Page 18 of Duke with a Debt (Wicked Dukes Society #2)

CHAPTER 18

“ O ut!” Stuart shouted above the din of the unruly and uninvited revelers filling his house. “Get out of my house, all of you. Now!”

Some had already begun filing out of the town house, leaving a mess in their wake of discarded gloves, hats, and even shoes. A corset had been left dangling over the banister of the staircase, its owner either too soused to care or woefully ignorant of its whereabouts.

There was a pile of vomit in one of the potted palms thanks to the mustachioed chap, and another palm stank wretchedly of piss. The faded carpet was an abandoned battlefield of broken glass and spilled spirits and only God knew what else. The men and women who had been carousing for what must have been hours staggered past him in bleary-eyed shock that their den of sin was being so abruptly curtailed.

Order, unfortunately, would take a great deal of time to be restored.

The town house was virtually in ruins. And in the midst of it all, his brother stood, eyes bloodshot and glazed, wearing the same trousers and stained shirt and waistcoat he’d likely been sporting for days.

Stuart had never wanted to plant someone a facer more.

“What the devil do you think you’re doing?” Wesley wanted to know.

He held his brother’s gaze, so much righteous fury ignited in his chest that his hands trembled with its force. “I’m doing what I should have done years ago. I’m taking control over this bloody mess you’ve made. You need to leave.”

Wesley barked out an incredulous laugh. “Leave? This is my home.”

He shook his head, his decision made. “Not any longer, it isn’t. You are not welcome here.”

His brother sobered, apparently sensing the intent in Stuart’s voice. “But we’ve been through this before. Mother would never want you to deny me a place to live. It is bad enough that you’ve stolen my birthright. You cannot keep me from a roof over my head. I belong here every bit as much as you do.”

“You would be wise to keep our mother’s name out of your mouth,” he snapped. “After all the sins you’ve committed, it’s the least you can do. Moreover, I didn’t steal your birthright. I am the firstborn, and I am the Duke of Camden. You are nothing but a drunken wastrel who has preyed upon everyone in your life like a leech sucking the blood from its host.”

More revelers moved past them to the door, stumbling over the various abandoned objects littering the floor. Stuart didn’t pay them any heed. His servants had reemerged from hiding belowstairs, and Fleetwood and a pair of burly footmen were now applying themselves to the task of chasing a pair of lingering interlopers from the house.

The door closed on the last of the intruders, and the domestics moved into other rooms quietly, beginning the endless task of cleaning up after the mayhem that had so recently reigned. Stuart had no doubt that they were giving him and his brother some privacy as well. He didn’t care who heard what needed to be said now, however. He had held his tongue long enough. Wesley had to pay for what he had done.

“Fuck you,” Wesley spat. “Why should you have everything while I have nothing?”

“You’ve had more than your fair share,” he said coldly. “But apparently I didn’t give you enough funds to support your gambling and whoring habits. You needed to blackmail me for more, did you not?”

Wesley paled, realization dawning on his countenance. “I didn’t blackmail you. What the hell are you talking about?”

His frayed patience snapped, and Stuart caught his brother’s rumpled cravat in his fist, giving him a shake. “Don’t lie to me. I know everything. I saw what you’ve been keeping in the hidden compartment of your writing desk. I know you are the one who has been blackmailing me and threatening to go to The Times with delicate family secrets that would destroy our mother’s frail health and send her to her grave. I know what you’ve done, and I’m not going to tolerate another bloody second of it. Do you hear me? Not another second . Get out of my fucking house!”

He was shouting by the time he reached the last words of his tirade, but it couldn’t be helped. Stuart didn’t recall ever being so overcome with anger. He was seething. He’d had more than enough of his brother’s manipulations and deceptions. They ended today.

But Wesley remained defiant, pushing Stuart off him. “I need money, damn you. I’m not going anywhere without collecting what I’m owed.”

“I just paid you a fortune a fortnight ago,” he snarled, ready to tear down the walls with his bare hands. “Use that until you run out of funds. I don’t give a goddamn what you do after that. Just don’t come here. You’ll not get another farthing from me.”

“I spent that already. I need more.” Wesley’s demeanor had changed, some of the customary smugness seeping away.

“How the hell did you spend ten thousand pounds in a fortnight?” he demanded.

