Page 92 of His Arranged Duchess
The viscount removed his hand, revealing a swollen lip and a trail of blood making its way down his chin from the corner of his mouth. He snarled, wiping his chin with the back of his hand.
“She spurned me at the altar! She had no right to do that. None at all!”
“Then your quarrel is with me,” Lucien shot back. “Not her, because without me, she would have married you.”
Lord Easton got unsteadily to his feet, watching Lucien like a rabbit might watch a hungry fox.
“It was easy, you know,” he muttered, his voice thin and spiteful. “I knew there must be something in the Baroness’ past. She’s an opera singer, after all. Frances looked nothing like the Baron, and she was born so soon into the wedding that it was hardly a leap to suspect something, once I began to think about it.”
“You bribed a maid to get the letters, then?”
He nodded. “The girl was barely literate, so I’m confident she didn’t read them. That friend of yours, that vulgar Mr. Holton, tried to buy me off. As if he could offer enough money. The truth must out, after all,” Lord Easton lifted his chin haughtily. “It’s a matter of respectability.”
Lucien gave a bark of laughter. “You dare to say such a thing? You expect me to believe this act of spite has got anything to do withrespectability? You wanted to hurt Frances, and that’s all there is to it.”
Lord Easton curled his lip. “Well, if I was able to get a little revenge, then what of it? One thing is for sure—you can’t undo what’s been done. The truth is out. Pandora’s box is open, and you won’t be putting a thing back inside. Isn’t that amusing?”
“I think you and I have very different definitions of amusing. Tell me, Lord Easton, you remember what you said to me when you first understood who I was? Think back. It was the first time we met, at the altar, with Frances standing in between us, baffled. Can you recall?”
Lord Easton blinked, clearly ill at ease.
“I don’t recall.”
“Oh, I do,” Lucien said, grinning wolfishly.“Now I know exactly who you are. You are that wretch, Lord Lucien Russell. A cold-blooded murderer. It’s a miracle you never swung for what you did. I can’t believe you had the gall to show your face on these shores again.”
He took a step forward, and Lord Easton quailed backwards, retreating along the landing. The floorboards creaked ominously under his weight. They approached a spot where at least three feet of the railing had been removed entirely, leaving only a yawning gap down to the marble floor beneath.
“Think about what you said, my dear viscount,” Lucien whispered. “You called me a cold-blooded murderer. You were so convinced of ruining Frances’s reputation that you became concerned with thewrongreputation. It is my reputation you should be worried about.”
He lunged forward, seizing Lord Easton by the front of his shirt. The man squawked in panic, backing away. He caught his foot on something, perhaps a snarl of carpet, and toppled backwards.
He fell directly into the banister’s gap.
Lord Easton screamed. His eyes bulged, and he clawed desperately at Lucien’s arm. Lucien did not release his grip, nor did he tighten it.
“Don’t let go,” Lord Easton begged. “If you let go, I’ll fall… Michaels!Michaels!”
“There is no sign of your dutiful man, I’m afraid,” Lucien sighed. “It seems as if he has gone to fetch the authorities as you commanded. Let us hope they will arrive in time.”
The blood drained from Lord Easton’s face. “You mean to kill me,” he whispered. “Just like you killed your father.”
Lucien tilted his head thoughtfully, eyeing Lord Easton. The man was on the brink of tears.
“If I really did kill my father, as you say, why would I hold back from killingyou?” Lucien asked softly. “Now, listen to me very closely, Nicholas.”
The viscount swallowed thickly, eyes widening further. He nodded hard, clearly not trusting himself to speak.
“You’ll never speak about Frances again,” Lucien murmured, heaving the man up a few inches so that their noses almost touched. “If anyone ever asks you about the story, you’ll maintain that it is nothing but lies.”
“N-Nobody would believe me,” Lord Easton stammered.
“No, I imagine not, but you’ll do it anyway. Furthermore, you’ll pack your things—today, in fact—and you’ll leave London. If you know what’s good for you, you won’t come back. Sell this crumbling old place, go to your insignificant country seat, and spare us all the unpleasantness of your company.”
Lord Easton clenched his jaw. “Have I a choice?”
“Why, certainly. You can choose to agree, or you can choose to take the consequences, whatever they might be.”
There was a moment of taut silence, the two men staring at each other.
