Chapter 32 Derek
Derek
“Announcing His Lordship, Lord Dunmore.”
Derek walked past Rogers, the Sinclair family butler, into the breakfast room.
He was barely cognizant of bowing to the dowager and approaching the table.
He dropped like an anvil into the chair next to where Dorothea sat at the head of the breakfast table.
He winced at the sore pull of the muscles in his right arm and back.
And then he sat silently, staring at the burgundy table linens, his vision wavering in and out.
After his rage had subsided, a cold numb had stolen over him.
His mind was sluggish, but his body jittery.
He’d walked the streets of London aimlessly until dawn had lit the shadows.
And he found himself in front of Ironcrest House.
He was due to visit Dorothea this morning.
Apparently, even as unmoored as he was, he knew he was supposed to be here today.
“I was surprised when Rogers said you were already breaking your fast.” Considering it was five in the morning.
Dorothea surveyed him, eyes narrowing on his hands before rising back to his face.
“Good morning to you too. It’s these old bones of mine.
I find myself waking up earlier and earlier as the aches and pains disrupt my sleep.
” She tilted her head. “What is with the blood, Derek? Not exactly fit for the breakfast table.”
She resumed her meal, placing a spoonful of coddled eggs in her mouth, before glancing back at him with a raised brow.
Derek jerked his head in the direction of the footmen standing nearly invisible against the walls.
“Leave us,” Dorothea ordered.
The footmen scurried from the room. The door clicked shut.
Finally, he met Dorothea’s patient gaze. “I killed Lord Pennington this morning.”
She gracefully scooped another portion of coddled eggs with her spoon and ate it before looking back at him. “Then I say the world has now been made a slightly better place.”
Derek’s eyebrows shot up.
“Don’t give me that look, young man. That man was vile, a rodent scurrying over the feet of the ton. You did his wife an immense favor. You would not believe what that poor woman has had to endure…” Her chin set in a hard line, and she glared out the diamond-paned windows at the fog-draped street.
She shook off whatever had come over her, and her steely eyes met his. “And there is no way it’ll be tied to you?”
“Everything has been taken care of.” By Ryker. Thank bloody Christ for that man. “His body will be found floating in the Thames soon enough.” Exhaustion fell on Derek then, a yoke weighed down by bags of sand.
She looked back at him, nodding toward his hands.
“Not everything. You are still covered in blood.” She squinted while examining his face.
“I believe it is all over your face as well. It looks as if you were misted with blood. How disgusting.” She went back to her meal, piercing a piece of melon with her fork, clearly not disgusted in the least.
“Does this”—she waved her forkful of melon in his direction—“have anything to do with that little blue-eyed miss you were growling over at dinner last night?”
Warmth crept over his cheekbones. He hadn’t realized he’d growled out loud while watching Miss Forester eat dessert.
Dorothea’s eyes widened. “My goodness, Derek. Are you blushing? Oh, this is quite interesting.” She cocked her head at him as she chewed thoughtfully on her melon. “I must get to know her better. I never had the chance to speak with her last night; she retired so early.”
Derek ground his teeth as the events of last night resurfaced.
“Yes, she retired because Pennington abducted her, drugged her, and attempted to rape her.” He dragged a hand through his waves, snagging on the tangled mess it currently was.
“Thankfully, she was saved in time. By pure bloody luck.” If Pennington hadn’t taken Livy to The Devil’s Eye…
If Ryker’s servant hadn’t noticed anything suspicious…
If Ryker wasn’t someone who didn’t tolerate that kind of villainy—a rarity in Ryker’s line of work…
Pennington would have had no trouble getting away with his plan.
Fuck. He couldn’t think of that. He drew in a slow, measured breath.
“Mmm,” Dorothea hummed thoughtfully. “The murdering makes more sense now. Especially”—she stabbed the air with her fork in his direction—“after that blush.”
She said it so casually. Not in the least perturbed. By murder. By attempted rape. Derek feared the reason for it.
“You need to be cleaned up, and those clothes need to be burned. Go be a dear and pull the bell. We will have you cleaned up in no time. Then I want to discuss you attending the theater with me next week. You have skipped out on me far too many times in the past month. Raffy is off at…” She paused, and her features contorted. “Ironcrest.”
And there was the reason. The reason why nothing seemed to faze Dorothea. Whatever she and Rafe had endured back there.
“I have been quite literally abandoned by you boys,” she said, her usual flare back in her voice.
Derek snorted at Dorothea’s dramatics. He stood, then immediately winced as his muscles pulled tight. His knuckles were bruised, and his arm burned like it was on fire with even the slightest movement.
“I suppose I can provide some leniency for ridding the world of Pennington.”
Derek’s lips twitched as he pulled the bell before heading back to the table.
“I apologize, Dorothea. I have been a tad distracted this past week. But last night, did I not promise I would see you on the morrow?” He opened his arms wide.
And his muscles immediately screamed at him for the movement.
Bloody hell, that had been daft. “And look, here I am.”
“Yes, covered in blood,” she muttered.
He arched a brow. “You never specified otherwise.”
The door to the breakfast room opened, and Rogers stood at attention. “You rang, Your Grace?”
Her eyes on Derek, Dorothea said, “You can assume from now on, Derek, that I always mean sans blood.” She turned to Rogers. “Rogers, please deal with the boy. He needs to be cleaned up, and from the looks of it, needs a nap. Escort him up to his usual room.”
Derek huffed out a laugh and trailed after Rogers.
