The crisp morning air, scented with the fading roses in the Beaumont Manor gardens, did little to soothe the unease twisting in Eleanor's stomach. The emerald necklace, a heavy weight against her skin, felt more like a shackle than a gift. Julian's unexpected attention, his polite inquiries, his…almost charming behavior, had only deepened her suspicion. What game was he playing?

She’d risen early, unable to sleep, her mind a whirlwind of fractured memories and present anxieties. The library beckoned, a familiar sanctuary where she could lose herself in the comforting silence and the scent of aged paper. But fate, it seemed, had other plans.

As she approached the library door, a murmur of voices reached her, drifting from the small study adjacent to it. Julian's voice, low and serious, was unmistakable. Instinctively, Eleanor paused, her hand hovering over the doorknob. It was hardly proper to eavesdrop, but a primal fear, born of her past experiences, rooted her to the spot.

“The situation is dire, Your Grace,” the other voice, undoubtedly that of Mr. Finch, the estate manager, was saying, laced with a worried tremor. "Another season of poor harvests, coupled with the…" he hesitated, "...the unfortunate investments…we’re teetering on the brink.”

Eleanor’s breath caught in her throat. Investments? What unfortunate investments? She knew the Beaumont estate was vast, prosperous even, but it seemed appearances could be deceiving.

“I understand, Finch,” Julian replied, his tone laced with a weariness she hadn't heard before. "But selling off land is not an option. Not yet. It would be…detrimental to the family name."

“But Your Grace, the creditors are growing impatient. Lord Harrington is threatening to call in his loan, and the interest alone…” Finch’s voice trailed off, implying a sum too large to comprehend.

A cold dread washed over Eleanor. Harrington. She remembered that name. In her previous life, his loan had been the catalyst for Julian's desperate actions, the event that had ultimately led to her…demise.

“We need to find a solution, Finch. A solution that doesn't involve further depleting the estate's assets,” Julian insisted, a sharp edge to his voice. “Think, man, think! There must be something we haven’t considered.”

There was a long, heavy silence, punctuated only by the tick-tock of the grandfather clock in the hallway. Then, Finch spoke, his voice hesitant.

“There is one thing, Your Grace…the Duchess’s dowry.”

The words hung in the air, thick with unspoken implications. Eleanor’s heart plummeted. Of course. It all made sense now. The sudden attention, the polite greetings, the unwanted gifts – they weren't signs of genuine affection, but calculated moves in a desperate game. He needed her money.

“The dowry is…significant, Your Grace,” Finch continued, oblivious to Eleanor’s silent turmoil. “It could alleviate the immediate pressure, buy us some time to…restructure the investments, perhaps find a more profitable venture.”

Julian remained silent for what felt like an eternity. Eleanor held her breath, her mind racing. Was he considering it? Was he actually planning to use her fortune to escape his financial woes?

“I am aware of the dowry, Finch,” Julian finally said, his voice strangely devoid of emotion. “But…it comes with certain conditions. It is tied to the Beaumont name, and should the marriage…dissolve…it would revert back to the Ainsworth family.”

"That is true, Your Grace. But surely...a temporary arrangement could be made. A loan from the dowry, secured by the estate?" Finch suggested, his desperation palpable.

“I will consider it, Finch,” Julian said, his tone dismissive. “But for now, I need you to explore other options. Every avenue must be explored before we…consider that particular solution.”

The conversation ended abruptly. Eleanor heard the scrape of a chair as Julian stood up, followed by the sound of the door opening. She quickly retreated, darting behind a large potted fern just as Julian emerged from the study.

He looked drawn, his brow furrowed in concentration. He didn’t see her, and Eleanor held her breath as he strode past, heading in the direction of the stables.

Once he was gone, Eleanor emerged from her hiding place, her legs trembling. The library, once a sanctuary, now felt like a trap. She retreated to her own chambers, the weight of the eavesdropped conversation crushing her.

So, it was true. He was still the same manipulative, self-serving man she had known in her previous life. He was using her, not for love or affection, but for her money. The emerald necklace, now clutched tightly in her hand, felt even heavier, colder.

She paced the room, her mind in turmoil. Part of her felt vindicated. Her suspicions had been confirmed. She hadn’t been foolish to distrust him. He was still the man she remembered, the man who had abandoned her, the man who had driven her to despair.

But another part of her, the part that had dared to hope, the part that had been momentarily swayed by his unexpected kindness, felt a sharp pang of disappointment. She had allowed herself to believe, even for a fleeting moment, that he might have changed. That this second chance could be different.

She sank onto the velvet chaise lounge, her gaze fixed on the flickering flames in the fireplace. The letters she had burned only days ago seemed to mock her now. They had been a symbolic act of severing ties to her past, but her past was clearly not ready to let her go.

This knowledge changed everything. She couldn't afford to be passive, to simply wait for him to tire of her and seek a divorce. She needed to protect herself, to protect her family's fortune. She couldn't allow him to manipulate her, to use her as a pawn in his desperate game.

But how? How could she outwit a man who was clearly more cunning and ruthless than she had initially given him credit for? She needed a plan, a strategy. She needed to understand the full extent of his debts, his investments, his…schemes.

An idea began to form in her mind, a risky, audacious plan. She would play his game, but she would play it better. She would pretend to be interested in his financial affairs, to offer her assistance, to gain his trust. And while he was busy trying to manipulate her, she would gather information, uncover his secrets, and find a way to protect herself and her family.

It was a dangerous game, one that could potentially backfire spectacularly. But she was no longer the naive, heartbroken girl she had been in her previous life. She was Eleanor Ainsworth, Duchess of Beaumont, and she was determined to survive, to thrive, and to ensure that history did not repeat itself.

She rose from the chaise lounge, a newfound resolve hardening her gaze. The emerald necklace no longer felt like a shackle, but a symbol of her determination, a reminder of the price she had paid, and the price she was willing to pay to protect herself.

The game had changed. And Eleanor was ready to play.