Chapter 26 #2
Gideon had gone in search of Jeremy to personally deliver the invitation to dinner—but with another motive lurking beneath that one. Suspicion. Jeremy had been too watchful of late, too quick with his remarks, too ready to hint at things Gideon could not allow to be spoken.
Arriving at the door to the private lounge on the third floor, he hesitated.
He thought through what he intended to say.
Jeremy had known Aaron. Gideon would rather have abandoned him as a friend; none of his other friends had known Aaron.
But Jeremy had made it impossible by imposing himself on Gideon’s company at the club.
To reject Aaron’s schoolmate would have drawn attention—despite their lack of a personable acquaintanceship.
It might have seemed a change of behavior that would have been wondered at.
So instead, I welcomed into my circle a man who knew Aaron better than most and is now close enough to see the differences. A big risk.
Turning the handle, he stepped into a dimly lit, smoke-filled room. Jeremy sat by the smoldering fire. He was alone, a glass of brandy dangling from his fingers. A bottle, almost empty, in the other hand. He looked up with eyes bleary from drink.
“Jeremy,” Gideon said curtly.
Jeremy blinked up at him, attempted a smile, and sloshed the remains of his brandy.
“Ah, His Grace. Or should I say…” He leaned forward with a conspiratorial slur, “…General?”
His laugh was ugly, broken by a hiccup.
Gideon stiffened, rage simmering beneath his carefully schooled face.
“You are drunk,” he said sharply.
“Drunk, yes! But you are a fool, and I will be sober tomorrow,” Everdon laughed uproariously. “I, on the other hand, am not a fool. Nor will I be taken for one. Not anymore.”
Jeremy’s voice dropped, hoarse but insistent.
“You think none of us see it? You think your mask is flawless? I know you, Aaron. Or whatever your name is! I know what you were. You wear another man’s title like… like a stolen coat. Admit it!”
Gideon’s hands clenched into fists. “You know nothing. You are just a drunk who is about to lose his chance at a good marriage because of his love of carousing.”
Jeremy waved a hand dismissively. “Her father listened to the wrong people. I can do nothing about it. But I have done something about you.”
The steward appeared at Gideon’s elbow, having followed up the stairs at a more sedate pace. His face was discreet and long-suffering.
“If I may, Your Grace,” he murmured, “His Lordship is in no state for sense tonight. He dreams aloud, nothing more. Pay it no heed.”
Gideon put up a hand, silencing the man. Rage built inside him like a volcano.
“Tell me what you mean,” he demanded of Jeremy.
“I have written a letter,” Jeremy muttered, lifting the glass and spilling it on himself.
At precisely that moment, the steward presented a silver tray.
“Your Grace. This was delivered to me just after you arrived. It is marked Urgent.”
Gideon snatched it without looking and dismissed the man with a sharp gesture, slamming the door behind him.
“Written a letter? Is this it, you drunken oaf!”
Jeremy tried to focus on the letter that Gideon was brandishing. He blinked and shook his head.
“No, mine was posted earlier this afternoon.” He hiccuped. “To your wife.”
Gideon dropped the letter and strode across the room, seizing the man by the lapels and hauling him boldly from his chair.
“Aaron! Jeremy! What goes on here!” Benedict Langdon’s voice came from the door.
The Earl of Daleshire stood there aghast.
“Are you both drunk?”
“I am not!” Gideon snarled.
“I am… rather,” Jeremy crowed.
Gideon hurled him to the ground in disgust.
He has written to Catherine. Damn him! He has taken matters into his own hands just when…
When what, he wondered? When Gideon had decided to tell the truth? No. When Gideon had succeeded in winning Catherine’s trust? Possibly. What was in the letter? He could guess.
Benedict checked the passageway outside for eavesdroppers, then strode in, snatching up the letter that Gideon had dropped.
“You bloody fool. You should know better than to antagonize him. You know his temper. What have you been doing?”
“Interfering in my marriage,” Gideon growled, taking the letter from Benedict and tearing it open. He scanned the lines, and his blood surged hot.
Admit the truth! You usurped the dukedom. You cower in fear of the rightful heir. Soon, the reckoning will come!
The words bled, black and barbed, creeping across the page like thorned stems. His breath came hard and fast. He turned on Jeremy, his temper tearing through his flesh like a demon escaping Hell.
“Is this your doing?” he roared, shoving the letter at him, “your poison-ink letters, your whispers in corners? You would unmake me? Is this what you have written to my wife rather than bring it to my face! You coward!”
Jeremy lurched to his feet, pointing at Gideon.
“I have been loyal to you. Loyal to Aaron Tarnley. My inseparable childhood friend and the true Duke of Winchester! I do not know who you are!”
Inseparable friend? The bastard lied to me about being a passing acquaintance of Aaron!
“Oh, for goodness sake, Jeremy. You have really leaped in feet first this time,” Benedict raged. “Aaron, he does not know what he is—”
“He knows,” Gideon seethed.
He seized Jeremy by the collar, rage flooding him, a tide he could not contain.
“Do you think I will be ruined by the likes of you? Do you think I will yield my name, my wife, my life because of your drunken malice?”
Hands grabbed at him. Ben’s voice reached him, firm and urgent.
“Aaron, enough! Release him!”
Benedict was broad and steady, almost Gideon’s own height.
He had met Gideon through the club, never having known Aaron.
Gideon had found himself befriending Benedict for his connections and knowledge of the ton.
That friendship had evolved over the man’s love of travel and exploration, for his stories of far-flung places and improbable adventures.
For the fact that with him, Gideon could be himself, did not need to worry about maintaining a continuity with the past.
Benedict was exerting all his strength to pull Gideon back, breaking the furious hold. Jeremy collapsed against the chair, gasping, eyes wide with fear. Gideon wrenched himself free, his chest heaving. He could barely hear Benedict’s words, his pulse pounded too loud in his ears.
“He is not worth it. He is drunk. You will damn yourself. Control yourself, Aaron!”
But the red haze would not lift.
With a curse, Gideon tore the door open and stormed from the club, the letter crumpled in his hand. Outside, the air was sharp, cutting through the fog of rage. He did not summon his carriage. He walked with long, furious strides east. London swallowed him, and he sought its darkest corners.
He needed air. He needed distance. He needed… Catherine.
But what point was there in going back?
The evening post would deliver Jeremy’s letter. The truth would be laid bare, and Gideon would be revealed as a liar. As an impostor.
As a murderer.
No, I did not kill Aaron! I never even saw him from the day I was exiled. But that is not what will be believed. Particularly, if the General becomes known.
He needed a drink, but most of all, he needed to keep the truth buried.