Chapter 11
“You mean to tell me you’ve been sitting on this plan for weeks and only now decide to share it?” Stephen’s voice rang out across the space, irreverent as always.
He lounged against the edge of Duncan’s worktable, one boot scuffing the floorboards, his cravat already loosened as though the weight of formality was too much for him.
Duncan kept his gaze fixed on the ledger before him, quill poised, though he had not written a word in several minutes.
“I tell you now because now is the proper time,” he replied evenly while lacing his words with a hint of practicality.
Stephen snorted. “Proper time, he says. You’ve been chasing proof of Lord Felton’s misdeeds like a bloodhound, and I begin to suspect you’d sooner die than admit what game you’re playing.”
Duncan set the quill down with deliberate care. “It is no game.”
“Then what?” Stephen leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, all quick eyes and restless energy. “You speak of Felton’s debtors, Felton’s dealings, but what exactly do you mean to do with this information? What sin of his are you so desperate to drag into daylight?”
Duncan drew a slow breath. The air of the study was thick with oil paints, old wood, and the faint metallic tang of ink. His refuge, and yet tonight it felt stifling.
He turned at last. “Exploit him. As he exploited my father…as well as Catherine’s.”
Stephen’s brows shot up, but he did not speak at once. The silence stretched, broken only by the tick of the clock against the wall.
Stephen’s grin faded. He rose, his easy manner tempered with something steadier. “I remember.” His tone was quieter now, almost reluctant. “I saw how your father dwindled under it. A proud man turned into…” He shook his head. “You’ve reason enough for vengeance.”
Duncan inclined his head, though the words tasted like ash.
“And yet,” Stephen continued, watching him too closely, “I cannot help but wonder whether your fire burns hotter now because of her.”
Duncan stilled. His hands curled into fists behind his back, hidden from view. And Catherine burst into his mind once more.
Her eyes flashing with fury, her lips trembling when she defied him, the soft surrender of her mouth beneath his in that carriage…
Damn it.
He had not meant to think of her. Not now, not here, not where Felton’s shadow loomed large enough to eclipse the room.
But the memory would not release him. The taste of her lingered, sweet and infuriating.
Her body had melted against his, and though she had seemed a bit uneasy afterward, he knew the truth. He had felt her answer him.
His body stirred at the recollection. For those brief moments in the carriage, and again when they had spoken with his grandmother, Catherine had shown him precisely what he wanted to see.
She had boldly touched his mouth and urged him onward.
And, he had gratefully obliged her. But then, once they reached the townhouse, restraint had seemed more prudent, and so they had each backed away.
Duncan shut his eyes, forcing the image down.
I cannot afford distraction. Not when Felton still walks free.
When he turned back to Stephen, his expression was carved from stone once more.
“You say these things as if you mean to share hidden truths with the world.” He eyed his friend coolly.
“But what have you said that I wish to deny? Naturally, I am affected by the Duchess. Of course, I sympathize with her and the Viscount, her father. I wish that I could tear Felton limb from limb just to show her that no man will ever hurt her again, but…”
Stephen snorted. “There is no need for such violence, old friend. With the evidence mounting against Felton, you will not need to worry yourself over that scoundrel much longer.”
Duncan nodded, appreciating the subtle shift in subject.
He strode to the table, sweeping up a sheaf of notes tied neatly with cord.
“This is what I have gathered thus far. Proof of usury, coercion, and bribes. Felton has left a trail. What I require now is corroboration. From someone high enough that his dealings cannot be dismissed.”
“And where do you mean to find such a saint?” Stephen asked lightly, though his eyes followed the papers with interest.
Duncan’s gaze hardened. “Hargrave.”
Stephen let out a low whistle. “The Earl of Hargrave? Christ, Duncan, that man eats scandal for breakfast. If anyone has dirt on Felton, it would be him.”
“Precisely.” Duncan stacked the notes with ruthless precision. “We have an appointment. Tonight.”
Stephen straightened, surprise flickering into a grin. “So that is why you dragged me here at this hour? I thought perhaps you meant to confess some tender feeling at last, but no, only schemes and plots.”
Duncan shot him a look. “Your tongue will be the death of you.”
“Perhaps.” Stephen reached for his coat with a careless shrug. “But it keeps you honest, doesn’t it?”
