Page 39 of A Duchess Worth Stealing (Saved by Scandal #2)
Chapter Thirty-Seven
M ason stood at the tall windows of his study, one hand braced against the wooden frame, the other curled loosely at his side. The morning mist clung to the gardens, softening the edges of the world, but his gaze was fixed on the drive below.
Cordelia stepped into the carriage, her figure small yet impossibly poised, her chin lifted as though daring the world to see her falter. He could tell by the stiffness in her shoulders that she was holding herself together through sheer force of will.
He wanted to go to her. Every instinct in his body screamed for him to stride down the steps, stop the carriage door from closing, and tell her the truth: that Vernon could be beaten, that together they could weather any scandal or threat… that he needed her.
But he didn’t move.
The carriage door shut with a dull thud, and a moment later, the wheels began to turn. He watched it roll down the gravel drive, its dark shape growing smaller until it vanished through the gates and into the gray beyond.
She was better off without him. He told himself that again and again until the thought felt like truth instead of agony. He would see to it that she was safe, that she had everything she needed, that Vernon was kept far from her reach.
But he would not be the man she leaned on.
His father’s blood flowed through his veins, volatile and dangerous.
He had spent years mastering his temper, burying it deep.
And yet, that night on the terrace, when he’d seen Vernon’s hands on her, the control he’d fought for had shattered in an instant. His rage had been absolute.
The last thing he wanted was for her to ever fear him.
He closed his eyes, his hand curling tighter against the window frame. Protecting her meant keeping her away from the darkness that lived inside him. Even if it meant she would never understand and even if it meant she might never forgive him.
He banished those thoughts aside, reminding himself that he had business to take care of.
He put on his coat and jumped into his carriage which took him to the address Cordelia had given him.
The air was thick with the scent of damp stone, refuse, and smoke from the row of chimney stacks overhead. He barely noticed.
The neighborhood stirred as he passed. Women leaning out of doorways paused their conversations to watch him, eyes narrowing in curiosity.
A pair of ragged boys, bare footed despite the chill, whispered to each other before darting away, disappearing into an alley.
His tailored coat and polished boots did not belong here, and he knew it, but he paid no heed to their stares.
He stopped before a splintered door with peeling paint, raising his hand to knock. The sound echoed dully through the cramped hallway beyond.
After a moment, the latch scraped, and the door swung inward.
The woman standing there bore little resemblance to Cordelia, and yet, in her eyes, which were utterly cold and appraising, he saw the faintest shadow of the daughter she had cast aside.
Her hair was untidy, threaded with gray, and her gown, though once fine, was faded and fraying at the hems. She looked him up and down with the languid air of someone who had long ago learned to measure a person’s worth by the cut of his coat.
“What do you want?” she asked flatly, her voice edged with suspicion.
“I am Cordelia’s husband,” Mason said evenly. “There is something I wish to discuss with you.”
Her gaze sharpened then slid over him once more, as though tallying the cost of his boots, the quality of the wool in his coat, the weight of the signet ring on his hand. Slowly, a smirk tugged at her lips.
“Is that so?” she drawled, her tone shifting into something almost amused. She stepped back, pushing the door open wider. “Well, then… come in.”
The air inside was close and faintly sour, a mixture of stale perfume and the lingering smell of cooking fat. The narrow hallway led to a small parlor where mismatched furniture sagged beneath the weight of age. A single coal smoldered in the grate, giving off more smoke than warmth.
Mason stepped inside, his jaw tightening with nerves as her eyes lingered on him not with maternal warmth but with the same calculating interest she might give to a purse of coins.
She shut the door behind him with a soft click then crossed her arms and fixed him with a level stare.
“Well?” she said, her voice sharper now. “What is it you want from me? Did you marry my daughter for the money she stole from her father?” Her lips curled into a sneer. “Because let me be very clear, that money belongs to me.”
Mason’s frown deepened. “That money,” he said, his tone low and deliberate, “is Cordelia’s. It was left to her by her father.”
The woman gave a short, humorless laugh. “Is that what she told you? My, my… she has a talent for playing the innocent, doesn’t she? But it isn’t so. That man,” she jerked her chin upward, as if indicating Cordelia’s late father, “never meant it for her. Not truly. It’s mine by right.”
Mason’s jaw clenched. “I think we both know that’s not true.”
Her eyes narrowed, and the smirk she’d worn at the door returned, smaller now, more poisonous. “You can think whatever you like. It is your right. But thinking doesn’t change facts. And the fact is you’re a clever man; you should know how quickly I can make the world believe me instead of her.”
She sank into the worn armchair by the fireplace, crossing her legs with a casual elegance that seemed utterly at odds with her surroundings. “So, shall we discuss how much my involvement in all this is worth?”
Mason leaned forward slightly. “We have been informed of your… arrangement with Lord Vernon. Is it true?”
