CHAPTER 229: CHAPTER TWO HUNDRED AND TWENTY NINE

And then, it happened.

Like a flash of lightning in a dark room, a memory struck her. It was sharp, vivid, and completely unexpected. A memory from her last life, a fragment of a conversation she had overheard by accident.

It was late one night at the Ellington’s manor. Delia had begged Augusta to allow her use the Ellington manor for her wedding anniversary party which Augusta surprisingly agreed. She had been unable to sleep and had gone to the kitchen for a glass of water. As she passed the study, she heard Augusta’s voice, hushed and angry, speaking to someone beside her.

"The humidity is too high! Do you want to ruin it? I told you the cellar at the old monastery is the only place with the right conditions. Don’t move it from there until I give the order. No one, not even the Baron, knows it’s there." Her steps caused the floorboard to make a squeaky sound causing Augusta to stop. She ran quickly to her room and shut the door.

The air rushed out of Delia’s lungs. Her heart began to pound against her ribs like a drum.

The old monastery. But which one? There are at least five abandoned monasteries in Albion. They will have to search all of them.

She shot to her feet, her chair scraping harshly against the wooden floor.

The sudden noise made both Eric and Prescott turn to stop whatever they were doing. Eric, who had been about to suggest contacting the port authorities, stopped mid-thought. He turned to look at his wife, a blank, uncomprehending expression on his face.

Her face was pale, her blue eyes wide with a mixture of shock and electrifying clarity. Her hands flew to her mouth, and a small, sharp gasp escaped her lips. She stood frozen in the middle of the room, staring at nothing, her mind miles away, seeing not the drawing room but the crumbling stone walls of an abandoned building on the outskirts of the kingdom.

"Delia?" Eric asked, taking a step towards her, his voice laced with concern. "What is it? What’s wrong?"

Silence. Only their breaths could be heard.

She broke the silence, her voice quiet but ringing with a conviction that made both men attentive.

"The Baroness isn’t hunting down Adair’s fabrics," she said. The statement was so direct, so contrary to everything they had just concluded, that it took them a moment to process. She looked at Eric, then at Prescott, her blue eyes clear and certain. "She’s making them."

"What?" Eric asked, his brow furrowed in confusion.

Prescott looked equally baffled, his professional composure ruffled. "Excuse me, Your Grace?" he asked, as if he had misheard her.

Delia did not waver. She sat back down leaned forward in her armchair, her hands clasped in her lap, a picture of calm certainty. "An imposter," she explained, her voice even. "A forger. Someone, somewhere, must be making the fabric for her. If we can find that place, that hidden workshop, and raid it, then forgery of a master artisan’s work can be added to her long list of charges. It would be an undeniable, public crime."

She had laid out her theory and its strategic value with perfect clarity. It was a brilliant idea, except for one, seemingly insurmountable, problem.

"No," Prescott said, the word firm but respectful. He shook his head with an absolute certainty that was just as powerful as Delia’s. "You’re wrong about that, Your Grace." He said it with such conviction that Delia and Eric both stared at him.

"I have worked for the Baroness for a long time," he continued, his voice that of an expert in his field. "And I know more about Mr. Adair’s fabrics than anyone else, save for the man himself. I have handled them. I have catalogued them. I have seen them up close." He described them with an almost reverent tone. "The way the light catches the threads, the unique weight of the silk that no other weaver could ever replicate. He had a signature, you see. A tiny, almost invisible imperfection in the weave, a single crossed thread every hundred rows. It was his way of signing his work. It’s impossible to forge."

He looked directly at Delia, his expression serious. "The fabrics the Baroness brings in are true pieces by Adair Reed. Of that, I am absolutely certain."

His argument was logical, based on years of firsthand experience and expert knowledge. It should have been the end of the discussion. But Delia, armed with a truth that no one else could possibly comprehend, did not back down.

"No," she said again, her voice just as certain as his. "I am certain they are fake."

Eric looked back and forth between Prescott and his wife who were now stating two completely opposite, unshakeable truths. It was impossible. One of them had to be wrong.

"I have proof, Mr. Prescott," Delia said calmly.

Prescott’s eyes narrowed slightly. He was not a man to be trifled with when it came to his professional knowledge. "Where is this proof, Your Grace?" he asked, a challenge in his voice.

"The last time I saw the Baroness in a business setting to discuss about my dyes, I took several of Anne’s new, unreleased dresses from her as my profit for the deal I made with her concerning my next dye production. They were made from this supposed Adair Reed fabric." she said, her voice even.

" I will give you one of the dresses." She continued. " You will take it to the most respected textile authenticator in Albion. Let an impartial expert examine it."

She then laid out the stakes, and they were breathtakingly high.

"If I am wrong," she said, looking Prescott directly in the eye, "if the fabric is authenticated as a genuine work by Adair Reed, then I will give you all of my money. Every last coin I have earned from my dye profits."

Prescott and Eric were just stunned into absolute silence. They stared at her, their mouths slightly agape.