"The Duchess of R- The who!?" Stiles exclaimed, flinching. Scrambling, he bent low, too low, and almost tipped forward. When he caught himself, he cursed under his breath, and that drew a laugh from one of the ladies. "My Lady," Stiles said, formally, before rising. "I- My apologies."

Parrish and the other officer set about putting the wheel in place, now determined that Stiles was no threat. Lady Martin looked more amused now than annoyed. She shared a glance with her ladies and then curtsied to Stiles, though it was unnecessary, since he was nowhere near her rank. "A pleasure, I'm sure. You said you live nearby. Are you a member of the family Argent? Or one of their tenants?"

"No," Stiles said and then flubbed a few words when Lady Martin's expression became confused and suspicious. "I mean, I do live at the Argent estate," he corrected. "But I am not really a tenant. I am the scribe of the Lady Katherine."

"Oh?"

It was not the duchess who made the surprised sound, but one of the two ladies with her. The quiet lady had been the one to giggle at his curse, and she was fair in complexion with chestnut hair and bony features. But the one who had exclaimed had dark hair and darker eyes. She was young but beautiful, and unlike the other two women, she was not in a gown. She wore pants and a leather vest, and her silhouette was petite but sturdy. Stiles noted her strong cheekbones and thin nose and decided he liked the fierce look of her.

"Is something wrong, Lady Cora?" the duchess asked.

"No, My Lady," Cora said, bowing her head before staring straight at Stiles. The corner of her lips twitched up slightly as she added, "I've just heard stories about the scribe of Lady Argent."

Oh perfect. Someone who remembered the old rumors about Stiles. His gut went sour, and he wondered if she knew his real name behind that teasing smirk of hers. If she did, he hoped she kept it to herself. He didn't need to be embarrassed in front of a duchess any more than he already was.

"Good things, right?" the second lady asked, voice quiet and somehow flirty. Stiles did his best not to shiver at the sound. He didn't like it. "He's so handsome."

Before Lady Cora could respond, the duchess held up a hand. "Now is not the time for flirting, Meredith. We will be late for my mother's dinner if we let you toy with him." And though she was being strict, she smiled at the other woman. Then she motioned to Stiles. "Well, Scribe of Lady Argent, alert your mistress that I will return her generosity shortly, when I am not so pressed for time."

Stiles bowed again, a sweeping, practiced motion that was far more graceful than his first attempt. "Thank you, my Lady."

The officers announced their success and the women moved back toward the carriage door. Lady Lydia Martin paused, one foot on the step, and turned her face back toward Stiles. "I don't believe you gave a name, Mr. Scribe. That seems a bit rude."

"Stiles. My name is Stiles."

"Is that so?" And then she stepped into the waiting darkness of the carriage.

Meredith followed quickly, but Cora took slow steps. Her eyes lingered over every aspect of Stiles, and he could feel her forming misconceptions about him based on the rumors she knew. He wasn't dressed formally, and for once he wished he was. Not for the duchess, but for the sake of his wrecked reputation. Unfortunately, he couldn't read Cora's expression at all for approval or disapproval. It was only just before the door shut behind her that she smirked once more. Then she was shadowed and hidden behind the walls of the carriage.

Stiles stood, frozen, as the officers clambered onto the carriage and took up the reins. As Parrish whipped the horses into motion, Stiles heard the duchess's voice through the carriage window.

"What the hell is a Stiles?"

Then all he could hear were their giggles as the carriage rode off into the distance, leaving Stiles and the broken wheel behind.

Heat burned in Stiles' stomach. So much for a relaxing walk in the woods to clear his mind.

Dear Derek,

I'm so angry today. I was shamed by someone I had never met before. Perhaps she was a duchess, but perhaps she was no better than Kate, judging someone by their name or appearance. Did she judge my actions, that I helped her out of a precarious situation? Did she judge that I paid her every courtesy and respect? No. She judged my name. And her lady-in-waiting was no better, sizing me up like an old pair of boots.

I should be honest with you. I am mostly angry with myself. The only reason the lady-in-waiting had grounds to judge me is due to rumors I caused myself. I have told you before that Stiles is a moniker. I'm afraid the lady knew my legal name and judged me for the actions of my past. I have no excuses for those actions except that I was wild with despair, but that is no excuse at all. When she took notice of me, recognized me, I felt ashamed and embarrassed, and I hated her for it. But when they were gone, I knew I hated myself more.

Undoubtedly, I have been lying to you. I have pretended to be an upstanding citizen and a good employee. Yet I have cursed the name of my employer, spoken ill of a duchess, and promised to give you secrets behind the back of the family I serve. I have also hidden from you the truth of my past, of how I ended up in the employ of Lady Katherine Argent in the first place. I'm sorry, I cannot tell you that truth still. But not because I don't trust you or your judgment. I know you are shrewd and just and would take a good measure of my character if you knew. No, I cannot tell anyone outside of the Argents, because those wounds are still too fresh. I would not tell the story right. I am clouded by bias, by anger, by sadness. I want you to have a full image of me, but I cannot provide one.

