Chapter 2
“ D o you realize your crime?”
The only sound in the room apart from the crackle of the fireplace was the governess’ soft sobs. Dorian Hashen, Duke of Davenport, understood what it was that she was hoping to accomplish. Every few moments, she would glance up at him from her position on the floor with overly widened eyes, hoping to appeal to his better nature and be released with an inferior punishment.
Unfortunately for her, he did not have a better nature.
“P-please, Your Grace… I did not… I shall never do this again!” The woman blustered, fat tears making tracks down her red face. He would not be moved. Least of all by pathetic displays of emotion.
“What should your punishment be, hm?” Dorian mused, easing back into his chair. He plucked at the worn leather of the armrest idly, not even bothering to look at her as he spoke. “Flogging? Imprisonment? Or, perhaps, you would rather share the late duke’s fate?”
Only then did he look at her. He enjoyed the way her face paled, the fear entering her eyes.
Dorian’s reputation for patricide was renowned. Everybody in the ton assumed that the only reason he inherited his title at such a young age was because he murdered his father in cold blood to get it. The governess in front of him was well aware of that same reputation, judging by the sheer panic on her features. She ought to have known better than to cross him. Knowing that his reputation preceded him, why anyone would dare to test him was beyond him.
“I shall never do it again, Your Grace, please, I beg of your—show mercy!”
“I do not think that you have earned any mercy. Your acts were willful and deliberate,” Dorian answered, leaning forward in his chair, elbows resting on his knees.
“Your Grace, perhaps if we asked—”
Dorian’s gaze cut sideways over to where his butler stood on the side of the room. His hands were respectfully clasped in front of him, and the moment he realized Dorian was looking at him, he stopped speaking immediately. Dorian’s hand lifted, two fingers gesturing to the butler to stop speaking. This quarrel was not with him, and while he sympathized with the older man’s conscience, it would not serve him here. The butler’s mouth snapped shut, and it only took half a moment before the governess seemed to understand that her only possible ally in this interrogation feared the duke just as much as she did. The woman fell forward, her body bowed in front of her, her hands clasped together in some form of prayer as she muttered her apology over and over again.
If nothing else, he hoped that her fear would cause her to think twice before ever harming another child again.
Dorian’s lip curled upward, derision clear on his face as he leaned back in his chair. He flicked his wrist for the butler to collect her. “Get her out of my sight. Don’t you ever set foot on my lands again.”
The relief was instant as the governess started to utter words of gratitude and praise the moment the butler lifted her off of the ground, half dragging her. The moment that she was on her feet, she scrambled so quickly out of the room, that Dorian was certain that it was not going to occur to her that she had left all of her belongings until she had run off of his grounds entirely.
The butler stood silent for a long moment, staring at the open drawing-room door and the wake of the terrified woman.
“Your Grace, did you have to be so hard on her?”
Dorian’s brow arched as he looked at the man who had served his family for longer than he cared to remember. It was the only reason that he was allowed to say such things to him. He did not care for his judgment or choices to be called into question.
Not even a beat later, his youngest footman came running into the room so swiftly that his shoes squeaked against the polished floor. “Your Grace! You were right about her! We have recovered two golden gilded candlesticks from the governess’ bag!”
Dorian’s lips wore the ghost of a smirk as he waved his hand at the butler as if to say, ‘see?’.
“Your Grace, she must have had her reasons… she…” The butler appealed, but Dorian was in no mood to be heard.
He rose from his seat fluidly and started toward the front door. “Summon the constables. Have the horse master ride out and catch her. I will not allow her transgression to be dismissed now that the evidence is right in front of us.”
“Your Grace–” The butler started once more, and Dorian rounded on him.
“If it were your grandson, Monty, would you allow a worm of a woman to lay a hand upon him? To steal from him?” Dorian hissed through clenched teeth. “I think not.”
His words were practically a snarl as the footman walked backward slowly to carry out his orders.
“Dorian, I think you have done more than enough already!”
Dorian paused in the foyer, his sister’s voice giving him pause as she hurried down the main staircase, her slippers a soft whisper against the carpet runner. Dorian’s tongue ran over his teeth.
“George is your son, Mary, and you wish to allow this woman to harm him and get away with it?”
“He is all right, Dorian. You can just let her go, firing her without a recommendation should be enough of a punishment.”
“She beat my nephew, Mary!”
Of all the people in the world, his sister and nephew were the only ones not afraid of him. Mary was the only one who did not shrink or recoil when his voice was raised. Perhaps the only one who could stand toe to toe with him, yelling back, that would not invoke his particular ire.
A fact she was currently exploiting.
“It was but a few lashes, Dorian! He is all right!”
“I will not tolerate such abuse under my roof!” Dorian shouted, his face only inches from hers. “That cycle shall not be repeated in this home, Mary! I told you when we buried Father, there shall be no more pain in this home. The walls have seen enough violence! Or do you not remember?”
Mary flinched.
Of course, she remembered. He could see it in her face. The pair of them wore more than their share of scars over the battered and ruined skin of their backs and thighs from their father’s sadistic whippings. Georgie was but a six-year-old child, and no child deserved to be harmed for their transgressions. He did not care what his crime might have been.
