Chapter 29
David sank onto the settee with the ease of an old friend, but his usual wry smile had dimmed when he saw Raph’s weary expression.
Raph handed the letter to his friend.
“Good God,” David muttered, opening the letter. “You look ready for murder.”
Raph remained silent as David scanned the lines and let out a low whistle.
He leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Well? What did Camelia say when you showed her this charming billet-doux?”
“I haven’t shown it to her.”
David’s eyebrows shot up. “You haven’t—Raph, are you mad? The woman is your wife, not some decorative porcelain you keep on a shelf and away from all the bad things. This is about her family, too, isn’t it?”
“Yes. She is also the reason Montague thinks he can squeeze me twice as hard,” Raph said flatly. “He believes if he threatens Pamela or Camelia, he has me by the collar. I cannot put any of them in danger, and by letting her know the truth, that’s exactly what will happen.”
David gave a short, incredulous laugh. “So, instead, you’re planning to… what? Shoulder the pounds and a bastardy scandal alone? Again?”
“I handled it once. I’ll handle it again.”
“You handled it by receiving a bullet in your shoulder and watching your sister die,” David snapped. “Forgive me if I’m not eager for an encore.”
Raph’s eyes flicked up, flashing dangerously. “Mind your tongue.”
“No, you mind yours,” David shot back.
Raph took the letter from him and crumpled it in his fist.
“Lord Montague is relentless.” David shook his head.
“If I give him what he asks for, it won’t end. He’ll return, snarling for more. This is chess played by wolves.”
“Oh, you definitely cannot give in to him. You’ve tangled with him before, and that duel left you bloodied, but it clearly did nothing to curb his appetite.” David paused. “Montague plays for control, not coin, Raph. Give him an inch, and he’ll take the whole estate.”
Raph’s jaw clenched. He rubbed absently at the stubble on his chin. “He is a man who thrives on weakness. But I am not ten-and-six anymore.”
“Have you considered legal action? It might slow him. But if he’s got his webs spun deep, then scratch that. Exposure could cost you more than you’re prepared to pay.”
“Legal action led him to this.” Raph held up the crumpled letter, and his voice dropped to a rough whisper. “I cannot buy his silence, and I cannot surrender now. That will invite a slow bleed.”
David folded his hands in his lap. “So, what’s your move, Raph?”
Raph’s eyes smoldered in the firelight. The decision was made when he read the letter for the first time.
“This household is my charge, and Camelia and Pamela must be shielded from this rot. Montague’s shadow ends here. I’ve chosen a solution that doesn’t hinge on payments or half-measures.”
A deep understanding passed between the two friends.
“Will you go to him alone again?” David asked, concerned. “What if he has allies waiting?”
Raph grunted, running a hand through his dark curls. “I doubt that. He’s not smart enough to think ahead for himself. And he has no allies. Only enemies.”
David leaned forward, dropping his voice an octave. “I know your pride won’t allow you to fold. You need to be both the shield and the sword. But be cautious, Raph. The devils we bind today become the demons we fight tomorrow.”
Raph’s response was a firm nod. “I have no intention of letting Montague dictate my family’s fate. Nor my niece’s, nor my in-laws’. This ends with me holding the reins.”
“Then do what you need to do, Raph,” David said softly.
The fire crackled between them, its warmth doing nothing to thaw Raph’s resolve. He paced the study, fastening his coat with rigid precision.
Responsibility settled on his shoulders, but this time, he wore it like armor.
David rose and met his gaze. “I’ll stand with you, every step of the way.”
“I know, but I don’t want you to.”
“Stubborn bastard.”
“This is my battle, David.”
“I know, I know.” David raised his hands in mock surrender.
Raph took a sip of his forgotten brandy and met David’s eyes over the rim of his glass. No more words were needed. Some truths lived only in the silence between old friends.
They drained two fingers of brandy each, and the burn steadied him.
David set his glass down first. “Try not to get yourself killed, Raph.”
Raph gave a short, mirthless laugh. “No promises.”
David’s hand clamped down on his right shoulder. “And you need to tell your wife,” he urged.
“I’ll do my best.”
David’s grip tightened a fraction. “If Montague shows his face beforehand, put one in him for me.”
“If he shows his face,” Raph countered, “there won’t be enough left of him to bury.”
David’s eyes flicked to the crumpled letter in Raph’s fist. “And if it’s a trap?”
“Then I’ll walk into it with a smile,” Raph said, “and drag him to hell with me.”
David released him, stepping back. “Don’t make me attend your funeral before mine, Raph.”
