Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
White's Gentlemen's Club occupied a building on St. James's Street that reeked of old money and older prejudices. Gregory climbed the steps with the same measured pace he had once used approaching enemy positions—alert, assessing, ready for whatever came next.
The doorman took one look at his card and stepped aside without comment.
Inside, the air smelled of tobacco, brandy, and the particular staleness that came from rooms where the same men had sat in the same chairs for decades.
Dark wood paneling absorbed what little light came through the heavily curtained windows.
Leather chairs clustered around tables where gentlemen bent over newspapers or played cards with the intensity of men who had nothing better to occupy their time.
Several heads turned as Gregory entered. A few nods of acknowledgment. More than a few curious stares.
And from the corner near the fireplace, poorly concealed laughter.
Gregory's jaw tightened, but he kept his expression neutral. He had dealt with worse than aristocratic mockery. Had survived actual warfare, not the drawing-room variety these men probably considered conflict.
"Your Grace." The club steward approached, his face carefully blank. "Welcome to White's. Might I show you to a seat?"
"That will not be necessary," Gregory said. "I am capable of finding my own chair."
He moved toward an empty wingback near the window, deliberately ignoring the group by the fireplace. But their voices carried in the quiet room, pitched just loud enough to be overheard while maintaining plausible deniability.
"—heard he spent fifteen years in the army. Can you imagine? A duke's heir playing at soldier."
"Not playing, surely. I heard he actually worked his way up through the ranks. Like a common—"
"Gentleman's profession, of course. Though one does wonder why he felt the need to prove anything. Unless he was not entirely certain of his inheritance?"
More laughter, quickly stifled but unmistakable.
Gregory's hand tightened on the back of the chair he had been about to claim.
He recognized the tactic—had seen it employed by insecure officers attempting to establish dominance over new arrivals.
The difference was that in the military, such behavior could get a man killed.
Here, it was apparently considered sport.
He turned slowly, his gaze settling on the group by the fireplace.
Five young men, none older than five-and-twenty, all dressed in the elaborate fashion currently favored by London's idle rich.
Too much lace at the cuffs. Waistcoats embroidered with thread that probably cost more than his soldiers' annual wages.
"Gentlemen," Gregory said, his voice low and carrying. "If you have something to say, I suggest you say it directly. I have never been fond of cowards who hide behind whispers."
The room fell silent.
One of the young lords—a sandy-haired man with a weak chin and too much pomade—stood with exaggerated slowness. "I am certain I do not know what you mean, Your Grace. We were merely discussing—"
"You were discussing my military service as though it was some amusing eccentricity rather than fifteen years spent defending the very country that allows you to sit here in silk waistcoats and mock your betters."
The young lord's face flushed. "Your betters? You forget yourself. My family—"
"Your family did what, exactly?" Gregory took a step closer. "Bought you a commission? Sent you to fight? Or did they keep you safe in London while other men bled and died?"
"How dare you—"
"I dare," Gregory said quietly, "because I earned the right. I served without using my courtesy title. Rose through the ranks on merit, not family connections. I commanded men in battle, not from the safety of a London club. And I have killed more men than you have likely ever met."
He moved closer still, until he stood directly before the young lord. The man tried to hold his ground, but Gregory saw the fear in his eyes.
"So when you whisper about me," Gregory continued, his voice dropping even lower, "when you question my right to be here or suggest I am somehow less than you because I chose to serve rather than idle—"
His hand shot out, faster than the young lord could react. He gripped the man's throat—not hard enough to truly hurt, but firm enough to make his point devastatingly clear.
"—you should remember that I know precisely how much pressure it takes to crush a man's windpipe. And that unlike you, I do not make empty threats."
The young lord's eyes went wide. His hands came up instinctively, scrabbling at Gregory's wrist, but Gregory's grip did not waver.
"Do we understand each other?" Gregory asked, his tone conversational despite the violence of the moment.
The young lord managed a strangled sound that might have been agreement.
Gregory released him, stepping back as the man collapsed into his chair, gasping and red-faced.
Gregory turned his attention to the others, who had all gone very still.
