Chapter 22 #2
“Yes. I’ll return before noon.” He took his gloves from his pocket, sliding them on with deliberate precision. “I’m going to Lord Portsbury’s.”
The butler stepped back immediately, bowing low as Duncan strode past him and into the pale morning light.
The air was sharp with the scent of rain-soaked stone and coal smoke, the street gleaming wet beneath the wheels of the waiting carriage.
He climbed in, shut the door behind him, and gave a single order through the window.
“To Portsbury House.”
The horses started forward at once, their hooves splashing through shallow puddles.
He should have been exhausted, but the steady motion of the carriage only hardened his focus.
The tenderness of the last few hours, the sight of Catherine asleep and safe, the warmth of her head against his shoulder, the peace he’d felt for the first time in years—it all had left a strange ache in his chest. A softness he could not afford.
He needed to think. To act. To ensure no more children, no more families, were at the mercy of men like Felton.
Felton’s power was built on fear and debt, both of which Duncan despised. And Catherine’s father had been Felton’s perfect prey: weak, vain, greedy for attention and admiration, and too proud to admit ruin.
Duncan’s hand clenched around the edge of the seat.
When he had visited Lord Portsbury earlier in the day, their meeting had not gone as planned.
Portsbury was still suffering from the aftereffects of drinking one too many cups of claret, and Duncan had been agitated by his unmanly whimpering.
But now that time had passed and Portsbury was sure to have recovered, Duncan set forth with a renewed sense of fervor.
Portsbury will speak against Felton. He will.
By the time the carriage rolled to a halt before Portsbury House, the morning had brightened into a thin, cold gold.
Duncan entered without waiting to be announced. The butler, startled, stammered his name, but one look silenced him.
“Where is he?” Duncan demanded.
“In his study, Your Grace. I—I believe His Lordship is—”
“I know what he is doing.”
The words came low, and Duncan did not even attempt to hide his sense of annoyance. He strode through the hall, the echo of his boots carrying through the empty rooms, until he reached the door at the far end. He didn’t knock.
The stench of brandy met him first. Then the sight of Portsbury himself, half sprawled across the sofa, his waistcoat unbuttoned, a half-empty decanter on the table beside him.
“Good God,” Duncan muttered, striding forward.
Portsbury startled awake, blinking through the haze of drink. “Your Grace! What—what’s the meaning of this? You can’t just barge—”
Duncan seized him by the collar and hauled him upright in one smooth, effortless motion. “Sit up.”
“Unhand me!” Portsbury sputtered, struggling weakly. “You forget yourself, Your Grace. This is my house!”
“Then act like a man who owns one,” Duncan said coldly, pushing him down into the chair.
Portsbury’s eyes narrowed. He had clearly drunk enough to supply himself with enough liquid courage to chatter back at Duncan’s treatment of him. “I’ll have you know, I am not accustomed to being manhandled in my own home.”
“Perhaps that’s the problem.” Duncan turned to the doorway. “Coffee. Strong.”
The housekeeper, who had been hovering uncertainly in the corridor, bobbed a quick curtsy and vanished without a word.
Portsbury glared up at him, cheeks mottled with red. “You come here at dawn, issue orders to my servants, insult my hospitality—and for what? To scold me again about my habits?”
“I didn’t come to scold you,” Duncan said evenly. “I came to enlist your help.”
“My help?” The man barked a laugh. “You must be desperate indeed.”
Duncan’s eyes flicked down to the decanter, then back to him. “Not desperate. Practical.”
There was a long pause as Duncan waited for the Viscount to recall their conversation yesterday. He could see the older man struggling to come up with words, but when he said nothing, Duncan filled in the void.
“We had this conversation before, Portsbury. I was here, only yesterday.”
“Yesterday?” The Viscount looked around the room as though he did not recognize a stitch of the furniture or any of the portraits on the wall. “Did we speak to one another yesterday?”
“We have not the time to rehash what came before,” Duncan said authoritatively. “All that matters is what I need from you now.”
Portsbury leaned back, adjusting his cuffs with unsteady fingers. “Well, then. What could I possibly do for you, Your Grace?”
Duncan stepped closer. He picked up a nearly empty decanter from the end table and moved it so the container was entirely out of reach. “You can speak. To the magistrate. Against Felton.”
Portsbury’s fingers fumbled on his shirt sleeves. “You’re mad.”
“No,” Duncan said, his tone calm and cutting. “I’m determined. I intend to see Felton imprisoned for extortion and corruption. And your testimony will secure it.”
The older man’s face paled. “You don’t understand. Felton! He…he has connections. Men in Parliament. In the courts. If I involve myself—”
“You already are involved,” Duncan interrupted. “You signed half your estate into his hands. You nearly lost Brightwater, and if that had happened, you would have devastated your daughter.”
