Chapter 8
The brandy at White’s tasted of smoke and aged oak, spreading warmth through Rees’s chest as Rafe recounted his latest misadventure involving a spooked horse and a flower cart in Hyde Park.
Alistair laughed so hard he nearly spilled his drink, and even Rees found himself grinning at his friend’s exaggerated reenactment of the vendor’s outraged Italian cursing.
The comforting atmosphere of the club enveloped them with leather, wood polish, good tobacco, and the low hum of voices discussing everything from Parliament to polo.
“You seem better,” Alistair remarked, reclining in his chair with the contentment of a man who had laughed away his worries. “These past weeks. Less brooding into your brandy, at least.”
Rees considered deflecting, but these were his closest friends. “Things have improved somewhat. At home.”
Rafe raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“We are finding our way toward civility. Perhaps even understanding.” He swirled his glass, watching the amber liquid catch the light. “She plays the pianoforte beautifully. I had not known that.”
“Small discoveries,” Alistair said wisely. “That is how marriages are built, is it not? One small discovery at a time.”
Before Rees could respond, a familiar voice cut through the atmosphere.
“Well, well. If it is not the happy bridegroom himself.”
Lord Sterling stood beside their table, impeccably dressed in evening wear that likely cost more than most men’s monthly earnings.
His dark hair gleamed with pomade, and his smile was sharp.
Everything about him radiated the confidence of a man who had never faced a consequence he could not buy or charm away.
The conversation around them stuttered and died. Every gentleman in the vicinity sensed the potential for drama—Sterling and Harcourt, the scandal, the forced marriage. Rees felt their attention press down on him.
“Sterling,” he acknowledged, his voice carefully neutral though his fingers tightened on his glass.
“I must offer my congratulations on your hasty marriage.” Damian’s smile widened, revealing too many teeth. “Taking my leftovers, are you? How magnanimous of you, Harcourt. Not every man would be so accommodating.”
The words hung in the air like a challenge. Several men shifted uneasily in their seats, but none looked away. This was the confrontation they had anticipated, the clash between the rake who had ruined a lady and the man forced to salvage her reputation.
Rees set down his glass and rose slowly, standing tall. He had two inches on Sterling, and he used them now, looking down at the man with a calm that hinted at violence.
“Careful, Sterling. That is my wife you are discussing.”
“Your wife?” Damian snickered, the sound ringing as false as fool’s gold.
“Come now, Harcourt. We are all men of the world here. We both know what she is.” He glanced around, playing to their audience with the skill of a seasoned performer.
“Did she tell you how she begged for my attention? How she practically threw herself at me in that garden?”
Something shifted in Rees’s chest—not the rage he expected but a cold clarity that slowed time.
He studied Damian’s face, seeing past the handsome features to what lay beneath.
The slight twitch at the corner of his mouth, the malicious pleasure in his eyes, the casual cruelty with which he wielded Victoria’s pain.
This was what Victoria had faced in that garden—a predator in gentleman’s clothing, a man who destroyed innocence for sport. The lies flowed from Damian’s lips smooth as whiskey, practiced and polished. He had told this story so many times he probably half-believed it himself.
“She was desperate for it,” Damian continued, warming to his theme. “Tore her own dress for attention, then acted innocent when witnesses arrived. Quite the little actress, your wife. Though I suppose you have discovered that yourself by now—”
“You are lying.”
The words emerged with such certainty that Damian paused, his smirk faltering.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You are lying,” Rees repeated, louder this time, ensuring every man in earshot could hear.
“Victoria rejected you. You lured her to that garden with a forged note, forced yourself on her, and when she pushed you away—when she had the courage to fight back—you arranged for witnesses to find you at the right moment to ensure her ruin.”
Damian’s face flushed. “That is a serious accusation, Harcourt.”
“It is not an accusation. It is a statement of fact.” Rees stepped closer, close enough to see the flicker of uncertainty in Sterling’s eyes.
“You are a coward who preys on innocent women, who destroys reputations for your own pleasure. You could not bear that Victoria rejected you, so you made certain no one else would have her. Except you miscalculated, did you not? Because I did marry her. And now I am going to ensure everyone knows exactly what you are.”