"Let me be clear," he said, his voice pitched to carry through the entire room now.
"I am the Duke of Everleigh. The legitimate heir to a dukedom that predates most of your families' titles by centuries.
I fought for this country. Bled for it. And I will not tolerate disrespect from men whose greatest accomplishment is being born to the right parents. "
He paused, letting the words settle.
"If any of you wish to challenge that—if you have something to say about my character, my service, or my right to be here—then say it now. To my face. And be prepared to back up your words with action."
Silence.
Gregory waited, but no one moved. No one spoke.
"Excellent," he said. "Then I suggest we all return to our afternoon pursuits and pretend this unpleasantness never occurred."
He turned back toward the chair he had originally chosen, dismissing them as completely as if they had ceased to exist.
The room remained silent for a long moment. Then, gradually, conversation resumed—quieter now, more careful.
Gregory settled into the wingback chair and picked up a discarded newspaper, though he did not read it. He was too busy monitoring the room, assessing reactions, cataloging who seemed cowed and who might prove problematic later.
A footman appeared at his elbow. "Brandy, Your Grace?"
"Whiskey," Gregory said. "Neat."
"Of course."
The footman disappeared, and Gregory allowed himself a moment of grim satisfaction. Not how he would have preferred to establish himself, but effective nonetheless. Men like those by the fireplace only understood one language—power, wielded without hesitation.
"Impressive."
Gregory looked up to find a man standing beside his chair. Tall, dark-haired, perhaps thirty years of age. Well-dressed but not ostentatious. His expression suggested amusement rather than fear or hostility.
"I prefer 'efficient,'" Gregory said.
The man laughed. "Fair enough. Lord Henry Ashford. And before you ask—no, I am not related to the Ashford who made a fool of himself by suggesting you were uncertain of your inheritance. That was my distant cousin, whom the family generally pretends does not exist."
Despite himself, Gregory's mouth twitched. "Your Grace. Though you seem to know that already."
"Everyone knows," Henry said. "You are the talk of the season. The military Duke who actually knows which end of a sword is sharp. Half the ton is terrified of you, and the other half is trying to figure out how to use you to their advantage."
"And which half are you?"
"Neither." Henry gestured to the empty chair beside Gregory's. "May I?"
Gregory nodded.
Henry sat, accepting a glass of whiskey from the same footman who had just delivered Gregory's. They sat in silence for a moment, both watching the room.
"You made an enemy today," Henry said finally, his voice low enough not to carry. "Weatherby—the man whose throat you decorated with your hand—his father is influential. Vindictive. The sort who holds grudges."
"Then he should have raised a son with better manners," Gregory said.
"Agreed." Henry took a sip of his whiskey. "But you might want to watch your back regardless."
"I always do."
Henry smiled. "I believe it. Military habit?"
"Survival habit."
"Smart." Henry studied him for a moment. "You know, you are not what I expected."
"What did you expect?"
"Someone more... political. More interested in playing the game. But you are not interested in games at all, are you?"
"I am interested in results," Gregory said. "Games are for men with too much time and too little purpose."
"You will fit in wonderfully here," Henry said dryly.
Then, more seriously, "Look, I know you do not know me.
Have no reason to trust me. But I served as well—not as long as you, and not in the same capacity.
I was fortunate enough to avoid most of the actual fighting.
But I know what it means to come back to this—" He gestured around the room. "—and find it all rather absurd."
Gregory studied him carefully. Looked for signs of deception, ulterior motives, the careful maneuvering he had learned to expect from London Society. But Henry's expression remained open, his posture relaxed. Either he was telling the truth, or he was a far better actor than most.
"Why are you telling me this?" Gregory asked.
"Because I think you could use an ally," Henry said simply. "And because I am tired of spending my time with men like Weatherby and his ilk. They bore me. You, on the other hand, are interesting."
"I am not looking for friends."
"No," Henry agreed. "You are looking to secure your estates, help your tenants, and probably navigate the marriage mart with your new duchess while avoiding the worst of Society's machinations. How am I doing?"
Gregory's eyes narrowed. "You have been paying attention."