Chapter 25

25

N icholas scarcely noticed the driving rain that soaked him through as he made his way back to Rockliffe House in Mayfair . The fact that his wool coat had become waterlogged didn’t matter, nor did the mud that splashed onto his boots.

It didn’t matter because his journey had been successful. With a moderate amount of reluctance, Jeremy Clare had divulged the location of the London solicitor’s office where his father had become employed in an unassuming clerk’s position. And with significantly less reluctance, Adolphus Clare had agreed to undertake the task presented to him. Clare , after all, was nothing if not loyal, and while he may have intended to distance himself from the Prescott family, old habits died hard. Not to mention that the compensation Nicholas offered involved a sum that proved difficult to refuse.

After effectively seeing this assignment to completion, Adolphus Clare would never have to work another day in his life. For the time being, though, the man was on horseback barreling toward Suffolk —hopefully, ahead of the rain—with instructions to send word the moment he uncovered even the slightest detail.

And because Clare was known for his efficiency, he would find Phoebe’s daughter. He would . Nicholas repeated the thought back to himself in a steady cycle, refusing to contemplate any other option.

By the time he approached the front door of Rockliffe House —his unannounced arrival requiring him to stand on the step and knock—he couldn’t say he felt easy about the situation, precisely. He missed Phoebe already. Missed his own daughter. He realized how wrong—how empty—it felt to be away from them both and cursed the downpour that necessitated him waiting until the morrow to head home to Beaumont Manor . However , he could at least derive satisfaction from knowing that he’d achieved what he set out to do that day and matters moved in the right direction. That everything would work out exactly as it should .

The greeting he received when the door swung open, though, did little to add to his optimism. Flynt , the family’s longtime butler in London , had always been stern-faced, but the look he gave Nicholas upon offering a half-hearted greeting and moving aside to allow him entry proved nothing less than miserable.

“ Not to worry, Flynt .” Nicholas removed his sodden top hat and coat, giving his head a shake that sent droplets flying to the marble floor of the entrance hall. “ I require nothing more than my bed made up for the night. I’ll be gone again in the morning, so I’ll put you and the other servants to little trouble.”

“ My lord.” Flynt stiffened, the appeasement only making him look grimmer. “ A gentleman—although I hesitate to employ the term—was here seeking an audience with you earlier today. I informed him that you were not in residence, but he insisted on leaving a note nevertheless, claiming it was of the utmost importance.”

Flynt tilted his head toward the side table, where an untidily folded piece of paper rested atop a silver tray. Nicholas arrived at the table to seize the page in three brisk strides, disregarding the wet squelches his boots made against the tiles.

It was far too early to receive any news from Clare . Even so, he tore open the note, his stomach swiftly plummeting as his eyes flew over the untidy scrawl.

Lord Rockliffe ,

You have paid me a grave insult and besmirched the honor of my betrothed. I cannot allow such an affront to stand. As such, I demand satisfaction. We will settle this like gentlemen, with pistols, at a time and date to be determined. Name your second, and have him visit …

He skimmed over the details pertaining to the name and address of the aggrieved party’s second, not giving a damn about any of it beyond the signature scribbled in an uneven line across the bottom of the page. Sir Ambrose Windham , Bt .

“ My lord?”

Nicholas was semi-cognizant that Flynt called out to him, although his gaze wouldn’t lift from the letter. A potent heat rose within him and burned behind his eyes, until it was a wonder the page before him didn’t burst into flames.

“ My lord, is something the matter?”

He turned without answering, not trusting his throat to form words. Not trusting himself to do anything but move into the corridor, one rigid step after another, and seek out the refuge of his study. His mind was no longer forming logical thoughts but inundated by blazing, omnipotent fury.

He slammed the study door behind him, rushing over to the empty grate and letting his body sag against the mantelpiece, his hand forming a fist around the paper and rendering it a crumpled ball. If only a fire roared so he could toss it away and watch it turn into ash.

Of course, that wouldn’t prevent the sloppily— drunkenly —penned words from continuing to sear into his head, making his ire explode like fireworks. Insult . Betrothed . Satisfaction . Pistols .

The man was a bloody swine, not worthy of gentlemanly conduct. Nicholas would far rather snap Sir Ambrose in two with his bare hands and be done with it.

