Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
The next afternoon, Imogen took the boys to St. James’s Park to feed the ducks, hoping the fresh air would clear the fog of Julia’s previous barbs.
“Look, Miss Lewis! Philip is trying to feed the swan his entire biscuit!” Arthur shouted.
“Oh goodness, Lord Philip! The poor thing will choke!” She laughed. As she turned to intervene, a shadow fell over her.
“Still playing at mother, I see,” Lady Presholm remarked, appearing from the gravel path with a small party of gossipmongers in tow. “Not that you would know what that is like to have one, you poor little thing. It is a charming look for you, though, Miss Lewis. So… domestic.”
Imogen curtsied against her will, her spine like steel. “The boys enjoy the park, Lady Presholm. As their governess, it is my duty to see that they are properly educated and cared for. I bid you good day.”
The Countess stepped closer, her silk gown rustling under her heavy fur coat. She gestured toward the boys, her eyes cold. “Did you know that His Grace was at the ball last night? It has been the talk of the ton.”
“No, My Lady,” Imogen answered through gritted teeth, though she could not deny she was interested in whatever Julia had to say.
“He spent quite a long time with the beautiful Lady Honoria. She would make an excellent Duchess, don’t you think? She has the bloodline to ensure the Welton name continues with the dignity it deserves. She is of impeccable breeding.”
Imogen felt a sharp, twisting pain in her chest at the harsh words. “His Grace’s choices are his own. He is merely my employer,” she whispered. “I wish him well in his endeavors.”
“Indeed, Miss Lewis. And his choices will always lead him back to his station,” Julia whispered, a cruel smile touching her lips. “Do not get too comfortable in that nursery. I am warning you. When the new mistress arrives, the help is usually the first thing to be swept away.”
“Come to think of it, I thought I saw His Grace with Lady Catherine,” another woman whispered, loudly enough for Imogen to hear, of course. “They were quite cozy, sharing champagne by the hearth if I recall.”
“Ah, I think you are right. A man of many interests, as one would have it. Good day, Imogen.”
Julia swept past, her laughter trailing behind her like poisonous vapor. Imogen stood frozen, the boys’ happy shouts sounding muffled and impossibly far away. She felt the weight of her meager station, the sheer impossibility of ever being more than a distraction in the eyes of the world.
That evening, the house was quiet until the Duke of Kirkhammer stopped by for an unexpected visit. He walked into the study unannounced, where Ambrose was staring at a glass of brandy he hadn’t touched.
“You look like a man who has been stepped on by a horse,” Morgan said, dropping into the leather chair opposite him.
“I am fine,” Ambrose snapped. “Just seeing to some paperwork is all.”
“You are a liar. You’ve been to three balls in the last week and haven’t danced in a single set. The mamas are starting to think you’ve taken a vow of celibacy.”
Ambrose sighed, rubbing his temples. “It’s the boys. And the responsibility. And… everything. It’s too much to be social, to be so carefree.”
“Ah. And by everything, do you mean the beautiful woman upstairs who makes you look like a lost puppy every time she enters a room?” Morgan asked, a smirk playing on his lips.
“Watch your tongue,” he growled.
“You do not like it when I call her beautiful, do you? Well, she is.”
“She is the governess, Morgan. There is a line. I will not cross it, not this time. A widow is one thing, but I will not dally with the help.”
“I don’t think you want to dally with her at all. I am your closest friend. I think you want to cross that line, permanently.”
“Morgan…”
“In fact, I’d say it’s a line you’ve already tripped over, by the look of it,” Morgan countered, his voice softening as Ambrose’s cheeks began to redden.
“Ambrose, you’re the Duke of Welton. You can have anything you want.
The question is, are you brave enough to ignore the Presholms of the world and take it? ”
“I must live in this world, just as you do. Lord and Lady Presholm would never allow it. You know how gossip festers, spreading until everyone is turned against you.”
Ambrose didn’t answer. He just looked at the door, as if he could see through the wood and the stone, up to the nursery wing where Imogen was undoubtedly tucking the boys in. It was where his heart was, and where he was forbidden to follow.
“Do not be your father,” Morgan whispered. “You deserve love, you deserve the world. You show a mask to everyone, but I know the real you! How much you cared for your mother, and your brother, and—”
“Enough!” Ambrose barked as he rose to his feet. “I cannot think here. Let us be off to White’s.”
“I’ll never pass up a drink,” Morgan said, opening the door.
