Page 78 of The Duchess Trap
“I know what he is doing.”
The words came low, and Duncan did not even attempt to hide his sense of annoyance. He strode through the hall, the echo of his boots carrying through the empty rooms, until he reached the door at the far end. He didn’t knock.
The stench of brandy met him first. Then the sight of Portsbury himself, half sprawled across the sofa, his waistcoat unbuttoned, a half-empty decanter on the table beside him.
“Good God,” Duncan muttered, striding forward.
Portsbury startled awake, blinking through the haze of drink. “Your Grace! What—what’s the meaning of this? You can’t just barge?—”
Duncan seized him by the collar and hauled him upright in one smooth, effortless motion. “Sit up.”
“Unhand me!” Portsbury sputtered, struggling weakly. “You forget yourself, Your Grace. This is my house!”
“Then act like a man who owns one,” Duncan said coldly, pushing him down into the chair.
Portsbury’s eyes narrowed. He had clearly drunk enough to supply himself with enough liquid courage to chatter back at Duncan’s treatment of him. “I’ll have you know, I am not accustomed to being manhandled in my own home.”
“Perhaps that’s the problem.” Duncan turned to the doorway. “Coffee. Strong.”
The housekeeper, who had been hovering uncertainly in the corridor, bobbed a quick curtsy and vanished without a word.
Portsbury glared up at him, cheeks mottled with red. “You come here at dawn, issue orders to my servants, insult my hospitality—and for what? To scold meagainabout my habits?”
“I didn’t come to scold you,” Duncan said evenly. “I came to enlist your help.”
“My help?” The man barked a laugh. “You must be desperate indeed.”
Duncan’s eyes flicked down to the decanter, then back to him. “Not desperate. Practical.”
There was a long pause as Duncan waited for the Viscount to recall their conversation yesterday. He could see the older man struggling to come up with words, but when he said nothing, Duncan filled in the void.
“We had this conversation before, Portsbury. I was here, only yesterday.”
“Yesterday?” The Viscount looked around the room as though he did not recognize a stitch of the furniture or any of the portraits on the wall. “Did we speak to one another yesterday?”
“We have not the time to rehash what came before,” Duncan said authoritatively. “All that matters is what I need from you now.”
Portsbury leaned back, adjusting his cuffs with unsteady fingers. “Well, then. What could I possibly do for you, Your Grace?”
Duncan stepped closer. He picked up a nearly empty decanter from the end table and moved it so the container was entirely out of reach. “You can speak. To the magistrate. Against Felton.”
Portsbury’s fingers fumbled on his shirt sleeves. “You’re mad.”
“No,” Duncan said, his tone calm and cutting. “I’m determined. I intend to see Felton imprisoned for extortion and corruption. And your testimony will secure it.”
The older man’s face paled. “You don’t understand. Felton! He…he has connections. Men in Parliament. In the courts. If I involve myself?—”
“You already are involved,” Duncan interrupted. “You signed half your estate into his hands. You nearly lost Brightwater, and if that had happened, you would have devastated your daughter.”
Portsbury flinched at that. “That was business.”
“That was cowardice.”
The housekeeper returned with a tray and set it carefully on the table between them, her hands shaking. Duncan waited until she left before pouring the coffee himself.
“Drink,” he said, pushing the cup toward Portsbury.
“I don’t?—”
