Chapter Thirty
Stephen turned into St. James’s Square, and his stomach fluttered as his gaze landed on the Foxton townhouse. Three stories of windows stared out over the street—huge eyes, dark in contrast to the white-fronted facade.
Was she inside?
As he approached the building, he caught a flash of light and his heart gave a flutter. Then he shook his head, cursing his folly. It was merely the reflection of the sunlight, caught in the windowpanes as he crossed the street.
Like much of the square, the building seemed empty, abandoned by all save a handful of staff to guard against marauders and air the rooms. But in a matter of weeks, the place would be bustling with life as the residents returned from wintering in the country to drink in their clubs, visit their modistes, and take tea with their acquaintances to gossip about who might secure the notice of the queen and become the premier debutante of the Season.
Then the world outside London would cease to exist, as would those individuals who resided outside Society, either due to their location, their lack of fortune or social status, or…
…or their ruination at the hands of another.
Stephen’s sister had chosen to remain in the country with Mrs. Stowe, who was proving to be an adept teacher as well as chaperone.
Angela’s ruination seemed to have been avoided, with Sir Heath Moss remaining tight-lipped, not once speaking of his seduction of her despite having boasted of numerous other conquests.
Angela’s reputation seemed to have escaped unscathed from the events of last Season.
But as for another woman…
If what Stephen suspected were true, her reputation had been destroyed by an act of…
An act of love.
As he reached the main doors, Stephen closed his eyes at the memory—the way her eyes darkened with desire util they were almost black, as the final moment of surrender, when she offered her body to him, and…
and how her body had welcomed him into her warmth, rippling and pulsing with pleasure until it had burst forth, drawing him in as he claimed her as his.
He blinked, and moisture stung his eyes as the burden of guilt pressed on his soul.
He raised his hand, but before he could knock, the door opened to reveal the black-clad butler.
“It’s Reeve, isn’t it?”
The butler arched an eyebrow, his face seeming to creak with the effort. “Are you expected?”
“Is Lady… I mean, the family, are they at home?”
Stephen stepped forward, moving his foot into the doorway. The butler lowered his gaze, then curled his lip in a sneer.
“Wait here.”
He turned his back and disappeared into the house, where Stephen could discern the blurred shapes of items of furniture still covered in dust sheets.
At length, the butler returned, his slow, steady footsteps clicking over the floor.
“Follow me.”
Without awaiting a response, the butler led Stephen to a small parlor near the back of the house. All the furniture within, like the items in the hall, was covered in white sheets.
“Is the duke intending to stay in Town?” Stephen asked.
The butler ignored him, instead giving the slightest of bows before disappearing, closing the door behind him.
Stephen crossed to floor to the window that overlooked the garden. A thin layer of dust covered the glass, and he ran his finger along the sill before inspecting the tip and wiping it on his jacket. The faint smell of damp and dust lay heavy in the air.
Then the door burst open.
“I thought I’d already said that you weren’t welcome in my house.”
Stephen turned to face the Duke of Foxton. “At Forthridge, yes,” he replied. “You said nothing about your townhouse.”
Foxton’s eyes narrowed. “Whatever qualities my sister believed she saw in you are well hidden,” he said. “If they exist at all.”
“Is Portia at home?”
“Lady Portia is not your concern,” Foxton said. “I thought I’d made that perfectly clear when you turned up uninvited at Forthridge”—he twisted his mouth in a sneer almost identical to the butler’s—“with your brat of a sister and that dowdy mistress of yours.”
“I have no mistress,” Stephen said.
“Understandable,” Foxton said. “After all, once you’ve had a taste of the choicest cut of meat in my sister, you’re unlikely to want to take a bite out of a bit of scrag end, are you?”
Anger boiled in Stephen’s gut and he curled his hands into fists. “How dare you insult her!”
Foxton let out a chuckle and thrust his hands into his pockets. “You must have set your cap at that old woman if you’re so vehement in your defense of her.”
“I meant your sister!” Stephen said. “She deserves better than to be spoken of in such a manner.”
“Oh, really? She deserves better than the brother who has her best interests at heart, who is devoting his life to ensuring that she’s never placed in danger again?” Foxton let out a sour bark of laughter. “I suppose you think you deserve her? Reid, you never came close.”
“In that, if nothing else, I agree with you,” Stephen said, tempering the urge to obliterate the arrogant expression on Foxton’s face. “At least permit me to see her, speak to her.”
“She’s not at home.”
