Chapter Twelve
The carriage dipped sideways under Charles’s weight as he stepped out onto the pavement.
His valet followed, and together they stared at the building before them.
It towered overhead, as imposing as the buildings at Penham Park.
But where Penham was shrouded in darkness, Whitcombe’s townhouse gleamed in the morning light, its facade almost bone-white.
To the side a small staircase led downward, presumably to the servants’ entrance.
A wider set of steps swept up from the pavement toward the main entrance—twin doors embellished with shining brass handles fashioned into the shape of lions’ heads.
The doors were flanked by white pillars, either side of which were enormous, bowed windows, fashioned from multiple panes that reflected the sunlight at different angles.
Two stories stretched above the first, and though the topmost was likely inferior due to being the servants’ quarters, the view from there must be particularly impressive, given the building’s proximity to Hyde Park.
In short, the entire structure reeked of wealth and status far above Charles’s own.
“Impressive,” John said. “Can the same be said for your intended?”
Charles kept his hands still, despite the inquiring look on the valet’s face.
“I suppose,” John continued, “one wouldn’t expect Whitcombe to lodge in a small suite of rooms in Cheapside.” Charles frowned, and the valet gave a grin. “Have I said anything that’s not the truth?”
I see little point in wasting funds on a house in Mayfair. Not when I’ve debts to pay. Perhaps, to reduce the capital outstanding, I should consider selling you.
The valet’s grin only broadened. “You’d not get ten shillings for me, sir. As you’ve told me many times, few men of your rank would care to pay an income for a slovenly servant who cannot hold his tongue.”
Perhaps some merchant with little knowledge of propriety might take you. Or I could sell your body for parts to the hospital.
“Ha! There’s grave robbers enough for that. Far better for the surgeons to procure a corpse than end a man’s life. Though, granted, they’d get a good half a crown for my cock.”
“Ahem.”
Charles glanced up at the sound of someone clearing their throat to see a black-clad butler filling the doorway, his expression resembling that of a judgmental schoolmaster.
“I take it you’re Earl Devereaux, here to see His Grace, the Duke of Whitcombe?”
The butler eyed John, then arched a dark brow.
“The entrance for your man is there, Lord Devereaux,” he said, gesturing toward the steps at the side.
Charles climbed the front steps, his bulkier frame towering over the older man’s. The butler’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, a flicker of fear not quite completely concealed behind his impassive expression.
“M-my master expects propriety,” the butler said.
Ha! If that were the case, the man wouldn’t have tried to pass off his father’s bastard as a lady or let her run wild and compromise herself.
“My master insists I accompany him everywhere,” John said.
“But…” the butler began, and his voice trailed away as Charles raised his hand. His eyes widened, a shimmer of apprehension in them, as if he expected Charles to circle his fingers around his throat.
“You’re at liberty to refuse us entry, of course,” John said, “but if we’re not both permitted to pass through this door, then neither of us will.
You must therefore convey my master’s regret that he’s unable to see your master this morning—or at all.
I trust your master will not be overly disappointed. ”
The butler cast an inquiring look in Charles’s direction, but Charles remained still, displaying no reaction, despite the anger simmering within. In his experience, an adversary responded more favorably to an absence of emotion. Silence often elicited more than words.
Which was just as well.
At length, the butler sighed, then stepped back.
“Very well,” he said, “though it’s most improper. Come inside. Quickly.”
Charles allowed himself a little smile at the notion of the butler wishing to usher his valet inside before anyone noticed such an outrageous act of impropriety in permitting a servant to use the front door.
John returned the smile, and the two of them followed the black-clad figure through the hallway to a solid wooden door.
“Come,” a deep voice said as the butler knocked. He opened the door and Charles entered as the clock struck nine.
The study was as Charles would have expected—fashioned in deep, masculine colors to portray male dominance, every wall layered with books, forming a neat pattern, the gold embossing lined up as if someone had taken great care to place each book in exactly the right position.
At the far end of the room, across a thick Aubusson rug, was a squat mahogany desk, its occupant silhouetted by the window behind him, his face in shadow.
Charles would have recognized Whitcombe even had he been concealed behind a screen. The very atmosphere in the room reeked of ducal dominance and the woody, spicy scent that had clung to the man last night when he’d threatened to put a bullet in Charles’s heart.
