Page 36 of The Duchess Trap
Stephen snorted. “Proper time, he says. You’ve been chasing proof of Lord Felton’s misdeeds like a bloodhound, and I begin to suspect you’d sooner die than admit what game you’re playing.”
Duncan set the quill down with deliberate care. “It is no game.”
“Then what?” Stephen leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, all quick eyes and restless energy. “You speak of Felton’s debtors, Felton’s dealings, but what exactly do you mean to do with this information? What sin of his are you so desperate to drag into daylight?”
Duncan drew a slow breath. The air of the study was thick with oil paints, old wood, and the faint metallic tang of ink. His refuge, and yet tonight it felt stifling.
He turned at last. “Exploit him. As he exploited my father…as well as Catherine’s.”
Stephen’s brows shot up, but he did not speak at once. The silence stretched, broken only by the tick of the clock against the wall.
Stephen’s grin faded. He rose, his easy manner tempered with something steadier. “I remember.” His tone was quieter now, almost reluctant. “I saw how your father dwindled under it. A proud man turned into…” He shook his head. “You’ve reason enough for vengeance.”
Duncan inclined his head, though the words tasted like ash.
“And yet,” Stephen continued, watching him too closely, “I cannot help but wonder whether your fire burns hotter now because of her.”
Duncan stilled. His hands curled into fists behind his back, hidden from view. And Catherine burst into his mind once more.
Her eyes flashing with fury, her lips trembling when she defied him, the soft surrender of her mouth beneath his in that carriage…
Damn it.
He had not meant to think of her. Not now, not here, not where Felton’s shadow loomed large enough to eclipse the room. But the memory would not release him. The taste of her lingered, sweet and infuriating. Her body had melted against his, and though she had seemed a bit uneasy afterward, he knew the truth. He had felt her answer him.
His body stirred at the recollection. For those brief moments in the carriage, and again when they had spoken with his grandmother, Catherine had shown him precisely what he wanted to see. She had boldly touched his mouth and urged him onward. And, he had gratefully obliged her. But then, once they reached the townhouse, restraint had seemed more prudent, and so they had each backed away. Duncan shut his eyes, forcing the image down.
I cannot afford distraction. Not when Felton still walks free.
When he turned back to Stephen, his expression was carved from stone once more. “You say these things as if you mean to share hidden truths with the world.” He eyed his friend coolly. “But what have you said that I wish to deny? Naturally, I amaffected by the Duchess. Of course, I sympathize with her and the Viscount, her father. I wish that I could tear Felton limb from limb just to show her that no man will ever hurt her again, but…”
Stephen snorted. “There is no need for such violence, old friend. With the evidence mounting against Felton, you will not need to worry yourself over that scoundrel much longer.”
Duncan nodded, appreciating the subtle shift in subject. He strode to the table, sweeping up a sheaf of notes tied neatly with cord. “This is what I have gathered thus far. Proof of usury, coercion, and bribes. Felton has left a trail. What I require now is corroboration. From someone high enough that his dealings cannot be dismissed.”
“And where do you mean to find such a saint?” Stephen asked lightly, though his eyes followed the papers with interest.
Duncan’s gaze hardened. “Hargrave.”
Stephen let out a low whistle. “The Earl of Hargrave? Christ, Duncan, that man eats scandal for breakfast. If anyone has dirt on Felton, it would be him.”
“Precisely.” Duncan stacked the notes with ruthless precision. “We have an appointment. Tonight.”
Stephen straightened, surprise flickering into a grin. “So that is why you dragged me here at this hour? I thought perhapsyou meant to confess some tender feeling at last, but no, only schemes and plots.”
Duncan shot him a look. “Your tongue will be the death of you.”
“Perhaps.” Stephen reached for his coat with a careless shrug. “But it keeps you honest, doesn’t it?”
Duncan did not dignify that with a reply. He gathered his gloves, tugged them on with deliberate force, and motioned toward the door. “We must not delay. In just a few days, my grandmother means to host a ball—officially introducing my Duchess and me to polite Society. I should like to see Lord Felton behind bars before that time arrives. So, make haste. The carriage waits.”
They descended together, boots ringing against the marble, the hush of servants slipping out of sight as though the very air bristled with secrets.
Outside, the night air was sharp, the scent of damp stone mingling with horse sweat. The carriage gleamed at the ready, lamps casting golden circles on the cobblestones.
Stephen paused with one hand on the door, turning back with a sly grin. “Before we plunge ourselves into Hargrave’s den, I must ask, does your wife know of your plans? While she readies herself to face theton, does she realize what you do on her behalf in the shadows?”
Duncan stilled. Slowly, he fixed Stephen with a look that might have frozen lesser men. “That is not your concern.”
