Chapter 16 #2
Cassian did not even spare the man a look as he assessed the card room. “When was the last time you spoke to your three illegitimate children, pissant?”
The man silenced. Over the half-dozen occupied card tables, he spotted Whitmore immediately. He was not seated yet, thank goodness, so he strode to him.
“Whitmore, you and I need to talk,” he bellowed.
The room quieted as Gabriel looked over the drink in his hand. “Now, Tressingham? I’m set to begin a hand of Whist.”
Cassian refrained from grinding his teeth. “I’ll join then, because I will not give you a chance to squirrel out of this meeting.”
Gabriel looked defensive. “Are you calling me a coward, Tressingham?”
“Yes,” Cassian replied frankly. “What I did not know was how much of a preening peacock you are—” He pulled the folded sheet of the paper out from his inner pocket, “—but this tells me what I should have already suspected.”
Sticking his nose in the air, Gabriel replied, “Nothing I said was untrue.”
“What concerns me is why you needed to say anything at all,” Cassian growled. “Was the pound of flesh you’ve already carved away not enough? You do not deserve her blood as well.”
A ripple of murmurs went through the room as Cassian stared down Gabriel. The other duke did his best to match it, but Cassian knew he was wilting.
“I stand by my word,” Gabriel brushed past him and took a seat at the table. “I care little if you like it or not.”
“Then I will make sure you have a care,” Cassian tugged out a seat.
“And how do you think you can do that?” Gabriel replied.
“You’ll see.”
Before the evening was out, he would have the bastard on his knees, begging and pleading for clemency.
Gabriel looked around the room, his brows furrowing. “Gentlemen, I thought we were playing whist.”
When the six men made their wagers, and it came to Cassian’s turn, he calmly said, “I wager a thousand pounds to the winning pair, but if Whitmore loses, I demand a retraction in the paper and an apology to my wife.”
“Actually, for such a personal matter, Vingt-et-un might be better,” Lord Patterson, one of the men Cassian had thought to partner with, suggested. “And frankly, I do not want to be caught in this crossfire.”
Cassian shrugged, “Vingt-et-un it is.”
Reaching for his brandy, Cassian watched Gabriel draw his next card. For the last fifteen minutes, the jovial, cocky expression the other duke had stamped on his face had faded in quiet, controlled panic.
Gabriel’s eyes flitted furiously over his hand, like a feral wolf that had been cornered and was desperate for a way out. Cassian held back a smirk—Whitmore was an easy mark if there ever was one.
He pulled his last card and smiled at his trump card. “I can see you are struggling, Whitmore. I can give you a way out of a humiliating defeat if you just agree to my terms.”
“Bold of you to think I am going to lose,” Gabriel bluffed.
“Play your hand, then,” Cassian dared.
The air seemed to ripple with tension, and Cassian did not even try to pretend to ignore the lords hovering around them. The card room was as silent as a graveyard at midnight, while the labored breath coming from Whitmore told Cassian the man’s back was against the wall.
He laid down a card, and Cassian said, “That only brings you to nineteen.”
“It is close enough,” Gabriel blustered.
“Well,” Cassian laid down his card and saw how the last blob of blood drained from Whitmore’s face. “Not good enough. I’ve won.”
Throwing back the rest of his drink, Cassian pushed from the table and said, “I look forward to seeing your apology.”
He was halfway to the door when Gabriel threw at his back, “I will do the retraction, but there is no apology forthcoming. Nothing I have said is untrue!”
Irked, Cassian turned on his heel, “You gave your word.”
“Did I?” Gabriel said with a pompous drawl. He reached for his drink. “Your wife had fallen from grace because of her own hubris and disgraceful lustful desires for a woman. The way she tried to persuade me into bed was outrightly disturbing.”
Cassian fought for calm. “Be careful of your next few words, Whitmore.”
“Or what?”
“Or, you will be meeting me at dawn,” Cassian muttered darkly, his tone as warm as arctic ice. “Do you want to die, Whitmore?”
Gabriel stood, his form bristling. “Your wife is a budding who—"
Cassian’s blistering punch sent Gabriel flying into the wall, and a loud crash echoed in the room as a bottle splintered on the floor.
While the burn radiated through his arm, Cassian ignored the aghast looks from the other men, deciding deep down that he had absolutely nothing to lose if they scuffled.
The whole of London already thought he was an irredeemable scapegrace; they did not expect much from him, and he did not care to give them any.
Flexing his wrist, Cassian intoned, “I told you to mind your mouth, Whitmore. Now I have every reason to destroy everything you hold dear.”
“Good god, man,” Patterson hauled Gabriel up. “There is no reason to resort to fisticuffs.”
“Bullets then,” Cassian said coldly. “I will oblige. Rotten Row, Whitmore, at dawn.”
As he turned to walk away, Gabriel shouted, “Tressingham!”
He turned, and a fist met his cheekbone. It was a feeble, passing graze—as weak as Cassian knew Whitmore was—but it was enough cause to make the dam of constraint inside Cassian burst.
Furious with Whitmore’s hypocrisy and cowardice, he unleashed a barrage of blows that hit Whitmore to the abdomen, chest, and the face in rapid succession that sent the man back flying into the wall.
Cassian then had his forearm across Gabriel’s throat, fury radiating from every pore. “I will enjoy ruining you, Whitmore.”
A set of hands pried him away, and Cassian spun to meet Benjamin’s calm gaze. “We need to leave, Fitzroy. Now.”
Whitmore looked a fright, his skin mottled with bruises already forming, and with the way he was holding his chest, Cassian wondered if he had broken a rib.
He was not particularly sorry about it—God knew the man deserved it, but a twinge of remorse did flicker in his chest at the potential consequences of his actions.
“Let’s see how you spin this one, Whitmore,” Cassian warned.
He turned and strode out of the building, passion still sizzling up his spine and hot under his breastbone. The cold air blasted over him in a wave, but it did nothing to stall the anger coursing back and forth through his veins.
As they waited for the carriage, Cassian paced, and Ben did not dare stop him. When the vehicle arrived, he stepped in behind Cassian and yanked the shutter down.
“What in the blazes of seven hells happened?”
Cassian’s jaw jumped, and a blue streak left his mouth before he told Ben what had happened to spur on the fight. “He called Cecilia a whore, Ben. Well, almost. My fist hit him before the word could come out of his mouth.”
Ben was silent for a long moment, and Cassian cocked a brow, “Are you considering the size of the lawsuit he is going to levy at me?”
“No,” the part-time solicitor replied. “I am wondering when it was that you fell in love with Lady Cecilia.”