Duncan did not dignify that with a reply.
He gathered his gloves, tugged them on with deliberate force, and motioned toward the door.
“We must not delay. In just a few days, my grandmother means to host a ball—officially introducing my Duchess and me to polite Society. I should like to see Lord Felton behind bars before that time arrives. So, make haste. The carriage waits.”
They descended together, boots ringing against the marble, the hush of servants slipping out of sight as though the very air bristled with secrets.
Outside, the night air was sharp, the scent of damp stone mingling with horse sweat. The carriage gleamed at the ready, lamps casting golden circles on the cobblestones.
Stephen paused with one hand on the door, turning back with a sly grin. “Before we plunge ourselves into Hargrave’s den, I must ask, does your wife know of your plans? While she readies herself to face the ton, does she realize what you do on her behalf in the shadows?”
Duncan stilled. Slowly, he fixed Stephen with a look that might have frozen lesser men. “That is not your concern.”
“Everything is my concern when it comes to you, old friend,” Stephen said cheerfully, undeterred. “I have heard whispers already. Does your grandmother truly believe that parading the two of you about will ease the tension that exists?”
Duncan’s mouth flattened into a grim line. “I cannot speak for my grandmother.”
Stephen burst out laughing, clutching the carriage door for balance. “But a ball, Duncan. Good God! Surely, you could have persuaded your grandmother to move the date. She must have seen how uncomfortable you and the Duchess are in each other’s presence and…”
“There is no discomfort,” Duncan muttered stiffly.
“Ha!” Stephen laughed anew. “Indeed. No discomfort whatsoever inside your little cozy townhouse.”
Duncan glared at his friend, wishing he would grow silent, but inwardly, his own composure wavered.
A ball. A hall filled with eyes, every glance weighing Catherine and himself, every whisper judging whether their union was forged in truth or convenience.
He pictured her there, candlelight glancing off her dark hair, her mouth soft and trembling as it had beneath his.
The thought twisted like a knife. He wanted her so badly that living in this state of denial was driving him to madness.
When he had first proposed to her in that cramped room, Duncan had acted out of necessity.
He knew what would happen the moment the door opened, and they were presented to the world.
And now, he was filled with those same protective urges.
I will not allow the ton to see anything other than Catherine’s good deeds and fine work at Brightwater.
Duncan forced the breath slowly in his lungs. He could not allow this spiral. Not now. Not with Hargrave waiting and Felton’s ruin within reach.
He climbed into the carriage without another word. Stephen followed, still grinning, and the horses surged forward into the night.
“White’s first,” Stephen said, tapping the roof of the carriage as they rattled into St. James’s. “Drop me there, and once you’ve wrung Hargrave dry, come find me. I’ll be the one winning coin off men too foxed to know better.”
Duncan gave a curt nod, gaze fixed on the lamplit street beyond. “Do not let drink loosen your tongue. I’ll not have you spreading word before I choose.”
Stephen laughed. “When have I ever?”
Duncan turned his head slowly; a look he leveled enough to make even Stephen’s grin falter.
“Fair point,” Stephen said quickly, raising his hands in mock surrender. “I shall drink little and gamble much. Content?”
“Barely.”
The carriage drew up to the club’s grand portico, its columns stark white against the dark London sky. Stephen hopped down with the careless ease of a man who feared nothing, called a jest to the waiting porter, and vanished inside.
The door shut, the wheels lurched, and Duncan was alone once more.
For a blessed moment, he was given the gift of silence. He pressed back against the leather seat, closing his eyes, commanding his thoughts to order.
Hargrave. Evidence. Felton’s ruin. These were the only matters that ought to occupy his mind.
And yet Catherine’s face intruded again, as if she were carved into the very walls of his skull. The memory of her lips parted beneath his, the soft gasp that escaped when he took her mouth with his own, the way her whole body had shivered when his voice dipped low—
Why must she quiver at my touch? Why can she not embrace me wholeheartedly?
He dragged a hand over his jaw, rough beard scraping his palm, as though the sting might scour her from him.
It did not. The taste of her lingered, sweet and defiant all at once.
He could almost feel her again—the delicate give of her lower lip beneath his teeth, the way her breath had caught when he pressed closer.