And my horse…
“Sir,” John said softly, and Charles grew aware of a sharp pain in his palm where he’d fisted his hands, digging the fingernails into the flesh.
“I see you’ve brought your valet,” Whitcombe said, rising. But his voice betrayed no surprise. In fact, two chairs had been placed before the desk.
He gestured toward the seats, then reached for a decanter filled with a dark amber liquid, poured two glasses, and pushed them toward the edge of the desk.
“And you’re on time,” he added, “albeit only just.”
John moved his hands. Is he always this uncivil, sir?
Charles responded, Only when his sister has tossed up her skirts.
Whitcombe leaned forward, and Charles found himself at the mercy of an unforgiving dark gaze from eyes that, save the expression of barely concealed anger, were almost identical to another pair of eyes that had penetrated his dreams last night.
Might he glimpse them again today? She must be somewhere within the walls of this house. Whitcombe was unlikely to let her wander about London until this damned marriage contract had been signed. Perhaps he’d parade her before Charles once their business had concluded.
Charles’s gaze shifted to the papers on Whitcombe’s desk.
“Would you care to share what you were discussing with your man, Devereaux?” Whitcombe said.
“My master was remarking on the elegance of your study,” John replied.
Whitcombe let out a huff, then picked up a piece of paper. “I’ve drafted the details of the contract.”
Already?
Charles leaned forward, and Whitcombe curled his mouth into a grim smile. “I see no need for delay, do you?”
Charles shook his head.
“Good,” Whitcombe said. “My lawyer is due in one hour and I’ll have him notarize the particulars. Now, perhaps…”
Charles raised his hand and Whitcombe paused, tilting his head to one side in that judgmental manner he’d displayed last night.
“Yes?” he said, his tone sharp.
Charles gestured toward the papers. May I at least be permitted to read them, given that I’m the one losing my liberty?
Whitcombe frowned. “I presume your master wishes to discuss the terms?”
“Ahem, yes,” John said.
“Very well. I’m not an unreasonable man, but I should warn you that most of the terms stipulated are non-negotiable.”
Why invite me here at all if my fate is already sealed?
Whitcombe glanced at Charles’s hands, then let out a huff and handed the paper over. Charles read the first paragraph and inhaled sharply.
The dowry was thirty thousand.
Whitcombe’s lips curled into a cold smile.
“Yes, I thought you’d lose some of your scruples on discovering how much you’re selling yourself for. But you should read to the bottom before you claim total victory.”
Charles lowered his gaze to the page once more, then paused.
You sly bastard.
Whitcombe’s smile broadened.
“Drink your brandy, Devereaux.”
Charles handed the paper to John, then picked up his glass.
John let out a low curse. “I’ll be damned.”
“I rather think it’s my sister who stands on the brink of damnation,” Whitcombe said. “Which is why I’ve sought to protect her as much as I can.”
Charles sipped his brandy, and the liquor burst with flavor on his tongue. The man may drive a hard bargain, but at least he was discerning enough to know a good brandy from one that rotted a man’s insides.
Whitcombe leaned back and folded his arms. “You cannot accuse me of being ungenerous,” he said.
“I’ll even throw in a case of that brandy as a wedding gift.
” He picked up his own glass and took a sip.
“Thirty thousand is a substantial fortune. But, as you see, one-third of it will be invested in an annuity in my sister’s name.
She may draw an income or capitalize it as she sees fit, and in the event of her death, it shall be split equally between you and her children. ”
Her children?
Devil’s breeches, was the girl with child?
Surely Whitcombe would have forced the culprit down the aisle at the point of a pistol.
No respectable duke would expect Charles to become father to another man’s brat.
It was a cruel twist of the law that ensured that if a man had a natural child, he could not recognize it as his heir.
But if his wife bore another man’s child…
He shuddered at the memory—his father bellowing in anger, Mother’s pleas, and the sickening crack followed by the sight of her pale-brown eyes staring at him while he watched the spark of life flicker and die…
“Devereaux?” Whitcombe’s voice snapped him back to the present. “Are you finding this interview tedious?”
Swallowing a mouthful of brandy to cleanse himself of the memory, Charles shook his head.