Except he couldn’t. Phoebe didn’t want any harm to befall her cousin just in case, somewhere in his drink-addled brain, he held information.

Damn the man , having the audacity to believe that he’d been the one wronged. Furthermore , how could he even know about the private happenings at Beaumont Manor ? Nicholas squeezed the paper tighter within his fist, his vision beginning to fill with sharp bursts of light. He’d best not ponder the question too thoroughly or he may be led to tear apart the city until he and Sir Ambrose came face-to-face, after which he couldn’t be held responsible for his actions. Besides , the matter of how was secondary to the fact that Ambrose Windham was parading around, thinking he had a claim on Phoebe? —

A sudden knock at the door tore Nicholas from his thoughts, although his blood remained just as heated, the force of it pounding through his ears. “ Go away, Flynt ,” he bit out between clenched teeth, his jaw nigh on vibrating.

The door creaked open regardless, and a couple of heavy footfalls connected with the study floorboards. “ Rockliffe ?”

At the unfamiliar male voice, he pivoted abruptly, blinking as he took in the identity of the intruder. “ Branscombe ?” Through the gloom in the study, the features of the man hovering near the doorway became recognizable as belonging to the Duke of Branscombe , his sister Amelia’s new husband. Unexpected , as after delaying their honeymoon on account of Nicholas and Emily’s surprise return home on their wedding day, they’d finally departed so they could enjoy some time alone at the ducal estate.

Nicholas managed to tip his head in a semblance of a greeting, although he could make no guarantees that his expression didn’t appear murderous. “ Aren’t you and my sister supposed to be sojourning in the country?”

“ I’m afraid Amelia and I don’t have the best of luck when it comes to escaping the city.” The duke’s eyes lit up at the mere mention of his wife’s name, and his lips twitched, almost as if he’d uttered a private joke. “ No sooner did we arrive at Edgecote Hall than I received word that my butler here in London had taken seriously ill, and certain arrangements had to be made. We could have done it through correspondence, but Amelia said she’d feel better about overseeing the matter in person. We had to return to London soon at any rate, as I plan to address Parliament before it adjourns for the year.”

Nicholas nodded, although his head throbbed far too fiercely to return the answer with any sort of pleasantry.

“ Amelia was hoping to retrieve a few books she left behind in the Rockliffe House library.” Branscombe took an additional step forward, letting another beat of silence fall before continuing the explanation. “ I told her I would fetch them and save her a trip out in the rain. We didn’t know, of course, that you were in residence or I’m sure she would have come along. Although I begin to wonder if this is a bad time.”

“ No . Go to the library and take the books. Whatever she wants.” I’ll hardly have use for them if I find myself at the wrong end of a pistol .

He stiffened at the morbid thought, his brow tightening as if to squeeze it away. What purpose was there to allowing his mind to travel down that road? From what he’d discerned, Ambrose Windham was too much of a drunkard to manage a straight shot, and Nicholas had excellent aim. At least, he used to. The challenge would lie with firing the pistol to the side and not succumbing to the temptation to point it somewhere fatal.

Ire rose again as a choking mass in his throat, and the sentiment must have emerged in his features, for Branscombe was gaping, not daring to come too close but looking like he wished to say a great number of things. Ultimately , though, the duke abandoned them all, retreating to the corridor with nothing more than a slight incline of his head.

“ Wait , Branscombe .” Nicholas pulled the words from his raw throat, fighting to keep them collected. “ I don’t suppose I could prevail upon you to act as my second.”

The duke halted in his tracks before turning in one slow, rigid motion to peer at Nicholas as if he’d grown another head. “ Y -you’ll need to repeat that. I’m not certain I heard you correctly.”

Nicholas stalked away from the mantelpiece and collapsed into his wing chair, motioning for Branscombe to take the seat next to it. He didn’t want to ask such a thing of his new brother-in-law. However , the Duke of Branscombe , and no other, had shown up in his study at the opportune—or perhaps inopportune—moment, and Nicholas could garner little enthusiasm for the thought of traveling to his former club and attempting to find someone else for the task.

The duke was quick to accept the proffered chair, although his face had become awash with more questions than ever.

