Chapter 44
DRASKO
There was one rule about privacy at Mawr Diamond Industries—no one was allowed to talk to the reporters.
Those who broke the rule were either told to do so by Drasko’s clever public manager or they simply lost their jobs. And no one wanted to lose a job at Mawr Industries.
The reporters caught a whiff of juicy stories quickly but often had to resort to the most doubtful sources. Only a few stuck to the facts. And only one man wrote about the Wollendorf deal gone wrong, yet didn’t speculate. Instead, he wrote a clever projection of the future of the diamond trade.
The man’s name was John Papadakis, and he just so happened to be standing outside the house gates when Drasko’s entourage was leaving.
“Mr. Mawr! Your comment on the Duke and Duchess of Trent! Their special interest in the auction and the French involvement?”
Drasko chuckled—more at the ingenuity of how fast the rumors traveled.
He motioned for his carriage to stop, got out, and started walking on.
“I am John Papadakis, with the Tribune ,” the short slender man in his twenties introduced himself, walking step in step with Drasko.
Coincidentally, Drasko had read the articles by Papadakis. The reporter was young yet didn’t resort to dirty tactics. Fresh blood , Drasko assumed. And honorable at that.
“I know who you are,” Drasko replied, lighting a cigarette and offering one to the reporter.
He studied the man, his shabby but neat suit, cheap but clean glasses, and inquiring and eager gaze.
Everyone deserved an opportunity. Once upon a time, Drasko was a bet. And ever since, he had had a habit of giving others a chance.
Papadakis was hungry for any information. Drasko was willing to share it. With his own agenda, of course.
“Your connection with the Duke and Duchess of Trent, sir?” the man repeated, nervously smoking as he tried to keep up with Drasko’s wide stride.
“What connection?”
“They were having dinner at your house last night, were they not?”
“Yes. They enjoyed my chefs’ fine cuisine.”
“That is all?”
“And music. They are patrons of the arts, and my wife is a brilliant pianist.”
“Rumor has it, the ton was not too accepting of the situation with the duped earl.”
“Duped? Is that what the rumor is?”
“That is what the talk is, Mr. Mawr.”
“I can tell you that she was about to marry the wrong man. If you ask the earl, his lordship will explain.”
“I did, sir. He said you got what was meant to be yours. While he was a gentleman and simply walked away from a woman who deserves to be happy with the man she loves.”
Drasko snorted. “Oh, my! He said that?”
“Highly intoxicated, but yes. He is married as of yesterday.”
“To the woman who deserves to be happy with the man she loves?”
Papadakis chuckled, his admiring eyes on Drasko. “Highly unlikely that was the case, Mr. Mawr. But I am here because of a different matter.”
“More rumors?”
“No, not rumors, just fact-checking.”
“Mr. Papadakis.” Drasko tossed his cigarette away and fixed his tie as he walked. “I am pressed for time, but I have an offer. Does your wife like diamonds?” He had noticed the wedding band on his finger.
The man’s eyes snapped at him in surprise. “We come from a small town up north, Mr. Mawr. We live modestly.”
“Would she like to have diamonds?” One of Drasko’s favorite things was to gift diamonds to others, since he couldn’t stand them in his own home.
“This sounds like a bribe, Mr. Mawr. And I do not?—”
“Considering what I am about to offer, it would be a welcoming gift. This is what I need. Number one, I need you to write in your newspaper that I am madly in love with my wife, and that is my actual statement.”
“Noted. Good to finally confirm it.”
“Number two. The auction is to be held at the Benham Auction House, but you already know that. What you don’t know is that the Duke and Duchess of Trent indeed will have the first viewing of the auction items.”
“How coincidental that the Duchess of Trent is on good terms with Mr. Kleinstein of the Benham Auction House.”
“Yes. Coincidences are all over the place. Omit that part. The initial idea was to host the auction in France. But the duchess is a big admirer of Grace Mawr’s talent. In appreciation of her support, Mawr Diamond Industries, indeed, decided to keep the auction on English soil.”
“Noted.”
“Number three. The Duchess of Trent is absolutely worthy of such a masterpiece as the Crimson Tear.”
“What about the Queen?”
“Mawr Diamond Industries is crafting a special piece for Her Majesty.”
“Is that true?”
“I have just decided it is. And you are the first to know. The duchess is the one woman besides the Queen, who deserves the likes of the legendary Crimson Tear. And those will be your words in the article, not mine.”
“I see.”
Drasko was playing in her favor. So be it. Noblemen needed a pat on the shoulder, much like pampered little dogs that strove for attention.
“I will give you the first exclusive breakdown of the guests and the pieces at the auction, Mr. Papadakis.”
“In exchange?”
“In exchange for you printing exactly what I tell you. And after the auction, I am offering you to be the official public relations representative of Mawr Diamond Industries.”
“Sir?” The man’s eyes grew large.
Drasko met his shocked stare. “Do I need to repeat myself?”
“No, no, sir.”
“Is that a yes or a no?”
“A no to not repeating. A yes to the public relations job. Absolutely!”