Kate grows more frustrated by the day, convinced she is making no progress with you. I am embarrassed to admit that I have been using her correspondence selfishly. She let slip what her main intention is, but I have kept it from you for over a week. Another sign of my unscrupulous nature. It appears she intends to marry you. She longs to be your future Countess of Beacon. You see? This is no simple fling for her. She is aiming for a long relationship, and I have been slowing the process. Feel free to be disgusted with me. I am.

Yours,

Stiles

It was only after the post had been gone for an hour that Stiles realized he'd addressed and signed the letter the same way he did Kate's. He'd said 'Dear Derek' and 'Yours'. Although Kate always said 'Dearest', it was close enough.

Stupid Stiles, he thought as he escaped into his room. Sure he enjoyed Derek's correspondence and had fancied them friends, but to start with 'Dear'? To drop his surname? To sign it 'yours'? His stupid heart needed to stop pounding. Even if Stiles had managed to grow attached to Derek through their letters, there was no way an earl would deign to have affections for someone with no family ties, no title. Despite what happened in novels, nobility did not marry dishonored scribes.

Why was his mind on marriage now? Because he knew Kate wanted to marry Derek? He should just let her get on with her plan. Then Stiles could scribe for both of them. Then he could know Derek in person and Derek could treat him like an employee and Stiles could get his head back on straight.

But his chest ached when he imagined them married, and not just because he hated Kate.

God, he was so angry with himself today.

Allison found Stiles in the library, pouring over books on the lineage of the nobility. Family trees spread out over countless pages, showing the transfer of titles over hundreds of years. When he was discovered, Stiles was trailing a finger over the branch of a tree with the name Martin inscribed above it. There, at the bottom of the tree, was Lydia Martin, Duchess of Roden, only heir to the Princess Natalie and her husband, Lord Martin.

"Lord Martin, it seems, married extremely well for the second son of a duke with no title of his own," Allison said to announce herself. She had somehow gotten right next to Stiles and saw where his finger had stopped.

"So it would seem. Maybe he used witchcraft." It was a joke, and they both laughed. "Seriously, though, Lady Lydia is extremely lucky too. The only child of a princess. She got her own title and lands."

"Why suddenly so interested in Lady Martin?" Allison bumped him on the shoulder until he scooted over so she could sit beside him at the table.

"I met her." He ignored Allison's sound of surprise and continued talking. "It made me realize I've forgotten a lot of genealogy. One of her officers scolded me for not recognizing her, and he was right. I should have noticed her insignia on the carriage, at the very least. So I decided to brush up."

Allison laughed softly and pushed some of his hair back from his face. It had gotten much longer than when he'd first moved into the Argent house. Before he'd moved in, he'd always kept his hair shaved pretty close. He'd hated styling it into submission, but now that he was under no expectations, he didn't mind the length. Most days, he let it hang loose. In fact, he hadn't styled it in over a month.

"You always get so intense about the strangest things, Stiles," Allison said, not unkindly. "But fair enough. If you're going to study, the least I can do is help. I probably need a refresher too."

"I doubt it," Stiles retorted with a snort. Unlike Stiles, Allison was quizzed regularly on the nobility.

Regardless, Allison took the book from him and started flipping through it. When she found a family she liked, she stopped and pointed to the tree but didn't let Stiles see it. She'd call out the family name and Stiles would try to remember the living members. Then she'd quiz him on their regalia. They went through several this way – Argent, Blake, Lahey, and Martin.

"McCall?" Allison asked.

"It's... Lady McCall inherited her husband's title upon his death, right? But she has a son, Scott. When he came of age, the title passed to him," Stiles answered.

"And that title is?"

He pursed his lips and stood from the table. While he thought, he paced. Movement always helped him think. "Baron… something Hispanic?"

"Baron Posey," Allison said, giving him a break. "Their family symbol?"

"A black wolf," Stiles answered without hesitation. He'd always liked that one. Despite the ferocity wolves usually inspired, the McCall wolf always looked tame to Stiles, like a beautiful overgrown dog.

"Good." Allison praised him with clapping and everything. Then she flipped once more through the book. "How about this one?" she asked, and something in her tone made Stiles nervous.

He returned to the table and tried not to read too much from the anxious expression on Allison's face. Part of him already knew what he'd see in the book, but he looked anyway. There, at the top of the page, was a beautifully scripted name: Stilinski.

"I don't want to study anymore," he said, soft and rushed.

"Stiles," Allison contested, but he slammed the book shut to cut her off.

