Francesco through back her head and laughed. It was the cruel, pitiless laugh of a woman who had long ago stopped expecting mercy and decency to fall her way.
“Because, Mr. Lang, my poor, misguided husband, brilliant and well-liked as he was, also happened to be carrying on with the chancellor’s daughter.”
Tony stared, aghast. “His daughter?!”
“Emma,” Francesco said, spitting out the word as if were a mouthful of poison. “She was a child, only 14. Simon adored her. We were never able to have children, you see. So he took a fatherly interest. He spent time with her. Mentored her. It was never anything illicit, not like they accused him of. But that girl, that stupid, attention-starved little strumpet, she took it all for love, for desire. She wrote letters. She filled diaries with fantasies and foolish plans. It was only a matter of time before her father found out.”

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