“You lie,” Stephen said. “If you’re as protective as you say, you’d be by her side at all times.”
“I’m not in Town for long,” Foxton said. “Not that it’s your concern. I return to Forthridge this evening.”
“Then permit me to—”
“You’re not welcome,” Foxton said. “Step onto my estate and you’ll regret it. My gamekeeper has orders to shoot you on sight.”
Stephen flinched and dug his fingernails into his palms, focusing on the sharp stab of pain to drive away the memory of gunfire. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Wouldn’t I? You and your wretched family have cost me more than you deserve. I—” Foxton broke off, then shook his head. “Just go, before I do something I regret.”
“What do you mean, my family has cost you?”
Foxton made a dismissive gesture. “I’m referring to my sister’s virtue. You ruined her.”
“I love her!” Stephen cried.
“You took her virtue, then shot her and left her for dead,” Foxton said. “Are those the actions of a man in love?”
“How many times must I tell you, I didn’t know it was—”
“I care not!” Foxton roared, advancing on Stephen, his powerful frame filling the room. “If it were up to me, I’d have your throat slit in the night while you sleep, preferably while that damned sister of yours watches. Had she kept her legs closed, none of—”
“My sister did nothing!” Stephen said. “She was seduced by a rogue, a man who deserves to be cut down.”
“As my sister was similarly seduced—and the man who ruined her deserves to be cut down,” Foxton said quietly. Rage still simmered in his eyes, but the cold, measured calm in his tone sent a shiver of fear through Stephen’s heart.
Foxton was a man without a heart—and such a man was a dangerous enemy, for he would carry out his threats unhampered by conscience or remorse.
Nevertheless, the question that had been burning in Stephen’s mind needed to be asked, even if it cost him his life.
“Did she have a child?” he said.
For a moment, Foxton’s composure seemed to falter. His lips thinned, then he tilted his head to one side and smoothed his expression, the momentary flash of fury disappearing.
It was enough to confirm Stephen’s fears.
A child…
My child.
“Sweet Lord Almighty,” he whispered as the world shifted out of focus. The walls of the tiny parlor seemed to pulse and throb, moving in and out, pressing on his chest until he fought for breath.
“The Almighty has nothing to do with it,” Foxton said. “I’m my sister’s only salvation now, and I’ll do everything in my power to protect her, like any man would a fragile female, from the dogs that come sniffing around her.”
The anger swelling in Stephen’s heart shattered and burst forth.
“You fucking bastard!” He lunged forward, and pain exploded in his hand as his fist connected with Foxton’s face.
The bigger man teetered backward, his eyes widening in surprise, then crashed to the floor.
“What about the child?” Stephen cried.
Foxton winced, then wrinkled his nose. “There is no child,” he said. “The only family my sister has is the brother who’d kill to protect her.”
“You lie.”
Foxton laughed. “I’ve no need to lie to a man such as you.” He lifted his hand to his cheek, which was covered in an angry red mark.
Stephen shook his hand to dispel the pain, then approached Foxton, extending his other hand, but it was slapped away. “Foxton, I—”
“Don’t touch me, you dog!” the duke snarled, struggling to his feet. Then he slipped and fell back. “Bugger!”
He reached inside his jacket and drew out a pistol, and Stephen froze, tightening in fear as his gaze was drawn to the muzzle of the weapon—a perfect circle at the end of the barrel, pointed at his heart.
Foxton moved his thumb and cocked the pistol with a crisp click.
“Make no sound, Reid,” he said, lowering his voice to a whisper so quiet, it was almost as if he had crawled into Stephen’s mind.
“Go,” he continued, his voice cold and even.
“You have until the count of ten to leave my house, or I’ll shoot you dead.
That’s how long you gave my sister, was it not? ” He tilted his head up. “Reeve!”
Footsteps approached, and the butler appeared, his eyes only widening a little, as if his master prone on the floor aiming his pistol at a guest was a regular occurrence.
“Yes, Your Grace?”
“Show this…person out. Make sure he never returns.”
“Very good, Your Grace.” The butler turned to Stephen and raised his eyebrows. “If you please, sir.”
“But—” Stephen began.
“One,” Foxton said.
“I—”
“Two!”
Raising his hands, Stephen retreated while Foxton rose to his feet, counting steadily. On the count of five, Stephen reached the doors. Foxton uncocked the pistol then retreated deeper into the house, leaving Stephen with the butler.
“Reeve, I think—”
“You heard the master, sir. You’re to leave immediately.”
“But the child…”