Chapter 22
“Cecilia—”
She groaned, “No.”
Cassian chuckled. “Yes. As much as I want to stay here with you and indulge in a third round of—”
“I’d prefer that,” she nuzzled into his chest.
Their night together had been magical. After making what was close to love, copious amounts of times, both of them had fallen asleep in his bedchamber.
Cassian had woken up somewhere around three; instead of waking Cook, he’d gone to rustle up a tray of cold cuts, flaky brown bread, cheese slivers, and fruit.
They’d fed each other in the moonlit dark, and when the tray was done, he’d licked through her mouth as well. Afterward, he’d cocked her leg over his thigh and brought her to another finish with his fingers and slow, drugging kisses.
“Of course you would,” Cassian sounded pleasantly exasperated. “I have made a succubus out of you already. However, sweetheart, I’ve been summoned to Westminster for a vote on another cockamamie law our dear Prince Regent wants to pass.”
She grumbled. “I want to stop you.”
“You can’t,” he chuckled. “I need to go.”
Reluctantly, she pulled away and peeled her eyes open. “Hurry back.” To me.
He leaned in to kiss her forehead before he slipped away from the bed and, throwing his robe over his shoulder, he left the room. He refrained from looking back and heeding the temptation to return to Cecilia.
Westminster was the last place he wanted to be, but until his time ran out, he had an obligation to his people. This bill to raise taxes on the commonfolk was nonsense, and he would make sure it was struck down if it was the last thing he did.
Three hours later, Cassian sat back in his seat and reached for his water with a satisfied smile. He blithely ignored the chaotic pell-mell around him and the whispers of the Prince Regent’s impending rage.
“Mark my words, our heads will roll,” Duke Westwood hissed to Duke Dresden, glancing around as though mercenaries were primed and ready outside of the Lords’ chamber to send him to his maker. “He will not like this.”
I’d hate to raise taxes on the poorest of the poor even more.
He stood and reached for his jacket. After donning it, he tugged his sleeves out and nodded to the men. “Gentlemen.”
Both dukes stopped to glare at him, and Cassian ignored them, too. “Give the Bonny Prince my regards.”
More than one sour look was trained at him at his not-so-subtle correlation of their Prince with a leader of one of the many Jacobite Uprisings.
“You can tell him yourself when he summons you for one of his many private meetings,” Gabriel said snidely.
Cassian paused. “Well, I know why you voted yay on the bill,” he said. “You are about to lose every pot you have to piss in. If you could not skim something off the top, you would have done the decent thing and voted against it.”
Gabriel threw his head back with a brittle laugh. “What in God's name are you talking about?”
“Smith, Porter, and West,” Cassian replied and held back a smile when Gabriel’s face went bloodless. “They’ll be calling in your debts soon, old boy. Do you have half a hundred thousand pounds on hand, Whitmore, for a start?”
The duke’s lips parted and clamped shut. Cassian nodded and reached for his hat. “That’s what I thought.”
“You won’t get away with this, Tressingham,” Gabriel swore at his back.
“I already have,” Cassian laughed as he left the room and the reverent halls altogether. While stepping into his carriage, he decided to indulge one last time. “Take me to Finsbury Square,” he told his driver. “There is a certain bookshop I would like to visit.”
“Your Grace,” Andrews called from the doorway. “May I enter?”
Cecilia startled and felt ashamed that the butler would enter the room while she was clinging to Cassian’s pillows like a limpet on a rock. Still, she was reluctant to part from them.
Sitting up, she fixed the sheets around her and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. “You may come in, Andrews.”
The butler came in holding a tea tray, crumpets, and preserves; beside it was a silver tray holding a letter. She stifled a yawn. “What time is it? How long have I been asleep?”
“It is almost midday, Your Grace,” the old butler replied gently as he set the tray down on the bedside table. “A letter from Countess Kingstower has arrived for you.”
She startled, “Lady Catherine.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” he nodded. “I assume you know where His Grace has gone?”
“Westminster, yes, I do,” Cecilia replied. “Thank you for the tray. Please organize a bath for me in half an hour.”
“It will be done, Your Grace,” Andrews bowed.
After she made her tea, she opened Catherine’s letter and began to read.
Your Grace,
I only want to write a quick note and alert you that my men have found the young woman Gabriel defiled. Her name is Grace Florence, and she has agreed to take the child, a boy child named Michael.
I hope you see the irony. We will be at Lady Horatia’s garden party this coming Sunday. If you don’t wish to be the villain in this narrative, I will gladly take on the mantle.