"I said I don't want to study anymore." He didn't mean to sound so rude, but he could barely even hear himself over the rush of blood in his ears. Stepping away from the table, he ran his hand through his hair and tried to remember how to breathe.

It took a moment for the room to stop squeezing him. Allison stayed silent throughout the ordeal, for which Stiles was grateful. If she had tried speaking, he may have begun to panic. Only once his breathing had leveled out did she approach him and place a hand on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I thought… It's been four years."

"Tell me-," Stiles began before hesitating. He cleared his throat, mind racing for a new subject. "Do you know what happened between Derek Hale and your aunt nine years ago? Derek said they left off on a sour note."

At first his answer was silence, but eventually Allison let the subject change without argument. "Vaguely," she admitted. "I was ten at the time, so I didn't pay much attention, you know. And my father is always trying to keep the darker parts of our family a secret from me. But as far as I know, Mr. Hale and my aunt met when he was in college. He was studying business practices, and she was helping out one of his professors with a dissertation. I know she used to spend a lot of time in his county, though I don't know if all of that time was spent with him. There was a large argument among the Hales during the year she knew Derek. His uncle, Mr. Peter Hale, apparently made a claim to the title and was almost disinherited. Then Derek was in the midst of a scandal involving rumors of a secret engagement."

"An engagement?" Stiles felt his chest squeeze at the same time his forehead knit together. "With whom?"

"A classmate at school, or so I heard. The rumor was that she was a gentleman's daughter with no title – far below Derek's station. Though no one knows who she was, I know for a fact that it was Kate that ended any such notions as marriage." Allison nodded, though her face was grim. "She's bragged enough times about saving Derek's honor to be sure of that. So if Derek claims they ended sourly, he's probably talking about that."

"A secret engagement," Stiles murmured, his mind far away.

Derek had said he'd only admit to loving someone after knowing them for a long time. How long did he have to know someone to get engaged? Or was his failed engagement the reason for his current hesitations?

And how dare Kate attempt to marry the man after being the cause of his unhappiness! It would take more than a few well penned letters to heal that wound. No wonder Derek distrusted her. Stiles would doubt her intentions too, if he were in Derek's position. He'd doubt her anyway, even if all she claimed was that she was excusing herself to use the restroom, but that was probably his bias talking.

Though he and Allison's conversation continued – they discussed other matters and debated on going riding together the next day, weather permitting – Stiles found himself thinking about Derek's past whenever the conversation lulled. His infamous curiosity was drawing him in, and he didn't know how to escape it.

The knock on the door came irritatingly early. Reddick answered it, as he always did, but Sir Gerard actually stepped out of his room to investigate the disturbance as well. Stiles was not curious about the visitor, but he did happen to pass by the entryway on his path toward food when the door was opened.

On their doorstep was an officer in full regalia. The blues and greens of his outfit were crisp and clean, and the buttons running down his chest shone in the early morning sun. On his lapel were the decorations of a young but successful career. When he removed his cap, Stiles recognized the tidy dark blonde hair, the smooth handsome face, the bright eyes set in a serious face.

"Officer Parrish?" he asked, quiet and under his breath. His steps slowed but he didn't stop until he was half out of the room and could hide from the confrontation. The officer had said the duchess would repay the Argents for the wheel, but Stiles honestly hadn't expected it to be true.

Parrish bowed to Gerard, measured and straight-backed. When he stood again, he was the picture of a perfect soldier. "Sir, the Duchess of Roden sent me to thank you for the service your scribe provided her the other day. Without the wheel from your stables, we would have been stranded for hours. Please accept her ladyship's sincerest gratitudes, as well as this payment for the wheel."

He bowed slightly as he handed over an envelope. Inside was enough money for at least two carriage wheels and a seal from the duchess herself. The seal carried no true monetary value, but they could display it as a sign of honor.

"I, too, am grateful," Gerard replied, smiling. His wrinkles made him look harmless, and his sweet tone made him sound innocent, but only the officer was convinced. "Her ladyship is truly gracious. Please let her know that she is free to use our estate whenever she may be in the county."

"I will." Parrish beamed, and for once his eyes did not seem so serious. He was a young man, and he looked younger still when he grinned. Stiles didn't know how anyone could be so generally attractive. "If you'll excuse me."

Then the officer turned and left. Sir Gerard gripped the wood of the door and slowly pushed it shut, his eyes on Parrish's retreating back. Despite the speed, Stiles felt like the door had never closed louder. The silence in its wake made his skin crawl, and he was suddenly aware that his heart was pounding too quickly. He had begun to sweat, and as he watched Gerard carefully check the money, he felt himself desperately wishing to run.

"Oh, Stiles," Gerard called, his voice sing-songy, like they were playing hide and seek. He pocketed the envelope of money and glanced around the entry hall. Stiles ducked behind the wall, but his gut told him the older man already knew where he was. "Come now, Stiles. No need to hide from me."