“I have no intention to die at the hands of a rogue,” Raph replied.
David gave a short nod, turned on his heel, and left. The door closed behind him with a soft and final click.
Raph stood alone, the silence roaring louder than any cannon. He watched the door long after his friend left.
If the coming weeks went well and he still breathed, if Pamela still bore his name, and if Lord Montague’s mouth was permanently shut, he would see his friend again.
If not, the brandy had been farewell enough.
“How are Margaret and Iris?” Pamela’s eyes sparkled brighter than the candelabra. She was practically bouncing in her seat with happiness. “Are they still arguing over their ball gowns? Did Iris finally beat Margaret at archery?”
Camelia’s heart swelled at the sight of that rare, unguarded smile that dimpled the girl’s cheeks. She ignored the look Raph gave her at the mention of her sisters. She did not inform him about visiting them today, but she’ll deal with him later.
“Oh, they’re worse than ever,” she said, leaning in conspiratorially.
“Last week, Margaret declared herself ‘undefeated champion of all things sharp and pointy.’ Iris responded by nailing Margaret’s favorite bonnet to the stable door with three perfect bullseyes.
I believe they are going mad without me. ”
Pamela gasped and giggled. “She didn’t!”
“She did. From fifty paces. Margaret retaliated by throwing every single arrow in the lake. I cannot even imagine what my father must be going through.”
Pamela clapped both hands over her mouth, laughter spilling between her fingers. “What did Iris do?”
“They’ve declared a truce until Christmas,” Camelia replied, her voice warm with affection. “Mainly because Papa threatened to lock them both in the wine cellar until they learned to behave like the ladies they’re meant to be. Though between you and me, I think he was secretly proud.”
Pamela’s eyes shone as she whispered, “I would like to have sisters.”
The dining room had never felt so suffocating. Every candle blazed too high, too fierce, as if the flames themselves were furious at being forced to witness this charade.
The silence pressed down like a lid on a boiling pot, and Camelia sat rigid, spine straight, hands folded in her lap so tightly that her knuckles turned white. She had spent the afternoon rehearsing composure, yet still felt the tears clawing at the back of her throat.
To her left, Pamela glowed with a shy, radiant happiness that made her chest ache with love and dread in equal measure. The girl kept stealing glances at her as though waiting for permission to keep smiling.
To her right, Raph was carved from ice. He had not looked at her once since joining them. His jaw was locked, his shoulders rigid beneath his black evening coat, every line of him screaming distance.
The memory of his mouth on her skin, his whispered promises in the dark, now felt like a fever dream that belonged to another woman entirely.
She swallowed hard, tasting iron.
Pamela’s soft voice broke the silence. “I… I learned about my mother, Camelia.”
Camelia forced her lips into a smile. “Oh, yes! I want to hear all about it, Pamela. Tell me, what did you learn about her?”
Raph set his glass down with deliberate care. The small clink sounded like a judge’s gavel, and the space between them crackled. She could still feel the ghost of his hands on her body, and the knowledge that it had meant nothing to him was a slow poison seeping into her veins.
She would not cry. Not here, and not in front of Pamela.
So, she smiled, cut her pheasant into precise pieces, and let Raph’s silence devour her while Pamela’s voice warmed her.
“Mother loved to draw! Just like I do.”
“Did she?” Camelia beamed. “Did she also enjoy drawing the willows as you do?”
Pamela’s eyes shone. “No.” She seemed disappointed.
“But I’m sure her sketches were as brilliant as yours—and look at that, you’ve got her artistic skills! The only skill I learned from my mother was how to handle my sisters’ moods!” Camelia rolled her eyes.
Pamela giggled. “Have you tried sketching before, Camelia?”
“I have.”
“Oh, you must show me!”
“They are absolutely terrible, Pam. I would rather burn them all. But I would love to see your mother’s sketches someday.”
“Father gave me her sketchbooks. They are full of horses and birds. Pages and pages of them. They were beautiful, and some were… funny,” Pamela admitted with a shy laugh.
“Sometimes she drew their legs too long, or their necks like swans, but she drew them anyway. And she used to say that horses were freedom on four hooves!”
Camelia gaped. “And you believe the same thing, too?”
“Yes!”
A soft huff escaped Raph. Pamela and Camelia glanced at him.
“What is it, Father? Can you tell me more about her?”
Raph managed a small smile. “It’s nothing.”
“Tell me, please?” Pamela pressed her hands together as if praying for more stories of her beloved mother, and it broke Camelia’s heart even more.