Chapter Twenty-One
Lucien rode through the early morning mist, his mind racing with plans and strategies. The memories of his night with Courtney made every inch of his body heat and he was even more determined to ensure Lockwood didn’t ruin anything for him—for them.
London was just beginning to stir, shops opening their shutters, servants sweeping doorsteps, and milk carts rattling over cobblestones.
The heavy weight of responsibility and determination propelled him toward Blackstone House, where he hoped to find the first thread that might unravel Lockwood’s schemes.
The Duke of Blackstone was not known for receiving callers at such an unseemly hour, but Lucien’s situation left no room for social niceties. As he approached the imposing Mayfair mansion, he steeled himself for what would likely be a frosty reception.
To his surprise, the duke’s butler informed him that His Grace was already awake and in his study.
Lucien was shown in with minimal delay, finding the austere nobleman seated behind a massive mahogany desk, reviewing correspondence with a severe expression that seemed permanently etched onto his aristocratic features.
“Lord Furoe,” Blackstone acknowledged without rising, his dark eyes betraying only mild curiosity at the unexpected visit. “What brings you to my door at this hour? I trust it must be a matter of some importance.”
Lucien bowed slightly. “Your Grace, I apologize for the intrusion, but I find myself in need of your assistance with a rather delicate matter.”
The duke set down his letter opener with precise movements. “Indeed? And what might that be?”
“I’m trying to locate a woman named Kitty,” Lucien said directly, watching the duke’s face closely. “I believe she once worked at Mrs. Bellamy’s establishment and might have information crucial to my family’s welfare.”
The effect was instantaneous and remarkable. The duke’s composed expression shattered like thin ice, his face draining of color as he abruptly rose from his chair. His hands, always steady and controlled, gripped the edge of his desk with such force that his knuckles whitened.
“What business could you possibly have with…” Blackstone caught himself, visibly struggling to regain his composure. “How did you know?” he continued stiffly, though the slight tremor in his voice betrayed him.
“Mrs. Bellamy came to see me.”
Lucien had not expected such a visceral reaction from the notoriously controlled duke.
The man before him was not merely affronted by the improper topic—he was personally affected.
The realization dawned with startling clarity: the Duke of Blackstone, paragon of propriety and moral rectitude, harbored feelings for this woman.
“Forgive me, Your Grace,” Lucien said carefully, “but this is not an attack on your character or an attempt to pry into your personal affairs. My interest in Kitty is purely because she knew my late wife Ava in Dublin. There are matters regarding my daughter’s future that I believe she might help clarify. ”
Blackstone’s shoulders relaxed marginally at the explanation, though wariness remained in his eyes. “Your late wife?”
“Yes,” Lucien confirmed. “I’ve recently learned that Kitty and Ava were acquainted in Dublin before my time in Ireland.
As you may know, my memory of that period remains fragmentary at best, and there are…
” he hesitated, choosing his words carefully, “aspects of my time in Ireland that I need clarified.”
The duke seemed to wage an internal battle, his aristocratic features contorting subtly as he weighed his options. After a long moment, he moved to a cabinet, withdrew a crystal decanter, and poured two glasses of brandy despite the early hour.
“Sit, Furoe,” he commanded, handing Lucien a glass before taking the chair opposite rather than returning behind his desk. The gesture, less formal and more personal, marked a significant shift in their interaction.
“I presume returning to society’s folds has not been easy,” Blackstone remarked, studying the amber liquid in his glass.
“It has had its challenges,” Lucien admitted, seeing no benefit in further deception. “Certain parties are threatening to share misinformation about my past that could harm my daughter and threaten Lady Courtney’s reputation.”
Blackstone’s eyes sharpened. “Lockwood?”
Lucien sat forward in surprise. “How did you—”
“The man has been making discreet but determined inquiries about your time in Ireland for weeks,” Blackstone explained with distaste. “He approached several of my acquaintances seeking information, though I didn’t realize the extent of his investigation.”
“Then you understand why I must speak with Kitty,” Lucien pressed. “If she can tell us what Lockwood knows—and what he doesn’t—that might neutralize his threats. You do understand how gossip takes flight until it is believed.”
The duke drained his glass in one decisive swallow and set it down with uncharacteristic force. “Kitty is under my protection,” he stated, the words carrying unmistakable weight.