Nicholas didn’t keep him waiting. He provided the pertinent information in as succinct a manner as possible, then unclenched his fist and handed over the page containing the details of Ambrose’s challenge.

“ It’s complete horse shit,” he muttered as Branscombe perused the letter, his brows drawing together as he took in the chaotically written words. “ The man is demented. I want this over and done with as quickly as possible so I no longer have to waste my attention on someone so abhorrent.” Especially because I do not have time to waste. Not when Phoebe is relying on me .

“ Indeed .” Branscombe lowered the page to his lap, letting out a shallow sigh. “ I’ll do as you require. However , are you sure the conflict cannot be solved in some other fashion? If Sir Ambrose is as inebriated as you suspect, he may not even remember the challenge come morning.”

Nicholas took great pains to prevent his voice from turning into a roar, although he couldn’t keep the venom out of his speech. “ He asked, in writing, for a duel, and that’s what he’ll get. I’ll be damned if I let that liar and blackguard question my honor. Nor will I back away and give him any cause to feel like his false claims have merit. Not when they involve Phoe —my daughter’s governess.” A woman who is so much more than that to me.

“ I understand.” Branscombe shot him a knowing look not unlike the one he’d received from Theodora upon alluding to Phoebe’s plight. Almost like he comprehended the words that Nicholas hadn’t given voice. Because perhaps people who were acquainted with falling in love knew how to spot the sentiment in others .

The thought gave him a knock in the chest, temporarily robbing him of breath. It was both heavy and freeing, a flame that shot higher than the others blazing inside him.

Yet before it could proliferate, Branscombe rose to his feet, giving the note a final glance before stuffing it into his pocket. “ I’ll seek out this Mr . Philpot ”—he named the second Sir Ambrose had appointed in his letter—“and see what arrangements need to be made.”

“ Thank you.” The word still sounded clipped when coming from Nicholas’s tongue, although he was becoming better practiced with it. He drummed his fingers along the arm of his chair, trying to muster a moment of calm amidst the lingering haze of indignation. After all, for the second time that day, he’d gotten the assistance he required. Clare would find Phoebe’s daughter. Branscombe would see that the duel took place without delay. In an abysmal situation, matters were going as well as they could. Nicholas just had one final thing to ask. “ Is there any chance you would refrain from telling Amelia about this?”

Branscombe moved his head in a single horizontal line. “ None .”

Well , it was worth an attempt . Yet if Nicholas’s meetings today with both his siblings-in-law had taught him anything, it was that love made people loyal.

Again , a muscle in his chest gave an insistent tug, and he sank his fingers into the upholstery, waiting for the feeling to pass. He didn’t have time to think on it now, nor would he waste valuable seconds arguing that a man as clearly besotted as the duke should keep secrets from his wife. Nicholas could only hope this would all be over with before the dowager caught wind of it.

“ Very well.” For an instant, he let his head rest against the chairback before stiffening his shoulders once more and shooting a pointed look toward the doorway. “ Don’t let me delay you any longer, then.”

“ I’ll return as soon as I have news.” Branscombe took a final moment to peer at him, his dark eyes glinting with concern and his mouth set in a compressed line. Yet whatever his sentiments, he left without another word, his boots echoing rapidly down the corridor and his voice mingling with Flynt’s as he arrived in the entrance hall.

At that, Nicholas let his posture slump again, and this time, he made no effort to correct it. He took a long breath, eyeing the empty crystal decanter on the end table next to him. Surely , the out-of-sorts Flynt wouldn’t find it too great an inconvenience to fill it.

Then again, while Nicholas’s throat had gone dry, he found he had little thirst for brandy. Yes , the drink was warming. Numbing . Except suddenly, he didn’t want whatever swirled within him to be muted.

The flame that had burst to life in his ribcage—the one ignited by thoughts of love and loyalty—had never quite died out, unable to be subdued even by his simmering ire. That was the thing about it, though: it didn’t bring with it the tight, agonizing burn of indignation. Not that he held any illusions it wasn’t dangerous. Be that as it may, the sensation also felt … right.

He stared into the fireplace, heat spiraling through him despite how the grate remained empty and dark. When this duel business was over, he was going to have a great many feelings to sort.