrace. Her smile was fake, but it was flawless. "This is my mother," she announced to the pamphleteers. "Baroness Augusta Ellington. She is the wonderful woman who is in charge of this humble establishment, working so hard, all by herself, until my dear father recovers."

Augusta glared at her for a single, furious minute before her years of social training took over. She forced a smile onto her own face. "It is a pleasure to meet you all."

One of the pamphleteers, a thin man with a sharp, pointed nose, brought out his notebook to jot down his next sensational story. "Baroness, I must say, I am so surprised at how you are handling this establishment so single-handedly," he gushed. "And I heard from a very reliable source that it was your brilliant idea to promote your talented stepdaughter’s dyes beyond Albion, all while keeping her identity a secret out of modesty. Is that true?"

Augusta looked speechless, caught in the web of Delia’s clever lies. "Y-yes," she stammered. "I..."

Delia took over, giving her stepmother’s shoulder a supportive side-hug. "It was all possible because of her incredible vision," she said, her own voice full of a daughter’s proud admiration. "I am so very grateful to her for everything."

Another journalist asked, his pen poised, "So, Your Grace, the Duchess, what is next for you and your amazing dyes now that your identity has been revealed?"

"I will start by making my work domestically," Delia replied, her voice now confident and business-like. "Before I begin to spread my branches even further." She looked at Augusta, who was looking back at her with a look of pure, hidden rage.

After the pamphleteers, filled with a new, sensational story of a loving, supportive, and brilliant mother-daughter business team, had finally gone, Delia sat down in the armchair opposite Augusta’s desk.

The friendly, loving facade was gone, replaced by a cool silence.

"I am in the process of making my next dye," Delia said, breaking the quiet. "The quality will be much better than anything you have seen before, and the color will be entirely unique. That should make the price go up quite a bit, don’t you think?"

Augusta’s lips curved into a wicked, knowing smile. "I see," she said, her voice a low purr. "You want to kill two birds with one stone."

Delia smiled back.

"Whatever you earn from these new, spectacular sales," Augusta continued, "you will go and tell your dear father that it is all because of your own hard work and your incredible talent. And, of course, the fifty percent profit share goes to the dyer. I still remember your terms." She leaned forward, her eyes glittering. "You want to make some more money for your new life, is that it?"

"I don’t need the money now," Delia replied simply. " I can always take the next share."

Augusta was confused. "Then what is it that you want?"

"I want," Delia began, her voice calm and steady, "all of the top-quality, unadulterated textiles that you have been reserving for Anne’s personal wardrobe."

The demand was so specific, so personal, so utterly unexpected, that it took Augusta completely by surprise. "Delia!" she exclaimed, her voice a mixture of shock and outrage.

"I am just making a deal, Baroness," Delia replied, her smile unwavering. "My new, highly profitable dye in exchange for your daughter’s private collection of fabrics. You don’t have to accept it, of course, if you think it’s a loss for you."

Delia’s internal thought was a silent, triumphant checkmate. "Choose, Augusta. My fifty percent profit and the salvation of your failing business, or your precious daughter’s happiness."

Augusta glared at Delia, her mind racing. She was trapped. To refuse the deal would be to admit to her husband that she was letting the business fail out of pure spite and giving him more reasons to give it all to Delia. To accept it would be to take something precious away from her own daughter. With a long, angry sigh of defeat, she turned and called for one of the senior clerks. "Go to Lady Anne’s private storage and bring out all of the reserved textiles. All of them," she commanded, her voice full of a barely concealed rage.

Delia smiled, a slow, cold, and deeply satisfied expression.