Chapter 40 - MARK—THE PERFORMANCE

Chapter 40

MARK—THE PERFORMANCE

When my father hit the pianoforte, I leapt up and drew Georgie behind me.

I sputtered but found a voice. “Back away.”

“What?” Prahmn said, “I can’t hear you, you abomination.”

“Sir!” My throat opened fully, and I shook my fists. “Quiet down and back away.”

I’d never taken to blows in public. In private, I’d broken up drunken brawls and evicted people from houses. I’d strike anyone who threatened any woman—father or peer or drunkard included.

“This is a disgrace. You openly make love to this creature like it’s normal.”

My emotions felt raw. I raged and could roar. “Leave now, Prahmn.”

“I disown you, sir. You are—”

“Should he make his private concerns public like your distasteful whoring, Prahmn?” The duke’s voice rang clear. He came through the stunned crowd. “Sir, I need you and your prostitute to leave my house. Never come back.”

My father’s eyes exploded. The fury he had at me turned toward Torrance. “You take that back, you half-bred twit.”

“I’m sorry to annoy you with the truth. But to publicly bring a Saint Giles prostitute to my grand ball, clean her up, and then pretend this is an acceptable practice for a married man, I’m glad the Marchioness of Prahmn has left you.”

“This is all a lie. You’re twisting things.”

The duke came within inches of Prahmn, towering over a man beginning to crumble. “You try to portray that you are the keeper of the morals of London, and you dare come to my Anya House with a common whore, a street prostitute. Will you cast off your poor by-blows in the mews of James Street or leave them on the curb?”

Prahmn grew redder. Sweat beaded his brow. He turned to the woman, who looked like the one with him in Hyde Park. “Is it true? You’re not from Saint Giles parish, are you? You’re a respectable widow.”

The woman shrugged, then in an unmistakable Russian accent said, “Da durak! You old fool. Svoloch! Good one. Lord Prahmn, you pay my fees to show your horrible hide a good time.”

The beautiful woman with dark sable hair had to be in her early thirties. Wearing a tight bodice of damson violet, she turned to the duke and dipped her chin before sauntering out of the room.

The laughter sounding all around made the tall, proud marquess look small.

“Sebastian, remove the trash. Take Prahmn out of here.” The duke motioned to Livingston, who could barely contain his shock, glee, and amazement. “Help our friend. I hear you two are good at that.”

The duke flung out his hand, like he’d done with the carriages, with other servants. The violinist noticed and began to play. Then he led a pale Georgie to the floor and started everyone to waltzing.

This was orchestrated.

I couldn’t think on this. I had trash duty. Like a guard in the legion of the duke, I said to my father, “Don’t make more of a scene. You’ve disgraced the Sebastian name. Your wife, your heir and spares are shamed. When everyone learns of your behavior, all will be mortified. Leave with Livingston and me with the little dignity you have left.”

Shaken, clutching at his chest, my father walked out of the drawing room.

The earl and I followed, making sure his fevered head didn’t burn down Anya House.