The whispers started immediately, rippling outward from their confrontation. Rees caught fragments— “always wondered about that night”— “Sterling does have a reputation”— “the Richmond girl was known for her virtue before—”
“Challenge me and the whole story comes out,” Damian hissed, his polished veneer cracking. “Every sordid detail of how she—”
“Let it,” Rees interrupted, his voice carrying an authority that made lesser men step back.
“Bring it all into the light. I will stand before any assembly you choose and tell them how Lord Sterling assaults innocent women and then destroys their reputations to hide his crimes. I will tell them about Catherine Winters, about the merchant’s daughter, about every woman you have hurt.
My wife is innocent, and I will defend her honor against anyone who says otherwise. Including you.”
The challenge rang through the silent club.
Damian looked around for support but found only speculative gazes, reassessment in the faces of men remembering other rumors, other women who had been ruined after catching Lord Sterling’s attention.
The narrative was shifting beneath his feet, and he knew it.
“This is not over,” he snarled, but the threat lacked conviction.
“Yes, it is.” Rees’s voice held the finality of a door closing.
“If you speak my wife’s name again, if you so much as look in her direction, I will destroy you.
Not with violence—that would be too easy.
I will destroy you with the truth. Every crime, every cruelty, every woman you have hurt.
London society loves a scandal, Sterling. Shall we give them one?”
Damian’s jaw worked as if he wanted to speak, but no words came. He turned on his heel and strode from the club, his exit lacking the dramatic flair he likely intended. The silence held for a heartbeat longer, then conversation resumed with the force of a dam breaking.
Rafe clapped a hand on Rees’s shoulder. “Well done.”
But Rees barely heard him. His pulse hammered in his ears, his hands shook with the aftermath of confrontation, and all he could think was that he needed to get home. Needed to tell Victoria what had happened, needed to see her face when she realized she had been defended.
He grabbed his coat and ignored Alistair’s questions and Rafe’s offer to accompany him.
The street outside blurred as he walked, then ran, his shoes slipping on wet cobblestones.
Three weeks he had spent learning to see Victoria for who she truly was—brave enough to save her family at the cost of her own happiness, strong enough to endure society’s censure with grace, generous enough to try building something from the wreckage of their forced union.
She deserved to know that someone had finally stood up for her, had finally called Lord Sterling what he was—a predator, a liar, a coward. She deserved to know that her husband believed her, would defend her, would protect her from anyone who tried to harm her again.
The townhouse loomed before him, and Rees took the steps two at a time, bursting through the door with enough force to alarm the butler. He followed the thread of lamplight to the drawing room where he knew she would be, working at her embroidery.
When he entered and saw her there—wide-eyed, frightened, beautiful in her surprise—the words tumbled out before he could organize them.
“I encountered Sterling.”
***
The needle pierced the linen, drawing scarlet thread through the taut fabric.
Each stitch became a small act of creation in the lamplight pooling across the drawing room.
Outside, London’s evening sounds drifted through the windows: carriage wheels clattering on cobblestones, distant laughter from a gathering she would never attend, the city continuing its routine while she sat in solitude.
Her fingers moved with practiced precision, forming the outline of a rose that would never wilt or disappoint.
Three weeks had passed since that evening at the pianoforte when Rees had uttered three words that still echoed in her quiet moments: I believe you.
Such simple words had shifted something between them, like a key turning in a lock she had thought forever sealed.
He came home for dinner now, most evenings at least, no longer fleeing to his club the moment propriety allowed.
They spoke of books, music, and the weather; careful conversations skirting anything too personal or painful, but conversations nonetheless.
She paused, needle suspended above the fabric, recalling dinner just two nights before.
Rees had actually laughed at something she said about Mrs. Pembridge’s ongoing battle with the new scullery maid, who insisted on rearranging the china cupboard according to her own mysterious system.
The sound startled them both, genuine mirth breaking through his usual reserve.
He quickly covered it with a cough, returning to his roasted fowl, but she had noticed the way his eyes crinkled at the corners.