Portsbury flinched at that. “That was business.”
“That was cowardice.”
The housekeeper returned with a tray and set it carefully on the table between them, her hands shaking. Duncan waited until she left before pouring the coffee himself.
“Drink,” he said, pushing the cup toward Portsbury.
“I don’t—”
“Drink.”
Portsbury obeyed. His hands shook as he lifted the cup, the liquid sloshing against the rim.
Duncan leaned forward, his voice quiet. “Listen to me carefully. If you testify, you can help destroy the man who bled you dry and preyed on families like yours. If you refuse, he’ll find someone else to destroy. And next time, it will not end with debts; it will end with graves.”
The older man’s breath came shallow. “You think me blind to that? I’ve seen what Felton can do.”
“Then you know why he must fall.”
Portsbury rubbed his forehead, muttering into his hands. “You don’t understand. The scandal would be catastrophic. If the gossip columnists knew I’d been deceived, manipulated—”
Duncan’s patience thinned. “They already know you drink yourself into oblivion. You have no reputation left to lose—only a chance to earn it back.”
Portsbury froze, his eyes snapping up. “You speak to me as though I were some servant!”
“I speak to you as my wife’s father,” Duncan said, his tone low and lethal, “and as a man who’s run out of excuses.”
Portsbury’s lip twitched, but the defiance was weaker now, crumbling at the edges. “I am not afraid of you.”
“You should be,” Duncan said. “Because, unlike the rest of Society, I am convinced that this is the only way to truly punish Lord Felton. Others will let him run rampant until he drains the gentlemen in this town dry, but I won’t stand for it any longer. I care for justice, and for Catherine.”
At her name, something flickered across the man’s face: guilt, brief and sharp. He looked away.
Duncan stepped closer still, the space between them narrowing to breath. “She nearly lost everything because of you. You gambled her security for your pride. And last night, while she sat by a child’s sickbed, you sat here drowning in brandy.”
Portsbury’s hand clenched on the armrest. “You think you can lecture me?”
“I can,” Duncan said evenly. “Because I will not watch another man destroy the people who care for him.”
For a moment, silence filled the room, the air between them stretched to the breaking point.
Then Portsbury laughed again, hoarse and bitter. “You want my help? Fine. Pay for it.”
Duncan went still. “What did you say?”
“Pay for it,” the man repeated, his voice rising with drunken bravado. “You’re a duke. You can afford it. You want my signature on your damn papers? It’ll cost you.”
A muscle ticked in Duncan’s jaw. He thought of Catherine’s tears, of the boy gasping for air, of the night he’d held both lives steady in his hands.
“Every debt you owed,” Duncan said slowly, wanting to understand the nature of this request clearly before agreeing to anything outright, “I discharged. Every note, every promise, every lie. I will not fund your vices again.”
Portsbury sneered. “You sound just like my father.”
“No,” Duncan said, stepping closer until his shadow swallowed the older man’s chair. “I sound like a man who’s seen what weak men do to their families.”
For a heartbeat, he saw his own father’s face. Because of his frailties, Duncan had suffered. He had scrimped, saved, and flattered so many others just to rebuild what should have been his all along.
And he saw Catherine’s face in the candlelight, the soft defiance, the courage she possessed despite everything this man had taken from her.
I’ll not let him do to her what my father did to me.
Duncan’s voice softened slightly. “You will clean yourself up. You will give your statement. And you will redeem what little remains of your name.”
Portsbury looked up, and for the first time, something like shame flickered in his bloodshot eyes.
“I—”
“No.” Duncan’s tone brooked no argument. “I’ll return in three days with my solicitor. If you are sober and ready, we’ll begin. If not, I’ll do what must be done without you. I do not need you to succeed, My Lord, but I wish to offer you this chance at redemption.”
The old man’s lips parted, but no words came. He sank back into the chair, small and hollow.
Duncan turned to leave but paused at the doorway. “For your sake … do not test me.”
When he stepped into the hall, the housekeeper was waiting, pale and anxious.
“Mrs. Webb,” he said quietly, reaching into his coat and pulling out a folded envelope with several bank notes in it.
He pressed it into her hand.
“Your Grace?”
“This is for the household. Not for him. You will remove every bottle from this house. Every decanter, every flask, even the brandy for cooking. I don’t care if he rages.
If he drinks again or gambles, you will send word to me at once.
If he even thinks of speaking to Lord Felton, you will not fail to alert me. ”
Her eyes widened. “Yes, Your Grace.”
As he stepped into the cold light of morning, Duncan felt the world shift back into order.