CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE #3
“Percival, they like you because you all but beg for their attention. You have charm, of course, something I cannot claim to have, but I believe it is more pity that has you in the ton’s favour.
They pity the poor, Lord Percival. They do not truly want you but think that your proximity to me will grant them good graces. ”
“Good graces! They despise you, Graham. Why do you think they feed off you and your wife to provide their gossip? They do not respect you, they laugh at you. They mock you. They know what you do not: that you were never worthy of the dukedom, that your have squandered the legacy of your father, and every Blackthorn before you. Your wife will soon realize, as well, that she has married a worthless coward, but as rumour has it, she is not a great deal better so perhaps you are both perfectly suit—”
Graham’s control snapped and he lunged for his cousin, not giving him a chance to finish the abhorrent accusation.
His rage—at the accusations, at the gossip, at Percival’s outburst, and his attempt upon Amelia’s life—all came spiralling out of him, a storm so strong he did not even attempt to temper.
Owen’s cautionary warnings flew from his mind as Graham roared his anguish and grief, exhaustion built up from staying at Amelia’s bedside, wishing for those pretty eyes to open.
His fist slammed into Percival’s jaw, sending both of them toppling over. Behind him, the table crashed from the force of his lunge, sending cards and glasses to the floor.
“I see,” Percival grunted as Graham grappled to get hold of him, only seeing through his anger, his world narrowing down to his cousin’s smug face. “You truly are a beast.”
Graham’s frustration boiled over as he confronted Percival, their voices rising in a heated argument that echoed through the room.
With each pointed accusation, years of pent-up resentment surfaced, and the tension between them became palpable.
Just as the situation seemed poised to escalate further, Owen stepped in, placing a steady hand on Graham’s shoulder, urging him to take a breath and reconsider, reminding him that not all battles needed to be fought with fists.
Percival was sprawled on the floor. His eyes were narrowed and cruel, fixed on Graham. Fists clenched, Graham stood before him.
“Yes, I have been a coward,” Graham said, the fight leaving him in a drain of exhaustion that blurred his vision at the edges. “But at least I am not a scheming man like you who has simpered away, waiting for his chance at glory.”
“No, you just relinquished a perfect life,” Percival hissed. “I pity your wife.”
“She pities you,” Graham snarled. “I can change, for I am loved, but you, Percival, you are simply unredeemed for you have pushed away love and replaced it with the cold, icy embrace of a gossip-mongering ton, and you will pay for the damage you have done to Amelia.”
“Stop now,” Owen muttered at his ear. “You have done what you need to do. He stands challenged.”
Graham nodded, still not tearing his eyes off his cousin. Tension roiled through his entire body, an undercurrent that he struggled to ease.
Behind him, the doors to the smoking room burst open in a loud clash and authorities rushed in, a group of them spreading out around the room, eyeing anybody that dared to flee. In the back of Graham’s mind, he felt a beat of relief that finally the torment of the gossip being on him would end.
“Lord Percival Randall,” one man who Graham knew to be the chief constable, spoke, stepping forward as two other constables pulled Percival up from the floor. “You have been found guilty of destruction of property of His Grace, the Duke of Blackthorn, with the intent to harm—”
“No!” Percival protested. “No, you have it wrong—”
“We have multiple witness accounts, and have found the tool used to do the tampering. Furthermore, you lack an alibi for the specific time before the crash took place.”
“I was at Lady Victoria’s house!” he cried. “Speak with Lady Cassandra Kensington, for we spoke at length. Cousin, we spoke during the intermission! I was there!”
“And before the intermission, you were not,” Owen pointed out. “Placing you at the scene of the carriage damage.”
The two constables grappling with Percival hauled him forward, out of the room, as Graham’s cousin continued to protest and splutter.
His face was utterly white with shock and panic, as he had truly thought he would not be caught.
He fought and kicked out as the authorities struggled to restrain him but soon, he was led away, his cries still spiraling from down the hallway.
As soon as the constables cleared out with one last handshake with both Graham and Owen, and a report of sending correspondence soon, Graham finally staggered beneath the weight of everything, his vision darkening with exhausted black spots.
Owen’s hand remained firmly on his shoulder, steadying him.
Graham turned, his tired gaze meeting the grim but satisfied one of Owen’s. Wordlessly, they both left the club, and the whispers of the other lords in there carried the gossip.
For once, Graham’s name was scarcely mentioned.