Chapter Seven
Nicholas did not go to bed.
He told himself it was because he had correspondence to address—letters from two peers in Cornwall, a memorandum from the committee, the small stack of pamphlets Winston insisted he read, even though Winston’s idea of “reading” involved underlining anything that sounded like a threat.
In truth, he didn’t go to bed because his skin still carried the faint, phantom weight of Winston’s presence in his study.
Winston had walked in as though Archer House belonged to him. As though Nicholas belonged to him.
And the worst of it—the part that sat like a pebble beneath Nicholas’s tongue—was that Winston hadn’t even needed to raise his voice.
He’d simply assumed obedience.
Nicholas had built an entire life on the art of letting men assume what they wanted.
Tonight, it felt less like strategy and more like a collar. It rankled. In fact, the strategy had begun to rankle more and more of late.
Godwin appeared at the study door. “Your carriage is prepared, my lord.”
Nicholas looked up sharply. “I did not request my carriage.”
“No, my lord.” Godwin’s expression was faultless. “But His Grace did.”
Nicholas stared.
Godwin, with the solemnity of a man delivering an execution order, added, “The Duke of VanDeVere requests your presence this evening.”
Of course he does.
Speaking of rankling…Nicholas’s father did not ask. He did not invite. He did not request in any way that implied a second option existed.
Obedience was the price of being VanDeVere’s son—and Nicholas had been paying it since boyhood. Winston could ruin his future. VanDeVere could ruin his sense of self—and Nicholas had always feared the second more than the first.
Nicholas rose slowly, buttoning his coat with methodical care. He could feel his own body trying to do what it had been trained to do—settle, smooth, comply. It was always the best strategy when it came to dealing with his father.
He marched out to the foyer, took his hat from the sideboard, his cloak from Godwin’s hands, and paused only long enough to say, “Don’t wait up.”
Godwin bowed.
Nicholas walked out into the night.
VanDeVere House sat on the finest square in Mayfair.
The front steps were spotless. The windows were dark, save for one warm glow on the first floor—his father’s study.
The lanterns along the walk were lit with careful symmetry, as though even the flames had been arranged to remind a visitor that order reigned here.
Nicholas handed off his coat and hat to his father’s butler and was shown to the study without ceremony.
No announcement. No lingering. No greeting from his stepmother or any well-meaning relation or servant.
Just the quiet, inexorable funneling of a son toward a father.
The door to the study was open.
His father stood with his back to the room, hands clasped behind him, gazing out at the square below as if he owned the street, the city, and every living thing that dared walk through it.
Nicholas stopped on the threshold.
“The Marquess of Vanover,” VanDeVere said, without turning. His voice was mild. Almost pleasant. Which was always how it began.
Nicholas stepped inside. “Father.”
A pause—measured, deliberate.
Then VanDeVere turned.
He was immaculate, as always. Not merely well-dressed, but precise—cravat tied with mathematical perfection, coat cut to emphasize the authority in his frame, silver-tinged hair brushed back as though not even a single strand would dare rebel.
His eyes, however, were what had made grown men go silent in committee rooms for decades.
Dark. Assessing. Unflinching.
Nicholas had been trained under that gaze the way a dog was trained under a whistle.
“You’re late,” VanDeVere observed.
“I came as soon as I received your message.”
VanDeVere’s mouth twitched, the nearest thing to a smile he ever allowed when he thought he was about to win. “So you did.”
Nicholas waited.
VanDeVere crossed to the sideboard, lifted the decanter, and poured two glasses of brandy. He handed one to Nicholas as if bestowing a prize.
Nicholas accepted, because refusing would make a point. And points were dangerous in his father’s company.
VanDeVere gestured toward the chair opposite the desk.
Nicholas sat.
VanDeVere remained standing. Always. As though sitting were an indulgence meant for lesser men.
“I had a visit tonight,” VanDeVere said.
Nicholas kept his expression still. “From Winston?”
“Yes.”
So Winston had gone from Archer House to VanDeVere House, like a man checking on a transaction. Nicholas’s jaw tightened, but he took a slow sip of brandy to hide his irritation.
VanDeVere studied him over the rim of his glass. “You’re surprised?”
Nicholas shrugged. “I didn’t anticipate Winston moving so quickly,” he replied carefully.
VanDeVere’s eyes sharpened. “You didn’t anticipate it because you’ve grown complacent with Winston. That ends now.”
Nicholas’s fingers tightened around the glass. “I see.” Vague words were most effective with his father.
“Do you?” VanDeVere’s tone stayed mild, but the air changed—pressure increasing by degrees. “Winston has been losing patience. With his daughter. With the cartoons. With the threat of appearing”—his lip curled faintly—“indecisive.”
Nicholas did not react at the mention of B. Adroit.
He did not react because reacting would reveal he cared.
And Nicholas Archer did not reveal what he cared about. Not here.
VanDeVere paced once behind the desk, slow as a cat stalking a rat. “Winston believes the reform bill will be pushed forward sooner than expected.”
Nicholas’s stomach gave the faintest twist.
“It’s scheduled—” Nicholas began.
“It will be scheduled whenever the Crown decides it will be scheduled,” VanDeVere cut in smoothly. “And the Crown has begun to notice that the House is…restless.”
Nicholas’s throat tightened. That, at least, was true.
VanDeVere stopped behind his chair—close enough that Nicholas could feel him, like a shadow leaning over his shoulder. “Which is another reason why I sent for you.”
Nicholas’s pulse ticked once, hard.
Here it comes.
“You will vote as instructed, of course,” VanDeVere said.
“Of course.” Nicholas kept his gaze forward. Obedience would cost him some pride—and invite a few whispers. Defiance would cost him the machinery that made votes possible. So he let his father hear what he wanted to hear, and he tucked the larger play safely out of sight.