“Oh, and, Derek?”
He paused, turning back to Dorothea and cocking his head.
“Don’t sleep too late. You are to escort me to Bond Street this afternoon.”
Smiling, Derek bowed. “Of course, Your Grace.”
She rolled her eyes at his formality, and his smile widened.
He resumed following Rogers, heading in the direction of his room.
Having been a frequent visitor of Ironcrest House since the prior Duke’s passing, he had his own room in the family wing.
Likewise, Dorothea and Rafe had rooms in the family wing at his residences as well.
They were more deserving of those rooms than any of his true family had ever been.
Derek’s gaze swept over the bustling street, the rumble of carriage wheels, and chatter of passersby blending into a distant hum.
He mutely observed the dandies parading about, strutting and preening like an ostentation of peacocks, oblivious to the suffering around them, to the harsh realities of life.
Amidst the crowd, a flash of pale blonde hair caught his eye. It immediately triggered a distorted image of Livy laughing across the Rutledge dinner table.
Without warning, the scene shifted. His private rooms. Haunted blue eyes stared blindly at him from where Livy stood in the middle of his room.
Tears streamed down her face. She reached for him, but before he could get to her, Pennington was there, dragging her away.
She struggled against the man, eyes never leaving Derek’s.
Pleading with him to save her. But Derek couldn’t move. Why couldn’t he move?
Pennington struck her, and she dropped to the ground.
Derek sucked in a strangled breath, his lungs constricted as if bound by a too-tight cravat.
He shook his head but couldn’t shake off the nightmare.
He couldn’t break through the surface. His limbs were too heavy to fight the dense, dark depths.
He couldn’t get to her. Pennington pulled her away, dragging her behind a black-veiled doorway. Derek couldn’t save her.
Livy screamed for him. Screamed his name. But it was fading just like she was.
“Derek!”
No one was going to save her.
“Derek! Roderick.”
Nails dug into his arm, a hand squeezing firmly.
He sucked in a breath and swung his face to look in the direction of the demanding voice.
His vision slowly cleared, and Dorothea’s face came into focus.
He glanced around. Bond Street. They were on Bond Street.
Cold sweat trickled down the nape of his neck.
Dorothea’s concerned gaze searched his face. “Derek?”
He shook his head. Shook away whatever had just come over him.
“Fine. I’m fine, Dorothea.” He tipped his head toward the large black sign that read Phillip’s & Co.
He forced a smile. “We’ve arrived. Shall we find you your next trinket?
I am thinking a heart pendant edged in diamonds with my handsome visage inlaid. ”
A soft snort came from Dorothea as he led her into the shop, but he didn’t miss the concerned glance she shot his way.
The shop owner’s eyes lit upon seeing them, almost as brightly as the chandeliers and wall sconces lighting the opulent interior. He scurried out from behind a deep mahogany counter, his brown curls, as slicked over as the polished countertops, not daring to move in his frantic dash to them.
While the shopkeep presented Dorothea with various pieces of jewelry, Derek meandered through the shop.
Derek rarely shopped for jewelry himself.
He didn’t do mistresses. They were messy—and costly—entanglements he wanted nothing to do with.
He never wanted more than one night with a woman.
Scratch the itch before moving on to the next.
He wandered over to a wall of built-in mahogany shelves and traced a finger over a gold, intricately carved snuffbox.
Unless it was with the wenches at his clubs.
One always knew what they were getting with a wench—wares for coin—a transaction with no strings attached.
No manipulation. No dishonesty. No emotions.
Maybe a visit would help him shake whatever this uneasiness was that was clinging to him.
Distraction. His gut churned at the thought.
No, no, definitely not. His stomach rebelled again.
After last night, Pennington’s intentions…
Christ, Derek didn’t know if he’d ever be able to touch a woman again.
It wasn’t as though he was unaware of the cruelties of the world.
He’d rescued his fair share of women who’d suffered that exact fate.
Some had even been employed in Pennington’s home.
But now that the victim had been Miss Forester?
Fuck. His chest tightened, and a wheezing breath burst from him.
He rested a hand on the wall, drew in one slow methodical breath.
Then he let it out, and along with it, all the horrors of that night.
Unfeeling once more, he meandered back over to the counter where Dorothea stood examining a butterfly brooch, pearls and diamonds dotting the wings.
He glanced over the assortment of jewelry with disinterest. A garnet ring.
A gold bracelet. Pearl and diamond earrings. It all looked the same to him.
His gaze drifted over the next few pieces. How much longer did Dorothea need? He needed a bloody whisky. Especially after the visions that had assaulted him on the street. Yes, a bottle of whisky. He rarely over imbibed, but he thought he fucking bloody deserved it right now.
His gaze snapped back to a necklace he’d just passed over. Reaching out, he traced the delicate silver chain, the intricate swirls interspersed with pearls.
It was perfect.
“Wrap this for me.”
The shopkeeper’s and Dorothea’s gazes whipped to Derek. A subtle warmth tinged his cheekbones, but he maintained his impassive expression. Dorothea arched an eyebrow, looking between him and the necklace in question, but held her silence.
“Of course, right away, my lord.
The shopkeep’s assistant hurried forward and carefully gathered the piece, then disappeared to prepare the necklace for wrapping. Dorothea’s gaze lingered on him for a long moment, and he stood stiffly under her scrutiny. Abruptly, she returned her attention back to the array of items before her.
Derek let out a long breath. What had he just done? And better yet, why?