Page 38 of The Duchess Trap
“Your Grace,” the Earl greeted, his voice thick with claret. “A late hour for callers. I trust the matter is worth it.”
“It is,” Duncan said smoothly, bowing his head the barest fraction. He accepted a glass, though he did not drink, and let his stance soften just enough to seem companionable. “I have no wish to trouble you, Hargrave, but word of your character reaches even my ears. Few men in London may be trusted to speak plainly these days.”
Hargrave’s mouth twitched at the flattery, and he took a long sip. “Plain speech is not always safe, Your Grace.”
“True,” Duncan allowed, easing into the chair opposite with practiced calm. “But plain speech shared in confidence is another matter. You have my word that what passes between us tonight will remain here.”
The Earl regarded him carefully, then nodded once, perhaps reassured. “Very well. What is it you seek?”
Duncan paused, as if weighing whether to speak at all. He let silence stretch, the fire’s crackle filling it, until Hargrave leaned forward and propped an elbow on his knee expectantly.
Only then did he say, lightly, “I hear whispers, Hargrave. Whispers of men who found themselves cornered. Loans extended in friendship, then demanded back at terms no gentleman could meet. Always the same name circling above.”
Hargrave’s smile thinned. “Many names fit such description.”
Duncan inclined his head and kept his voice mild. “Indeed. But only one with talons sharp enough to draw blood from peers such as you and I.” His gaze held steady and unblinking. “Felton.”
The Earl’s jaw worked once, though he masked it quickly with a sip of wine. “You tread dangerous ground.”
“Not dangerous,” Duncan countered softly. “Necessary.” He leaned back and draped one arm with practiced ease along the chair. Duncan had employed such tactics for years when aiming to disarm even the surliest gentleman and staunch ladies. He made his tone deceptively light and pleasing. “Men such as you and me, men with titles, with lands, should not be preyed upon like common merchants. It is an insult to the very order of things. I would see it ended.”
Hargrave hesitated, clearly torn.
Duncan pressed, “I ask not for confession, nor for scandal. Only that you speak truthfully to me, so that I may guard others from the same fate. If you have nothing to say, then let us drink and part as friends.”
A long silence stretched. Hargrave set his glass down with too much care. “I cannot say?—”
“You can,” Duncan cut in abruptly. He rose from his seat and stepped closer, his height casting a shadow over the smaller man. “And you will. Do not mistake me, Hargrave. I have no interest in gossip. What I seek is justice. Felton exploits peers at their weakest, offering loans no man can refuse, then demanding back triple the sum, threatening ruin when repayment is impossible. You know this as well as I do.”
Hargrave’s throat convulsed, his eyes flicking toward the fire as though he sought escape in the flames. “You cannot prove such things.”
“Not yet. Not entirely.” Duncan’s voice dropped to a growl. “But I will. And your testimony will carry weight when the time comes.”
The Earl’s hand trembled faintly as he lifted his glass again. “You do not understand. My… my wife—” He broke off, swallowing hard. “She spent far more than our means allowed. Cards, gowns, trinkets. Fool that I was, I borrowed from Felton to keep her in silks. Thought I could repay within the year.”
“I do understand,” Duncan murmured.
Hargrave’s face twisted, shame carving deep lines into it. “But the interest mounted. Always higher, always steeper. Until half my estate lay in his hands, he threatened exposure, disgrace. I would have lost everything.”
Duncan’s jaw clenched, fury pulsing hot beneath his skin. The story echoed his father’s too closely: the same weakness, the same vulture circling. His hands itched to seize Felton by the throat, to crush the life from him for every ruin he had wrought.
“What did you do?” Duncan asked.
“What choice had I? I sold land to cover the debt. My tenants suffer for it still.” Hargrave’s eyes glittered with bitter resignation. “I remain chained to Felton’s ledger.”
“How?” Duncan prompted. Now that Hargrave had told this much of his story, there was no need for the confession to cease. He wished to know all of Felton’s dirty tactics and tricks. Since he still could not discover how His Lordship had managed to ensnare Catherine’s father and convince him to sign over the deed to something so precious as Brightwater, Duncan needed to know more.
The Earl sank into a chair, shoulders bowed, a man gutted of pride. “That is all I will say. Do not ask me to speak of it in public. I could not bear it.”
“You will speak,” Duncan said, his tone unyielding. “And when you do, others will follow. Felton has left too many broken men in his wake. The tide will turn.”
Hargrave’s gaze flicked up, startled by the force in Duncan’s words. For a moment, something like hope stirred behind his eyes.
Duncan drew himself to full height and spoke from his heart, softening his voice only so that he might infuse it with true compassion. “You think yourself alone in your shame. You are not. My father bore the same yoke. Felton took advantage of his weakness until he could scarcely stand beneath it. I will see him answer for it. Before Parliament, before the courts. Before every last man in this city.”
The fire spat sparks, as though punctuating the vow. Duncan’s blood burned with it, his chest rising on a breath that tasted of wrath and certainty.
Hargrave bowed his head at last. “If you bring me proof, I will stand with you.”