Yours,
Catherine.
She rested the letter down while reaching for a bracing sip of her tea, and once again, questioned herself on the morality of doing this. It felt like she was meeting a wrong with another wrong—but was what Gabriel and Lady Ophelia Hawthorne doing to her any better?
This is Gabriel’s kismet. He only did this to himself.
Her stomach still felt uneasy.
I should have spoken to Cassian about this. I find it strange that with all his connections, he did not know about this secret child.
She finished her light meal and, after her bath, headed to her room, only for Andrews to knock. “Your Grace,” he bowed. “Your mother has arrived—”
The book in her hand tumbled to the floor. “Mother is here?”
“Yes, Your Grace,” he affirmed. “Do you wish to have her in the blue drawing room?”
Collecting herself, Cecilia nodded. “And send in some refreshments, too.”
She was not prepared for her mother to turn up without a word—but maybe she had sent notice and Cecilia had missed it. What did her mother want?
Steeling herself, she left for the room and stepped in to see her mother staring out a window. Her mother’s ensemble was immaculate as ever; her lavender travel set, gown, spencer, hat, and gloves were so excitedly tailored to her form. She entered just as her mother was plucking her gloves off.
“Mother?”
Turning, Margaret gave Cecilia a one-over that felt almost scalpel-like. “Hullo, darling,” she uttered. “You look well. Come and give your mother a hug.”
Cecilia swallowed, feeling uneasy; she and her mother had never seen eye-to-eye on most things. No matter what she did, she could not please her, and the look moments ago made her feel as if she had failed again, somehow.
Despite that, she went and hugged her mother tightly. Pulling away, she stood at arm’s length, “I am glad to see you, Mother, but I must ask. I think you know I was not ready for company just yet.”
“I sent word,” her mother replied with a cavalier wave of the hand.
Cecilia frowned as she tried to recall reading such a letter or note— nothing came to mind.
“I—” she stopped herself from apologizing. “Why are you here, Mother?”
Margaret sighed theatrically, and her lips ticked down. “I need to speak to you about getting this annulment, Cecilia.”
A pit immediately began to carve itself in Cecilia’s stomach at her mother’s words, and she bit back her immediate question when a maid arrived with the tray of refreshments. She truly should have anticipated something like this from her mother. “And why is that?”
“Because of this.” Her mother drew out a folded newspaper and snapped the front page open. It read, Who IS Duke Tressingham? “It is three pages of his life, Cecilia, and do you want to know what it says?”
“No, Mother—"
“Upon the now well-known scandal with Duke Tressingham and Lady Cecilia Hartwick, this newspaper has decided to investigate who the Devilish-Duke of London is. Our investigation has uncovered scandalous facts about his parents.
“Reports from credible sources have said his mother was the secret child of Marquess Willowsmere, who had been hidden away in a Scottish convent for half of her life before marrying Algernon Fitzroy, the late Duke of Tressingham. The good lady, allegedly, was afflicted with a severe addiction to Laudanum and died with an overindulgence of the drug.”
“That’s a lie!” Cecilia bit back immediately. “She died of consumption.”
Margaret ignored her. “Reports have uncovered that the death of the late duke and his heir apparent, Roderick Fitzroy, from a carriage accident could not have been a true accident after all.
“A constable who had been called to the scene reminisces that there were signs of tampering with all four wheels of the vehicle and that the death was orchestrated, with all fingers pointing to the current Duke Tressingham.”
“Oh, good god!” Cecilia snapped. “They are telling taradiddles, Mother.”
“Old teachers from Eton have stated numerous times that Cassian Fitzroy was a sullen soul, withdrawn from the world, and took no pleasure in returning to his childhood home for the holidays.
“He had told many of his peers that his father openly hated him and favored his brother, forcing him into the role of black sheep of the family.”
Her mother looked up briefly. “The day before the tragic death, rumors say the young Cassian was seen around the town of Millfield before he mysteriously vanished that night and was nowhere to be found again until the funeral.
“Other rumors say he had sent a subordinate to sabotage the vehicle as he wanted his parent and successful brother dead out of pure hatred and jealousy,” her mother continued, then spun the paper around to show four columns of names.
“These are the names of the ladies Tressingham has had affairs with in Town,” Margaret chirped on. “There are seventy-eight, Cecilia. Seventy-eight. Can you imagine the shame these women had to feel to disclose such private details just to—”
“Lie,” Cecilia stopped her mother. “It’s all lies.”