“I mean her no harm,” Lucien assured him quickly. “Quite the opposite. I believe she may have been manipulated by Lockwood, just as he’s attempting to manipulate Lady Courtney and myself.”
“She was,” Blackstone confirmed, his voice hardening. “The man promised her a substantial sum for information about former…colleagues. She had no idea he intended to use it for blackmail.”
The depth of the duke’s knowledge confirmed Lucien’s suspicion about his personal connection to Kitty. The notorious stickler for propriety, who had reportedly cut his own cousin for marrying an actress, was romantically involved with a former courtesan.
“I need to speak with her,” Lucien said simply. “Today, if possible. Lockwood has demanded Lady Courtney’s answer by tonight at Lady Fenchurch’s ball.”
Blackstone paced the length of his study, an uncharacteristic display of agitation from a man known for his rigid self-control. Finally, he turned to face Lucien.
“I will take you to her,” he decided, his tone suggesting the concession cost him dearly. “But I will be present during your conversation.”
“Of course,” Lucien agreed readily. “I welcome your presence, Your Grace.”
The duke rang for his valet and issued crisp instructions for his carriage to be prepared immediately. As they waited, an uncomfortable silence settled between them until Lucien decided to address the obvious.
“Your discretion in this matter is greatly appreciated,” he said carefully. “As is your willingness to facilitate this meeting.”
Blackstone’s expression remained guarded, but something in his eyes softened fractionally. “We all have aspects of our lives that we prefer to keep private, Lord Furoe. I understand that better than most.”
“Indeed,” Lucien acknowledged, respecting the duke’s need for oblique reference rather than direct acknowledgment of his relationship with Kitty. “Life rarely conforms to society’s neat categories.”
“No,” Blackstone agreed quietly. “I’m beginning to understand it does not.”
The carriage was brought around promptly, and both men settled into the luxurious conveyance in silence.
As they traveled through London’s increasingly busy streets, Lucien observed the duke’s growing tension.
His gloved fingers tapped an irregular rhythm against his knee—the only outward sign of his discomfort.
“She resides in Chelsea,” Blackstone said abruptly as the carriage turned westward. “In a small but comfortable house that I…arranged for her.”
“I see,” Lucien replied neutrally, careful not to betray any surprise or judgment.
“She has been pursuing an education,” the duke continued, seemingly compelled to justify his arrangement. “Languages, literature, music. She has a remarkable aptitude for learning.”
“That speaks well of her character,” Lucien offered.
“She is…” Blackstone hesitated, searching for appropriate words, “…exceptional in many respects. Her circumstances before our acquaintance were not of her choosing. Her father’s death left her without protection or resources.”
The defensiveness in his tone revealed more than any direct confession could have. This was not merely a convenient arrangement between a wealthy nobleman and a beautiful woman—the Duke of Blackstone was in love with Kitty.
“We often have little control over the paths life forces us to walk,” Lucien observed quietly, thinking of his own journey from amnesia-stricken farmer to reclaimed viscount. “True character reveals itself not in the absence of hardship, but in how one navigates it.”
Blackstone studied him with new interest. “An unusually philosophical perspective for a peer of the realm.”
“My time in Ireland altered many of my perspectives,” Lucien replied with a wry smile. “Amnesia has a way of stripping away pretensions.”
The carriage slowed as it entered a quiet, respectable neighborhood of Chelsea—not fashionable by aristocratic standards, but certainly genteel.
They stopped before a modest brick house with gleaming windows and a well-tended front garden.
Despite its modest size, the property spoke of comfort and care rather than ostentation.
“Wait here,” Blackstone instructed the driver before turning to Lucien. “I should speak with her first, to explain the situation.”
Lucien nodded his agreement, recognizing the protective instinct driving the duke’s request. As they approached the door, both men noted the unusual silence. No servants appeared to take their hats and coats, and the house had an unsettling stillness about it.
“Something’s wrong,” Blackstone said sharply, his hand moving instinctively to the walking stick he carried—one Lucien now suspected might conceal a blade. The duke tried the door and found it unlocked, swinging open at his touch.
“Kitty?” Blackstone called, his customary reserve cracking as concern flooded his voice. “Are you here?”