Chapter 32

Chapter Thirty-Two

“ M ust you go?” Madeleine asked, her voice exasperated the following evening.

“I must. Horace does not send such missives with urgency. I must go to help him out.”

“He is the manager?—”

“And it is my establishment.”

Alexander did not mean to cut his wife off but he was on-edge. Horace had sent him a letter that was urgent enough to disrupt their evening dinner with John.

John frowned at the way Madeleine had left the dining hall to whisper in private but Alexander was not about to risk anybody else finding out about his secret.

“Alexander,” she pleaded softly. “Please stay. It is the last dinner with John before he departs for Halthorpe.”

“I understand but I must go, Madeleine. I am sorry. It is likely nothing but?—”

“And last night at the ball?”

“I merely thought I saw somebody watching us too intently but I did not see anything in truth.”

“You worry me.”

“Do not worry,” he told her but his thoughts were too greatly fixed on the problem at the Raven’s Den to truly assure her. He pulled away far too quickly, giving her the barest kiss on her temple. “Bid your brother farewell for me.”

“Alexander—”

But he was already giving her one last apologetic glance before he slipped out of the door and onto his horse. He did not bother with having a carriage prepared.

Horace had only sent one letter, quick and demanding: Fights are escalating, friend. Come as quick as you are able.

If fights were escalating it meant that the patrons were getting braver and less concerned to be barred. Alexander found that worrisome. It meant having to either stand for the fights and lower his club’s standards in order to keep the patrons, or risk them going elsewhere.

When he arrived at the Raven’s Den, he burst inside, he found nothing but a peaceful main hall. Several gentlemen glanced at him, frowning at his bursting arrival.

“Your Grace,” one lord called out to him in greeting. “How are you?”

“Well,” he answered shortly, striding past.

Another man stood up. “Your Grace, will you do me the honor of a game when?—”

“No.”

He did not look at anybody else as he took the grand staircase up to the higher level of the gambling hell.

He skirted around the long way around the balcony, ducking around the shadowed areas and slipping through empty curtained-off rooms to avoid detection by those who watched his quick, urgent pace.

When he was certain he was no longer watched, he approached Horace’s office.

“Horace, what is the meaning of your letter? There are no fights?—”

His words stopped dead when he lifted his gaze to find a man he had thought long dead.

“Hello, Silverton.”

The voice was a low, arrogant drawl, and it sent Alexander’s heart racing as he fought to remain composure as he looked the older man in the eyes, noting that Horace was nowhere to be found.

“Donald Cluett.” Alexander cocked his head, trying not to show his shock. “The last I heard you were very, very dead.”

“Yes, well.” Donald shrugged. “Death is a rather easy thing to feign when you know how.”

He picked a piece of invisible lint of a very fine jacket, one of deep red—red, just like the dress of Madeleine’s he had given away.

Alexander noted that detail with no small amount of anger that he bit back. His face was smooth, devoid of the harried look he had displayed during his last times at the Raven’s Den.

The rest of him was finely tailored and groomed. He looked… well .

“I will not waste your time,” Donald said, looking smug, “for I believe I wasted much of it already by sending you on a wild goose chase before you stole my wife.”

The accusation and possessiveness cracked through Alexander with grounding force. He clenched his fists, fighting back the rising anger. He stepped forward but Donald shook his head, folding his arms over his broad chest.

“Ah, no. Do not threaten me, Alexander. I will be listened to, do you hear me? Before you argue, you will want to hear what I have to say.”

“I have nothing I need to hear from you.”

“Are you sure?” Donald laughed, a terrible sound of sheer arrogance and self-satisfaction. “See, when one is a dead man, and no longer has an estate or anybody to care to keep searching, one can find out a great deal of things.”

His eyes bore into Alexander, sardonic and pleased. “I know the real owner of this establishment. One Duke of Silverton, I believe.”

Alexander flinched, opening his mouth to say it was not him—to deny the very empire he was proud of but could not openly admit to having.

“And do not try to deny it,” Donald warned him. “With so much free time, I have found myself available to look into my wife’s new husband. I have learned about how your poor, dear mother died. So very tragic .”

His sarcasm laced the condolences, and Alexander gritted his teeth, taking another step towards the supposed dead man.

“Do not speak of my mother,” he growled. “And Madeleine is not your wife. Surely you could not forget such a thing when you left her for nights on end in a cold, lonely manor during your marriage. Surely you could not forget such a thing when you feigned your own death. She is not your wife. She is mine .”

Donald snorted. “Madeleine would be anybody’s who gave her attention, I imagine.”

Alexander stormed ahead, grabbing the front of Donald’s jacket, seeing utter red at the offense against his wife.

“ Keep her name out of your mouth. ”

His fist raised, and he no longer cared if he went against his own beliefs of not being a thug. For Madeleine, he would fight. He would do anything—just like he had for justice of his mother.

Donald only stared coolly back at him. “You may fight me off, Your Grace, but you cannot fight the entire underworld that would simply love to take a swipe at your precious wife. I imagine you being involved in the underworld and such an establishment like the Raven’s Den leaves her vulnerable to… well, anybody. Surely you know this well, or was your mother’s dead body not a reminder enough?”

Alexander’s blood turned cold.

For a moment, he could see the sticky red blood pouring over his hands as he held his mother’s broken, dying body.

For another moment, in his mind’s eye, her face morphed into Madeleine’s. Pain tightened her face, and stab wounds stole the breath from her lungs, and she wept for him, to him, begging for it to stop?—

“No,” Alexander growled. “Madeleine will be safe.”

“She will,” Donald agreed. “If you abide by one little deal with me.”

“What deal?”

“I will not let it slip that you are the true owner of the Raven’s Den if you provide something for me. Let me claim my wife back quietly and live a life under the radar. You will keep my secret, and I shall keep yours.”

Fury rose up in Alexander, hot and impossible to ignore for a moment but Donald held up a hand.

“Before you land that blow, Your Grace,” he said, breathless, and Alexander realized he was starting to become worried, his earlier arrogance slipping slightly.

“I will remind you that many men in the underworld have little to lose. They do not know why several highly placed members of businesses left six years ago without a warning. They were employers, and those who were employed are angry, seeking vengeance. I am holding them off with promises of your cooperation, Silverton. Decide carefully.”

His concession was slow. It was indeed a careful decision. Finger by finger, he released Donald’s jacket. With one painful movement of defeat and a clenched jaw, he stepped back. The risk was real. Donald’s threats were very, very real.

He could not give up Madeleine but what other choice did he have?

She deserved a beautiful, safe life.

He blinked, and Alexander saw his mother again. He flinched.

Do not be a coward , he heard his fifteen-year-old self scream, shaking his father. She is dead! She is dead and it is because of you!

Alexander’s eyes widened as he lost himself in the memory temporarily.

If he denied Donald’s threats, pretended they were not a painful thing to give into, would he one day have a child who would blame him if Madeleine ever was harmed due to his ownership of the Raven’s Den?

The thought punched him in the chest, needling into his heart.

“You understand me, do you not, Your Grace?” Donald asked, knowing he had won. “You cannot repeat your father’s mistakes, but that is something you already know.”

So Alexander knew: to protect his wife, he had to agree to Donald’s demands.

Snarling, he shoved Donald back against the desk. “Do not come here again.”

With one last warning glare, he left the office.