The club was thick with the scent of pipe tobacco and the tang of gin. Ambrose and Morgan found a secluded corner in the card room, the velvet heavy at their backs. Ambrose downed one scotch easily, then poured another; his gaze fixed on the amber liquid as if it held the answers to his quandary.
“There,” Morgan muttered suddenly, his playful tone vanishing. He didn’t point, but his chin jerked toward the far end of the room near the private alcoves. “Speak of the devil, and he shall appear. Or at least his shadow.”
Ambrose looked up. Lord Presholm was there, and he was not alone. He was huddled with a man Ambrose recognized as a notorious back-alley fixer, a man who dealt in debts, forged signatures, and the kind of information that ended lives.
Presholm leaned in close, his face twisted in a way that stripped away his usual veneer of aristocratic boredom.
From their vantage point, they saw Presholm slide a heavy, wax-sealed envelope across the mahogany table.
The fixer did not open it; he simply tapped it against his palm, his teeth baring in a jagged grin.
“Is that… a deed?” Morgan whispered, leaning forward. “My, how the plot thickens before our very eyes.”
Ambrose narrowed his gaze. “Or a promissory note. Look at Presholm’s hands.”
The Lord’s gloved fingers were trembling. He fumbled with a smaller slip of paper the fixer handed him in return, a delicate, violet-scented note that looked suspiciously like a lady’s private correspondence.
Presholm snatched it, his eyes darting around the room with frantic energy before he shoved the letter into his breast pocket, right over his heart.
“That wasn’t a simple business transaction,” Ambrose said, his voice a dangerous growl.
“Blackmail, I’d guess,” Morgan confirmed, his smirk almost gone. “And by the look of that stationery, Presholm isn’t the victim. He’s the one buying the silence of someone else. Or perhaps, buying the means to ruin them. Curious.”
Ambrose watched as Presholm stood abruptly, adjusting his coat with a sharp, arrogant tug. He walked past their table, nodding curtly to Ambrose as he felt the heat rise in his collar.
What in the devil is he up to now?
Ambrose didn’t return the nod. He watched Presholm retreating until the heavy oak doors of the club thudded shut, leaving a trail of oily self-importance in the air. The resolve that had been flickering in his chest all evening suddenly caught fire.
“I’m leaving,” Ambrose announced, slamming his glass onto the table with enough force to make the ice rattle.
“Right behind you,” Morgan said, standing quickly. “I find the air in here has become rather stagnant.”
They stepped out into the biting chill of the London night, the gaslights casting long, distorted shadows on the cobblestones. Ambrose’s carriage was called forward, the horses’ breath blooming in white plumes against the dark.
Once inside the velvet interior, the door clicked shut, sealing them into a silence that was broken only by the rhythmic strike of hooves and the creak of cool leather.
Ambrose sat staring out the window, his jaw set so tight it ached. He rubbed it absently, stroking his beard.
“You’re thinking about the violet stationery,” Morgan said, sprawled on the opposite bench, his usual levity replaced by a sharp, observant stillness.
“I am thinking about the hypocrisy of it all,” Ambrose ground out, his voice low and vibrating with a suppressed rage. “Lady Presholm spends her afternoons lecturing the ton on social order. And yet, there Lord Presholm is, in the corners of White’s, trading in the gutter.”
Morgan leaned forward, his face obscured by the passing shadows of the streetlamps. “That fixer deals in ruin. If Presholm has his hands on a lady’s correspondence, he isn’t just protecting his own skin; he’s holding a knife to someone’s throat. The question is, whose?”
Ambrose turned away from the window, his eyes dark.
“He looks down on her, Morgan. He looks at Imogen like she were a piece of the most delicate chocolate cake. It makes my blood boil to think she is at the mercy of people like that. That I am supposed to care what they whisper in their drawing rooms while they do this in the dark. I cannot help but worry for her… as a member of my household.”
“Then don’t,” Morgan said simply. “Start acting like the man who owns the house, not the man who is afraid of the neighbors.”
Ambrose looked at his friend, the fire from earlier settling into a cold, hard determination. “He’s up to something, Morgan. And if it touches her, if a single word of his filth reaches that nursery, I will not just ignore him. I will destroy him.”
Morgan nodded slowly, a grim smile touching his lips. “There he is. I was wondering when the Duke of Welton would finally show up.”
As the carriage turned onto Grosvenor Square, Ambrose didn’t look at the grand facades of the other houses. He looked up at the darkened windows of the nursery wing, a silent vow taking root in his heart. He was done playing by the rules of a world that was rotted at the core.