A Brazen Duty (#2 BRAZEN series-part of the GOLDEN universe) ✔

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♪ Is there a place where I can hide away?
Red lips, French-kiss my worries all away ♪
{Selena Gomez ft. Kid Cudi—Sweeter Place}

The instant her loaded carriage cruised under the heavily guarded arches of Torrinni City, Harriet Thatcher slumped in her seat. Beyond the town limits, no one at court could see her. No one could judge her posture, mock her lesser luxurious garb, laugh at her for not having been courted by any eligible men. And remind her that her father, the Vidame of Limesdale, was imprisoned for treason against the crown.

As if she wasn't embarrassed enough.

Shame was her middle name. She'd never known a day without it, or without cruel japes from girls, taunting from teenagers, name-calling from ladies. She'd hoped, she'd prayed that in time, that shame would melt—but one month at court proved her otherwise. Shame would always be a part of her, no matter where she went.

Even at home; the villagers would be waiting for her. Those who despised her father, and would despise her for taking his place. Her, a woman, obtaining control of the northern section of Rosford County, sitting in the Vidame of Limesdale's seat. She was the Vidame, now.

"Vidame..." Saliva gathered in her mouth, and she wished to spit it out—to spit on him.

Eugene Thatcher, her foul fiend of a father. He'd always been a despicable man. But to conspire with Dowager Clémentine against King Antoine's throne, to seek Julia Espinar's hand in marriage, to plot coups against the country? These acts only worsened the hatred already fired up in her core. Her father—how were they of the same blood? How had he participated in her creation?

He wasn't alone in his debauchery against the crown; he never was. Someone helped Eugene Thatcher, and that individual—or individuals, there were surely several—had escaped unscathed. For now. Because Harriet wouldn't let him take the fall on his own. Her surname wouldn't be the only one to tarnish and tumble into a pit of horrid rumors.

Landscapes of lush trees and winter blooming flowers passed her window as she gazed out, sucking in the fresh air. Away from the stuffiness of the castle, from the over-perfumed outfits of fancy women, and the frivolous flirting of dashing men. She could breathe at last.

The feeblest of smiles spread over her face as she exhaled. She'd soon have the power to investigate, search, track, and halt her father's plans. And the ability to find out who aided him with them. At the manor, she'd have a staff at her command, guards to instruct, advisors to belch out orders to. She disliked the title Vidame; perhaps Lady of Limesdale suited her more.

Her smile faded, morphing into a grimace. Lady of Limesdale, her? A barely passable courtier, responsible for her father's estate? A fumbling, fickle girl without any prospects or experience?

She'd scoffed when King Antoine informed her. "Your father had no male next of kin, and your mother had no traceable family members who might be eligible. We rarely give out such high honors to a woman. But until you marry, your father's title, his lands, his money... are yours, Miss Thatcher."

She'd tried not to guffaw; Eugene likely sired a few bastards after her mother's death. It shocked her he hadn't naturalized them—he'd never consent to her inheriting the entirety of what he'd worked so hard to put together. He always claimed her husband—should she ever manage to get one—would take over the family estate and business. Not her, the disgraceful daughter. The unloved, uncared for student, the one whose strawberry locks and bright green eyes never turned heads. The one whose svelte silhouette slunk into the shadows, set aside by men who never gave her a chance. Her bosom not big enough, her hips not wide enough. Too tall, shoulders too stiff, gaze too impenetrable.

All the usual insults... they will never change.

Because she was a Thatcher. Daughter of a criminal, a gambler, a drunk, a greedy crook. Which made her unapproachable, unwanted. They whispered it at court; they'd surely do the same in Limesdale, right?

Even if she saved herself somehow, Eugene would always influence the Thatcher legacy. She remembered overhearing some of his sessions. Talks of odd-shaped packages, shipments, fabrication; of trafficked items, falsified papers, hoarding money. She recalled claims of riches extracted from vulnerable families and secrets concealed in vaults in the basement. A basement she planned to visit now that she owned the property.

No more hiding.

Few were those who knew her, and bothered to try. Such as her best friend, Esther Bristol, who also left court. Harriet chuckled; she was the daughter of the Count of Rosford. The man who was, technically, Harriet's boss. But Esther didn't care about that; she only cared about Harriet's well-being. Their goodbyes were teary, full of see-you-soon's and I will miss you's. She wouldn't be far, as she was engaged to Emeric Richel, son of the Marquess of Valeville, whose palatial residence was north of Limesdale.

Another high-placed noble who hated my father. How will he react to me?

Thinking of Esther reminded her of the other ladies of her age... and their successes. Cristina Condello departed with her fiancé, Axel Espinar, headed for the southern region of Malaros. She did well for herself, so the gossip said. Charlotte snagged Prince Jules, and Julia garnered King Romain's attention. Even the non-graduate Céleste, sweet as Harriet found her, had received royal interest. Prince Sébastien had petitioned her hand, and she would have been insane to refuse. Only Harriet remained without the promise of a marriage.

"It will be all right," Johanna had told her, as they bid each other farewell. A chill slithered into her dim carriage as she thought of the handmaiden who was so familiar with her past and refused to divulge it. "One day a man will realize your worth."

With Director—ahem, Duchess Marguerite staying in Torrinni, Johanna was forced to linger at court, too. Her gray eyes had welled with tears as she hugged Harriet, promising to never forget her offer to tug her away from all the drama. Johanna would have been a solid ally in Limesdale. She knew the manor by heart, met most of the employees, explored the city and nearby villages. But instead of Johanna, Harriet received a solemn and sleeping chaperone, and a few new gowns, courtesy of the Dowager. Likely in exchange for her silence, since she'd been the one to out her father and the Dowager's plans.

That woman is aware I know more than I should and wants to ensure I say nothing.

But did she have such knowledge? She wasn't privy to all that her father had done, all the games he had won, the schemes he had organized. And though she had hunches on his co-conspirators—Sir Geitz showed suspicious manners—she couldn't confirm any of them without getting her hands dirty.

Her vehicle rolled onward, through shaded orchards and stone-roofed villages, towards her new life. Towards a new adventure—to lead Limesdale, to restore her good name, to prove not all Thatchers were thieves and traitors. And to figure out how and why her father had destroyed their reputation in the first place.

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