Page 79 of The Duchess Trap
“Drink.”
Portsbury obeyed. His hands shook as he lifted the cup, the liquid sloshing against the rim.
Duncan leaned forward, his voice quiet. “Listen to me carefully. If you testify, you can help destroy the man who bled you dry and preyed on families like yours. If you refuse, he’ll find someone else to destroy. And next time, it will not end with debts; it will end with graves.”
The older man’s breath came shallow. “You think me blind to that? I’ve seen what Felton can do.”
“Then you know why he must fall.”
Portsbury rubbed his forehead, muttering into his hands. “You don’t understand. The scandal would be catastrophic. If the gossip columnists knew I’d been deceived, manipulated?—”
Duncan’s patience thinned. “They already know you drink yourself into oblivion. You have no reputation left to lose—only a chance to earn it back.”
Portsbury froze, his eyes snapping up. “You speak to me as though I were some servant!”
“I speak to you as my wife’s father,” Duncan said, his tone low and lethal, “and as a man who’s run out of excuses.”
Portsbury’s lip twitched, but the defiance was weaker now, crumbling at the edges. “I am not afraid of you.”
“You should be,” Duncan said. “Because, unlike the rest of Society, I am convinced that this is the only way to truly punish Lord Felton. Others will let him run rampant until he drains the gentlemen in this town dry, but I won’t stand for it any longer. I care for justice, and for Catherine.”
At her name, something flickered across the man’s face: guilt, brief and sharp. He looked away.
Duncan stepped closer still, the space between them narrowing to breath. “She nearly lost everything because of you. You gambled her security for your pride. And last night, while she sat by a child’s sickbed, you sat here drowning in brandy.”
Portsbury’s hand clenched on the armrest. “You think you can lecture me?”
“I can,” Duncan said evenly. “Because I will not watch another man destroy the people who care for him.”
For a moment, silence filled the room, the air between them stretched to the breaking point.
Then Portsbury laughed again, hoarse and bitter. “You want my help? Fine. Pay for it.”
Duncan went still. “What did you say?”
“Pay for it,” the man repeated, his voice rising with drunken bravado. “You’re a duke. You can afford it. You want my signature on your damn papers? It’ll cost you.”
A muscle ticked in Duncan’s jaw. He thought of Catherine’s tears, of the boy gasping for air, of the night he’d held both lives steady in his hands.
“Every debt you owed,” Duncan said slowly, wanting to understand the nature of this request clearly before agreeing to anything outright, “I discharged. Every note, every promise, every lie. I will not fund your vices again.”
Portsbury sneered. “You sound just like my father.”
“No,” Duncan said, stepping closer until his shadow swallowed the older man’s chair. “I sound like a man who’s seen what weak men do to their families.”
For a heartbeat, he saw his own father’s face. Because of his frailties, Duncan had suffered. He had scrimped, saved, and flattered so many others just to rebuild what should have been his all along.
And he saw Catherine’s face in the candlelight, the soft defiance, the courage she possessed despite everything this man had taken from her.
I’ll not let him do to her what my father did to me.
Duncan’s voice softened slightly. “You will clean yourself up. You will give your statement. And you will redeem what little remains of your name.”
Portsbury looked up, and for the first time, something like shame flickered in his bloodshot eyes.
“I—”
“No.” Duncan’s tone brooked no argument. “I’ll return in three days with my solicitor. If you are sober and ready, we’ll begin. If not, I’ll do what must be done without you. I do not need you to succeed, My Lord, but I wish to offer you this chance at redemption.”
