CHAPTER 207: CHAPTER TWO HUNDRED AND SEVEN

Catherine Dalton, her hand still raised, stood up. All eyes in the grand council room were on her. As the only female investor in their midst, the only woman besides the Ellington ladies to hold such a significant share, her presence was already a novelty. Her speaking up now was a direct challenge to the established order.

"Yes," she said, her voice calm, clear, and carrying to every corner of the silent room. "I have an objection." She looked at the long line of grim-faced advisors, and then her gaze settled, with a cold, hard precision, on Baroness Augusta.

"From the moment Baron Edgar stepped back from management until this very day," Catherine began, her gaze fixed on Augusta, "this establishment has maintained that he has ’health issues’. This has been the official explanation for years. A vague, convenient phrase without any further explanation of his actual condition." She paused, letting the weight of her words settle. "Don’t you think, Baroness, that you owe the people in this room, the very people whose investments you are asking to control, a more detailed explanation?"

The question was a perfectly aimed dart, puncturing Augusta’s carefully crafted image of transparency. A low murmur rippled through the advisors.

Augusta’s polite smile tightened almost immediately at the edges. She had not expected this. Not from Catherine. "Of course," she replied, her voice smooth as silk, deflecting the question with ease. "We all hope that Baron Edgar will recover soon. We have made this difficult decision precisely because he is unable to carry out his duties in his current state. This applies to him, and to his son, my dear husband, Baron Henry."

She had answered without answering at all, a classic political maneuver. Catherine gave a slight, knowing nod and sat back down. She had cracked the door open.

Now, Delia pushed it wide. She stood up, her voice stronger and more confident than anyone in the room had ever heard it. "Is that really true, Baroness?" she asked, her blue eyes blazing with a cold fire. The room fell silent again, all attention shifting to the young woman who was supposed to be a powerless pawn.

"You say my grandfather is unable to come back," Delia continued, her questions sharp and precise. "Why, exactly? What is this condition that prevents him from even attending a meeting about his own future? And if you truly believe he will come back, like you said, why is the chairmanship being permanently transferred to his son’s spouse? Why are you not simply requesting to be an acting manager in his absence?"

The murmurs grew louder, more insistent. Delia was not making an emotional appeal; she was pointing out serious flaws in procedure and logic.

She leaned forward slightly, her hands resting on the polished table as she delivered her final, devastating question. "And most important of all, did my grandfather, Baron Edgar, and my father, Baron Henry, consent to these proceedings? Have they signed any documents? Have they agreed to have their rights, their legacy, and their very names dismissed in this room today?"

The murmurs circulated the room now, whispers of "She has a point," and "Where is the consent?" Augusta could feel the support she had so carefully built over the last month beginning to crumble. She was losing control of the room. Panic pricked at her composure. She subtly caught the eye of the head guard, a large, grim-faced man standing near the wall. She gave him a single, almost invisible, nod.

The head guard understood immediately. He, in turn, signaled to the two guards stationed by the main doors. They began to move, their heavy boots silent on the thick carpet, their intentions clear as they advanced on Delia.

As they approached her, Eric stood up. He didn’t raise his voice. He simply moved to stand in front of Delia, shielding her with his body. He looked at the two approaching guards, his expression one of cold disdain. "Who dares humiliate the Duchess of Elinburgh in a public meeting?" he asked, his voice calm but carrying an unmistakable authority that made the guards hesitate.

He then turned his icy gaze on Augusta. "What do you think you are doing, Baroness? You cannot use force to silence a member of this meeting from speaking. She has a right to ask these questions."

The guards looked at Augusta, awaiting their orders. She gave them another, more definitive, nod of approval.

As the two guards prepared to move around Eric, another guard, who had silently circled the table, came up from behind Delia and grabbed her wrist in a tight, bruising grip.

"Let me go!" Delia screamed, the sudden assault shocking her. She struggled against his hold. "Let go of me!"

Augusta’s calm, cruel chuckle cut through the commotion. She addressed the room as if nothing were wrong. "We will now move to the voting process," she announced, her voice loud and clear, "so that we can speed things up and conclude this meeting."

This blatant use of force on Delia was what finally made Eric’s own control snap. With a speed that was shocking, he reached inside his formal coat and pulled out a small, silver-plated pistol. The quiet, deadly click of the hammer being cocked was louder than a scream in the now-silent room. He aimed it directly at the head of the guard who was still holding Delia.

"Let her go right now," he said, his voice hard, cold, and deadly serious. "Or I will blow your head clean off your neck."

The room froze. The guard holding Delia turned to stone, his face pale with terror. The murmurs died instantly. Augusta’s triumphant smile faded, her face a mask of shock and disbelief. This was not part of her plan.

"Enough!!!"

A new voice spoke from the entrance of the room.

Everyone stopped what they were doing. Eric, his eyes still locked on the guard, slowly lowered his pistol, though he did not put it away. Delia stopped struggling, her head whipping around toward the sound. Augusta’s smile, which had already faded, now morphed into an expression of pain-stricken, abject fear. Every single person in the room turned to look at the figure who had just spoken.

Baron Edgar stood in the grand doorway. He was frailer than they remembered, and his clothes were rumpled, but his back was straight and his eyes burned with anger. And walking just one step behind him, his face grim and determined, was Prescott.

The old Baron took in the scene before him: his granddaughter held captive by a guard, his grandson-in-law holding a pistol, and his daughter-in-law staring at him as if she had just seen a ghost rise from the grave. The owner of Ellington Textiles had returned.