Her eyes flickered, just for a heartbeat, before she leaned back in her chair with a shrug. “The illegitimacy claim? It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter,” Mason said, his voice sharpening. “For Cordelia. You cannot imagine the grief you’ve caused her with what you’ve done.”
That earned him nothing but a thin smile, one entirely devoid of warmth. “Grief is not my concern,” she replied. “Cordelia made her choices. She thinks herself better than me. Perhaps this will teach her she’s not.”
Mason stared at her, incredulous. There was no flicker of regret, no trace of a mother’s love. There was only spite and self-interest. He’d thought Cordelia’s account of their estrangement had been touched with the pain of exaggeration, but now… now, he saw the truth in every word.
He almost spoke, almost demanded how she could do this to her own child, but then he remembered his father. He remembered the cold cruelty, the relentless hunger for control, the way a man could strip the humanity from those he was meant to protect.
And as he sat there, he realized with an ugly certainty that Cordelia’s mother and his father were exactly the same kind of person.
Mason straightened in his chair, schooling his features into something calmer, more composed. Rage would get him nowhere with a woman like this. Her own greed, however, might.
“You want money,” he said evenly. “That much is clear. But Vernon can’t give you what I can.”
Her eyes narrowed, but there was a faint gleam there. He recognized it immediately: interest. “Oh? And what makes you think you can?”
“Because unlike him,” Mason replied, “I actually have money. And unlike him, I don’t make empty promises.” He let that sink in for a moment, watching her measure him with a calculating look.
“And why,” she drawled, “would you pay me? You’ve just told me the money is hers, not mine.”
“Because,” Mason said, leaning forward, “if you retract your claim and publicly denounce Vernon’s story, you’ll never want for anything again.
I’ll make certain of it. A comfortable home, an allowance large enough to suit your tastes.
In exchange, you will never again speak against Cordelia or me.
In fact, you will never come in contact with either of us again. ”
Her mouth curved in a small, mocking smile. “You’d pay that much for her peace of mind?”
Mason didn’t hesitate. “I’d pay more.”
He could see her weighing the offer, and he kept his expression carefully impassive though inside, the tension coiled tight.
He wasn’t only buying her silence. He was setting the first stone in the trap.
Once she accepted, he’d make sure any agreement tied her hands so tightly that if she tried to betray Cordelia again, she’d destroy herself in the process.
In his mind, he could almost hear Vernon scoffing at the idea that Mason could win with gold instead of fists. But he’d learned long ago: sometimes the deadliest blow came not from a clenched hand but from a signed paper.
She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. In her eyes, there was a glinting that resembled a sharp, foxlike wariness.
“And if I say no?” she asked, her tone lilting with mock sweetness.
Mason didn’t blink. “Then you’ll walk straight back into Vernon’s arms and let him use you until he’s drained every drop of value from you.
When he’s done, you’ll have nothing—no coin, no protection, and no one to fight your battles.
” His voice stayed calm, almost conversational, but there was a steely edge beneath it.
“And if you think Vernon is a safer ally than me, you haven’t been paying attention. ”
For the first time, she faltered. The smirk twitched at the corner of her lips, uncertain.
“You make it sound as though you care about her,” she said slowly, as though testing the waters.
Mason met her gaze without flinching. “I do. More than you ever have.”
The silence that followed was taut and brittle. He could see her calculating again—how much she could wring from him, whether she could squeeze more if she held out. But she also knew Vernon’s promises were worthless, that he would gladly toss her aside the moment it served him.
Finally, she gave a sharp little laugh, shaking her head. “You’re a dangerous man. Very well, I accept your offer. But you’d best make it worth my while.”
“You’ll find,” Mason said, standing, “that I always keep my promises. And unlike Vernon, I can afford to.”
Her eyes followed him as he turned toward the door, weighing him like a merchant appraising a rare jewel. But beneath that calculating stare, Mason caught something else, a flicker of grudging respect.
He left without another word though his mind was already moving to the next step. If she took the bait, she’d think she’d won. And that would be the moment he’d tighten the noose.
Mason stepped out into the narrow street, the faint stench of coal smoke and stale ale clinging to the air.
The neighborhood was quieter than when he’d arrived, but still, a few faces peeked from behind tattered curtains, watching the well-dressed stranger who didn’t belong.
He ignored them, striding toward where his carriage waited.
The conversation replayed in his head in clipped fragments: her smugness, her greed, her almost careless cruelty when speaking of her own daughter.
Cordelia’s pain wasn’t an abstract thing to him anymore.
It had a face, a voice, and it was sitting in that crumbling building, ready to sell her own child to the highest bidder.
He ducked into the carriage and rapped once on the roof. “To Mr. Greely’s office,” he told the driver.
Vernon would move quickly now. Mason knew the man well enough to understand he’d smell an opportunity and pounce before the dust settled. If Mason was to keep Cordelia’s name clear, he needed to be faster.