VanDeVere’s hand rested briefly on the back of Nicholas’s chair, a touch light enough to be mistaken for affection if one did not know better.
It was not affection.
It was ownership.
“The reform bill is a contagion,” VanDeVere continued, voice still calm. “It begins with trade restrictions and ends with men who smell of coal demanding a seat in Parliament.”
Nicholas said nothing.
VanDeVere moved away again, circling, the way he always did when he wanted a man to feel hunted without ever being chased.
“You have been playing the center,” VanDeVere said. “Useful. Clever. But in this case, it has made some people uncertain of you.”
Nicholas’s spine went rigid.
“There are times,” his father’s eyes narrowed, “when uncertainty can be mistaken for weakness, Nicholas.”
Nicholas forced his voice to remain even. “You want me to tip my hand?”
“Not entirely.” His father’s smile was tight as always. “But it will not hurt to let your peers know how you intend to vote. In this instance, it’s not helpful to be vague.”
Nicholas nodded once. A single, obedient movement.
Inside, something in him pressed back—small, resentful, dangerously alive.
But he had never been foolish enough to let that part of himself speak in this room.
Such an irony that his father didn’t even realize how well he’d taught him to be vague. “I understand.”
VanDeVere leaned a hip against the desk. “Winston also made it clear that your marriage to his daughter is no longer optional.”
Nicholas’s fingers tightened around the brandy glass again. He remained silent. He did not relish talking about Lady Beatrix with his father. She was no more than a political chess piece to him.
VanDeVere’s voice lowered, turning almost conversational. “Do you want her?”
Nicholas held his father’s gaze and chose the safest answer. “Yes.”
It was not a lie. It was simply…incomplete.
VanDeVere nodded, as if they were discussing the purchase of a horse. “Then you will have her. But you will have her correctly.”
Nicholas’s jaw clenched. What the bloody hell did that mean? “Correctly?”
“You will court her publicly,” VanDeVere said. “You will be seen. You will be admired. You will look like Winston’s heir in all but title. You’re fortunate Winston has changed his mind on the matter.”
Nicholas forced his breathing to stay steady. “I’m fairly certain Lady Beatrix isn’t eager for the match.”
VanDeVere’s eyes flicked, quick as a blade. He scoffed. “Women don’t refuse. Not when their fathers stop indulging them.”
Nicholas’s mouth tightened. His father was as predictable as he was awful.
VanDeVere continued as if Nicholas hadn’t spoken. “Winston has permitted her freedom because his duchess insisted. That’s ended. And if the duchess objects”—he lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug—“she will be reminded what happens when a woman challenges a duke.”
Nicholas’s stomach turned, but he kept his jaw clenched tight.
He thought of Lady Beatrix’s sharp mouth. Her fire. Her refusal to bow. She would not be ordered about…not even by two dukes.
VanDeVere set his glass down with a distinct click. “There is another matter.”
Nicholas lifted his gaze again, bracing himself for whatever came next.
VanDeVere’s eyes gleamed faintly. “These cartoons.”
Nicholas kept his face still. “Yes.”
“They’ve made both you and Winston look ridiculous.”
Nicholas’s throat tightened despite himself.
VanDeVere noticed, of course.
His father’s smile returned, thin and knowing. “They must bother you.”
Nicholas didn’t deny it. Denial would be a weakness, and VanDeVere fed on weaknesses.
Instead, he said, “I agree. They are an attack on our credibility.”
VanDeVere nodded as if Nicholas had recited a lesson properly. “Precisely. Credibility is currency. And you are being robbed in public.”
Nicholas’s fingers curled around the arm of the chair.
VanDeVere’s gaze pinned him. “You will find the cartoonist.”
Nicholas’s voice stayed even. “I intend to—”
“You will not intend,” VanDeVere corrected softly. “You will act. Quietly. Efficiently. Immediately. No mistakes. No excuses.”
Nicholas’s jaw clenched. “Yes, Father.” It was a waste of breath to tell the man he’d already hired a Bow Street Runner.
VanDeVere moved closer, and Nicholas felt, as he always did, that invisible tightening—like a noose being adjusted, not yet pulled.
“Remember who you are,” VanDeVere murmured. “You shall not be made a laughingstock by some guttersnipe with a pencil.”
Nicholas’s pulse ticked again, hard.
VanDeVere’s eyes bored into him. His gaze sharpened, as if he sensed something—some future fracture, the hint of rebellion—before it happened. “Do you understand me?”
Nicholas stared up at him.
He could, if he wanted, say something clever. Something barbed. Something that would give him a fleeting sense of power.
But Nicholas had survived his father by never needing the fleeting kind of power.
So he lowered his gaze. And he nodded. “I understand.”
VanDeVere’s hand rested on his shoulder—brief, firm, a benediction that felt like a brand.
“Good,” his father said. “Then we are finished.”
Nicholas rose.
He placed his untouched brandy on the desk with careful precision.
VanDeVere watched him like a man watching a chess piece return to its proper square.
Nicholas bowed his head. “Goodnight, Father.”
VanDeVere gave a small, satisfied nod. “Goodnight, Vanover.”
Nicholas turned and walked out.
He did not breathe properly until he was halfway down the outside steps.
Even then, the air felt thick.
The night was cool and quiet, London unaware that two dukes had just decided the fates of two people as if it was nothing more than a whim.
Nicholas stepped into his carriage and shut the door.
As the wheels began to roll, he stared at his reflection in the darkened glass.
Steady. Controlled. Obedient.
The man his father expected.
And yet—
In the deepest part of him, something small and furious pressed against the inside of his ribs.
Not rebellion.
Not yet.
But the first, dangerous sensation of wanting to speak with his own voice. Much like Lady Beatrix did.