“Our father ruled by fear. He demanded blind obedience, or he beat it into us. How is that any different than the tactics that you are employing today, Brother? You ought to be careful lest you become more like him than you realize.” Mary finished, turning sharply on her heel and starting to head back upstairs.
“You are mistaken. I shall never become like that bastard, and I certainly shall never have children. This bloodline ends with me.”
Mary paused on the stairs, her hand delicately resting on the banister. “You should not say such things.” She turned slowly, her chin angled over her shoulder. “Normally, when you are in better control of your temper, you are a wonderful uncle to Georgie. You would be a good father, Dorian.”
Dorian scoffed. “What man in his right mind would be willing to risk passing on this madness gene to a poor child? That would be true cruelty.”
“There is no such thing as a madness gene, do you even hear yourself?” Mary said, brandishing her arm in his direction. “Our father was a cruel man, Dorian. But he was just a man. You need to find something to channel this…” she gestured to his chest. “Energy. Or, perhaps, I do not know… take a wife. Perhaps that would give you something to occupy your time with and thaw out that frozen heart of yours.”
“Oh, do not mistake my issues, sister. It is not that I have a heart of ice. It is that I possess no heart at all.”
Dorian had already indulged deeply in his cups well before he arrived at White’s. It was perhaps a poor choice of location, given the sheer amount of people that had chosen this evening to frequent the club. It was such a rare thing that Dorian actually wished to be around people. Tonight, it was not so much a desire to be social that motivated his actions, but rather, a need not to be idle. He could not stay in that house for a moment longer, listening to his sister’s needling comments. She was already cross enough with him for refusing to attend the Blithe’s ball. The last thing he needed was to spend his night being performative and false in his actions and words.
No, he needed to drink at least until his mind had found a healthy numb to level him out.
“Whiskey,” Dorian ordered as he shrugged out of his coat and handed it to the attendant near the door. “And keep them coming.”
He did not pause to hear the words of greeting or welcome. He merely wandered into the main room, where men gathered around small tables, playing cards or conversing softly. There was a layer of smoke in the air from the pipe tobacco, and the lighting was mercifully dim. It made the roaring inside of his skull softer and easier to manage.
“Your Grace! Over here!” Patrick Hislop rose from his seat to motion him over to the table where he was surrounded by Dorian’s acquaintances. Rhysand, Duke of Huxton, and Xander Harrison, Duke of Larsen.
Dorian did not consider himself the sort of man to have friends, but these gentlemen were some recent acquaintances at White’s. As Dorian joined them, an attendant brought his glass of whiskey to the table on a small napkin. It appeared that Xander and Patrick were in the middle of a heated debate about something that he could not find the energy to care about as he nodded to Rhysand in greeting.
“Long time no see, Davenport.” Rhysand seemed unaffected by the lack of answer as he began collecting the cards from their table and shuffling them so that they could start a new round that would include Dorian as well.
“Have they been squawking all night?” Dorian asked, his voice low as he nodded his head toward the arguing couple.
No sooner had he commented than the argument paused. Xander blinked at him as if seeing a ghost.
“He speaks?” He reached out and grabbed Dorian’s shoulder, which Dorian swiftly pulled away from. “I had no idea that you were capable, Davenport. I thought that your emotional range was limited to brooding and staring judgmentally.”
Dorian’s brow arched as he sipped his whiskey. “If that is what you think, why do you think teasing such a man would be a wise choice?”
“Perhaps I simply enjoy the thrill of walking such a dangerous line,” Xander continued.
Dorian noted that Xander’s glass was empty. “Do not push your luck. There are a great many things that you do not know about me.”
Xander shook his head with a laugh before speaking sarcastically. “Color me intimidated.”
Drunk or not, there was no reason to mock him. Dorian paused, waiting for the man to apologize.
Xander sighed, his hand raking down his face. “Normally, I would be glad to take this outside. But I promised my wife that I would be on my best behavior. Eleanor has forbidden me from fighting.”
Dorian snorted. He could not fathom allowing a woman to have that sort of control over his life.
“Perhaps we ought to return to more interesting topics of conversation? Hm?” Patrick interjected, motioning for Rhysand to hurry up and deal the cards already. “I was speculating as to Lady Salisbury’s motivations for her conduct at the ball earlier.”
Salisbury? The name was so familiar to him. He tried for a moment to summon the image of a face to his mind but was drawing a blank.
“To whom do you refer?” Dorian asked, unable to help himself despite not normally bothering with such gossip.
“Lady Salisbury? Quite the fall from grace. She and her daughter both. I cannot imagine my wife or child attending ball after ball if I were to have died and left them on the brink of ruin like her husband has. No amount of misfortune can excuse her conduct though, that much is for certain…” Patrick commented as he took his hand of cards.
The pieces clicked into place, and Dorian sobered nearly instantly.
Bile rose in the back of his throat as guilt gripped him. Of course, he remembered that man.
Lord Salisbury.
Dorian was the one responsible for the Marquess’ death.
And apparently, for his family’s misfortune.