“Good.”
“And the Crimson Tear?”
“What about it?”
“No one has yet seen the legendary diamond. And I mean, no one .”
“I have.”
“But do you have it?”
Drasko hated lies. But this was a game, and for the sake of the game, he uttered, “Yes.”
“Oh, that is a sensational confirmation, Mr. Mawr. And your connection to the Bankee Syndicate?”
Drasko smiled at the young man’s audacity. He definitely liked him.
The reporter shrugged with an apologetic look. “I had to ask. It’s my job.”
“What about it?”
“Do you confirm?”
“Confirm what?”
“Your connection?”
“What sort of connection are we talking about?”
“The illegal trade, sir.”
“I only trade diamonds, Mr. Papadakis. My diamonds. Legally.”
“So there is no other connection?”
“Mr. Papdakis, was it you who did the article last year on the Bankees’ whisky exports?”
“Indeed.”
“And you talked to the Bankees, am I correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What is your connection to them?”
“Business.”
“Illegal trade?’
“What? No!” A laugh escaped him, then ceased abruptly. “I see,” he muttered.
Drasko motioned for his carriage, then turned to Papadakis. “I would like the draft of your article on my desk tomorrow,” he told the man. “Now, have a blessed day, Mr. Papadakis.”
He thought about what he’d said to the reporter throughout the day.
Pushing the story that he and his wife were in love was a cheap trick.
But he was doing it for her reputation more than anything else.
The marchioness’s ball would be filled with lords and ladies studying him and Grace under a magnifying glass, asking questions, smiling politely and exchanging all sort of garbage rumors behind their backs.
So, naturally, he did not leave much option for the Duke and Duchess of Trent either—they would have to play along and sing their praises about Grace.
Drasko was used to large posh events but in recent years preferred smaller companies with people he trusted.
But this was Grace’s opportunity to shine, and lately, he had a hard time denying her anything.
Only now her behavior back when she was a Sommerville made sense. How her dresses were of poorer quality than those of her guardians, how closely they curated her life, how little freedom she had, how self-aware and intimidated she was around them.
If he needed to play the game of pleasantries to make high society kiss the ground his wife walked on—he would do it.
If he needed to step over his pride to make her feel safe and cherished—he would do it.
Even more so, he would tell the world he was madly in love with her, so that she didn’t feel ashamed of their marriage. Would he be lying?
He was thinking about her far too much. But he had known that would happen as soon as their lives collided. Known it the day he stepped into the church. Or perhaps the first time he heard her play. Or?—
It didn’t matter. Elias was right. Once Drasko set his sights on her, she had drawn him into her world.
And he didn’t fight. Didn’t want to. She was his destiny, and he felt it the way one felt the sun on a cloudy day or a dark night—it was there and always would be. That was the nature of the universe.
“Finally,” he heard Elias’s voice in his mind.
“I envy you,” Zeph had said when he found out that Grace Mawr was the pianist from the Elysium. “She is fierce, brother. Talented. Is she good in bed?”
Drasko had only rolled his eyes.
Could he tell his friend that he had only bedded her once, fucked her with his fingers once, and kissed her fewer times than any other woman he had ever had?
Yet the raging want for her was driving him insane. And wanting to bed her was only a small part of it. Away from her, that need was manageable. But as soon as she was around, it grew like a monster.
Like it did only that very evening, when he was returning home and the carriage rolled through the house gates.
Lately, Drasko had gotten to love coming home and walking into the house as piano tunes seeped from the music room.
When Grace played one of the epic concert pieces, the entire ground floor seemed to breathe in rhythm with it.
The servants straightened their shoulders and walked more elegantly.
The guards looked graceful, like lords. There was a thick air of celebration. Drasko’s house had a sound—her music.
Except, today, when he walked into the house, it was quiet.
Too quiet.
Samira met him in the hallway, a worried look on her face. “Sir, the missus is unwell.”
“Unwell?”
“She was in pain all day. She has a fever, Eden said. She looks so pale.”
“Did she have supper already?” Drasko tossed his jacket to the doorman and started for the stairs when Samira answered, “She left.”
He stopped short. “Left?”
“Eden helped her into the carriage, and they both left. An hour or so ago.”
Blood started pounding in his head. “Where?”
“She’s had those pains since childhood, Eden said. And when it gets so bad that the missus can’t move, they go to Miss Rebecca. Miss Rebecca has been helping her?—”
“Tripp!” Drasko barked, ripping his jacket out of the doorman’s hands. “Carriage! Now!”
He had carefully collected the information about every person in Grace’s life, what they did and where they lived, including Miss Rebecca. And it just so happened that he didn’t know anything about his wife’s illness.
At this point, he was done lying to himself—that this was an arrangement, that he was acting civil for the masquerade’s sake.
He cared. In fact, so bloody much that his heart was booming louder than a war drum as he darted out of the house and jumped into the carriage.
Samira ran out after him. “Sir!”
“What is it?” he asked impatiently.
She clasped her hands in front of her, her pleading gaze on him. “Sir, you will bring the missus home, won’t you?”