Then Gerard was there, standing at the corner of the wall, his serious, disappointed eyes staring down into Stiles'.

"Yes, Sir?" Stiles asked, pretending he wasn't suffering some kind of anxiety or panic or whatever had begun to affect him.

"Did you take a wheel from the stables and give it to the Duchess of Roden?" the old man asked. He didn't sound angry, but Stiles knew better than to assume the man's mood.

Straightening his back to appear taller and more confident, Stiles nodded. "Her carriage broke down in the w-"

The slap was sudden and sent Stiles stumbling back several steps. His hand flew up to cover his face, which stung and burned at the same time. Almost as soon as his hand touched his cheek, he ripped it away and clenched it by his side. He stood up straight, biting back the natural reaction of tears forming in his left eye. The best reaction was no reaction, he told himself.

When he looked back at Gerard, he saw Kate and Chris entering the hall from the stairway. They were both paused on the final two steps, their focus drawn to the confrontation. Chris' face was pinched with a strange concern, but Kate's initial surprise was quickly dissolving into glee.

"You," Gerard growled, voice low and angry. "You dared to steal from this family? No matter the situation, no matter the reason – I will not accept it! Do I make myself clear?"

"Even to help a duchess?" Stiles asked, his voice hard as he attempted to rein in his own fury.

"Did I stutter, boy?!" Gerard roared, his hand flying back for another swing. Chris stepped down from the stairs, almost as though he planned to stop his father, but it was unnecessary. The blow never came. Gerard retracted his hand and huffed. "You are so insignificant. You have no title, no power. You have nothing."

Stiles bit his cheek, but he couldn't stop the glare. The remarks never failed to stab him in his pride. His mind suddenly thought of Derek's letters, of how he judged people based on their treatment of those lesser than them. Derek would have a poor judgment of Gerard. Stiles was certain.

"This is how you treat nothing, is it?" Stiles asked, almost surprised at his own gall. "If I have nothing, then whose fault is that? Who made me nothing? Huh?!" He held his arms out to the side, spanning the hall. Kate and Gerard looked mortified and then furious, but something in Stiles wouldn't let him stop. He motioned to himself. "I helped a duchess without even knowing who she was! If I am anything, then I am a good man! That is more than you can claim. And if my father were alive-"

"Your father is dead!" Kate shouted, hurrying to her father's side. Her voice dropped to a sickeningly sweet tone. "And even if he were alive, you would still be a worthless disappointment. First a public disgrace. Now a thief. Tell me, what kind of father could find pride in such a son?"

If Stiles could clench his hands further, he'd draw blood.

"The den. Now." Gerard motioned down the hall, but Stiles didn't move. The den sounded like any other sitting room to anyone else. To Stiles it sounded like jail. Gerard regarded him with growing disbelief and anger. "You dare to- I said now!"

"Oh sweetheart," Kate cooed from her father's shoulder. "Don't make this harder than it has to be."

Her sweetness was poison. He hated her. He hated her father. He hated this house. But he turned and did as ordered anyway. Behind him, he heard Allison coming down the stairs, but when she started to complain, Chris went to her to calm her down. Stiles heard her quiet argument with her father the whole way down the hall.

The den was the farthest room from the front door. It had a window that faced the backyard, but bushes had been grown to cover it from view. Unlike most of the house, no carpets had been added here, so the stained wood was exposed, making the floor draftier than anywhere else in the manor. There were a couple of wooden chairs and a small table, but no sofa. Paintings of past Argents adorned the walls, as well as a recent portrait of Gerard – all the Earls. Despite its small size, the lack of furniture or adornment made it feel spacious.

Stiles walked to the center of the room before turning to face the current Earl.

"I am not apologizing," he said, steadfast.

Chris had not followed, but Kate had. She was biting her lip with anticipation, disgusting in her excitement. Gerard closed the door behind him, shutting her out, and Stiles barely glimpsed her shocked disappointment before she was blocked from view.

"Maybe you aren't right now. But I'll see if I can't fix that." The old man stepped closer. A few years ago, Stiles mocked the threat concealed in the man's words, but now he kept his sarcasm at bay.

"Do whatever you want. I won't apologize. I meant every word." Stiles let his fists fall open, trying to force his body to relax. It wouldn't stop what was coming, but it would help.

Gerard smiled smugly as he pulled his jacket and vest off. "And you'll mean every syllable when you beg for forgiveness." He draped his clothes over the back of a chair and then focused all his attention on Stiles. "You will beg, because you know this only ends when you do. But even if you begged right now, I can't just let you go about your business. You stole from me, and then you insulted me in front of my children, in front of my staff. You must be taught a lesson."

"Whatever," Stiles said, just for the sake of getting the last word in.

When the beating started, he at least had that small victory to his name.