She did not tell Gideon. This was something she had to do herself. The next day, she took the morning coach to the county town and paid a visit to the solicitor whose name was on the statement. By afternoon, she had taken control of her inheritance.
She was no longer a penniless dependent. She was a woman of property. A woman with a plan. The day of the auction arrived.
It was held on the village green in Marley. The entire county seemed to be there, drawn by the drama. Gideon stood at the front, his face calm and determined. Lucian Trent stood on the opposite side, a smug sneer on his face.
He might have lost the battle of reputation, but he intended to win the war of finance. The auctioneer began. "We are here to sell the 30-acre parcel known as Sorrel Down. Bidding will begin at 3,000 pounds."
"Three thousand," Gideon said immediately, his voice clear and strong. "Three thousand five hundred," Trent countered, his voice oily. The bids went back and forth, climbing steadily. Four thousand.
Five. Six. Prudence watched from the back of the crowd, her heart pounding. She saw the strain around Gideon's eyes as the price surpassed the initial valuations.
Trent was bleeding him, forcing him to liquidate his victory. The bidding reached 7,000 pounds, the absolute limit of Gideon's available cash, a fact Prudence had surmised from her own audit. "Seven thousand pounds," Gideon said, his voice tight. "Seven thousand one hundred," Trent shot back instantly, a triumphant glint in his eye.
He knew he had him. Gideon was silent. A muscle worked in his jaw. He could go no further without jeopardizing his entire estate.
The auctioneer raised his gavel. "Seven thousand one hundred, going once, going twice—" "Eight thousand pounds." The voice was not loud, but it cut through the tense silence like a bell. Every head turned.
Standing at the back of the crowd, her posture perfect, her expression serene, was Prudence Bellamy. Beside her stood her new solicitor. A wave of stunned disbelief washed over the onlookers. Lady Honora's jaw dropped.
Trent stared, his face a comical picture of confusion. Gideon turned slowly, his eyes finding hers across the crowd. His expression was one of profound, utter shock. "I—I have a bid for 8,000 pounds from Miss Bellamy," the auctioneer stammered, looking at her solicitor, who gave a crisp nod.
Trent was speechless. He didn't have that kind of money. He had been bluffing, leveraging his position to ruin Gideon, not to actually acquire the land at such an inflated price. "Eight thousand pounds, going once," the auctioneer called, his voice regaining its confidence.