“I had a bad night at the tables,” his brother said. “And then I needed supplies for tonight’s soiree, which you’ve thoroughly ruined.”

“If you don’t get out of here now, I’m going to beat you to within an inch of your life,” he warned, meaning those words to his core. “I will never forgive you for what you were willing to do to our mother just so that you could continue gambling.”

“You truly intend to cut me off without anything?” Wesley demanded.

“Yes,” he answered without hesitation. “I do.”

Wesley’s jaw clenched. “But I’m your brother.”

“You’re no family of mine. Now, leave.”

“What makes you think I won’t go to The Times with the story now?” Wesley asked, his bravado ringing false.

Stuart’s lip curled. “You have no evidence. The journals are in my possession. And I have every intention to make it known that you’ve gone mad. Who do you think polite society will believe, a drunken wastrel who can’t even be bothered to wear clean clothes or a peer of the realm?”

And Stuart would do it, too. Wesley had hurt Rosamund, and he had threatened their mother. He had manipulated, deceived, and stolen. It was time for him to pay for his sins.

Wesley went ashen. “But Stuart, you can’t do that. I have nothing. Nowhere to sleep, nothing to eat, not a farthing to my name.”

He refused to allow himself to be moved. “I don’t bloody well care, brother. Get. Out.”

“Go to hell,” Wesley roared.

And then he spun away, storming from the entry hall, and from Stuart’s life. He hoped that this time, it was for good.

Rosamund stood in the entryway of Stuart’s town house, surveying the damage before her. She wasn’t sure which was more appalling, the scent of sour spirits and urine assaulting her senses or the curious assortment of abandoned belongings strewn about. She took a tentative step forward, and the sole of her boot crunched on a piece of glass. To be sure, this was most certainly not the return to London she had anticipated.

“Where would you have your parrot settled, Your Grace?” asked the footman at her side who was bearing the cage containing the African grey, the cover pulled back so that Megs might see her surroundings.

With so much transpiring, Rosamund had been forced to entrust the young servant with her beloved companion.

“Walk the plank,” Megs announced.

“Please see that she is taken upstairs to her normal spot,” she told the footman with a tight smile. “I’ll be awaiting His Grace in the drawing room for some tea.”

If tea was even to be had in this disaster, that was.

“Of course, Your Grace,” huffed the footman.

He was a strapping fellow, but Megs’s cage was large and heavy. Thankfully, the crush of conveyances had moved away from the town house. She had watched from the carriage, nonplussed, as men and women had swarmed out the doors. Stuart had come to fetch her at last, giving a cursory explanation of what had occurred.

“My brother was hosting a fête,” he had said curtly, displeasure dripping from his voice, his jaw hard as granite. “You needn’t worry he will cause us any further trouble, however. He is no longer welcome in our home.”

Without saying more, he had helped her to alight from the carriage and had remained outside to give directions to the servants overseeing the unpacking.

She moved toward the drawing room, picking her way through shards of glass, forgotten stockings, and what appeared to be a lady’s shoe. The footman followed in her wake.

“Dear heavens, what has happened here?”

The shocked gasp from above had her turning to find an older woman dressed in a gown that was quite fine, if outmoded by a decade. Her silver hair was confined in a neat chignon at her nape, and she clutched a cane in her right hand as she slowly descended the staircase, each step looking painful.

It was the dowager duchess, Rosamund realized.

Before she could answer, her husband came striding into the main hall. “Mother, what are you doing out of your bedchamber?”

“Attempting to see what manner of mayhem has been happening,” she answered, working her way down another step.

“You shouldn’t see this,” he argued gently. “It’s far too distressing.”

But his mother continued her descent, looking determined. “It is distressing to remain in my room, not knowing what has been unfolding down here. I heard a great deal of cacophony, Camden.”

“You ought to be resting,” Stuart fretted. “The servants are cleaning and restoring the house. You needn’t worry about anything.”

“Too late for that,” his mother said sadly.

“Perhaps you would both care to join me in the drawing room for some tea,” Rosamund suggested, trying to smooth the waters between the two.

Her mother-in-law smiled. “That would be lovely, my dear. You must be my Camden’s duchess. I hope you can forgive me for missing the wedding and for not having the opportunity to speak with you before you left on your honeymoon.”

“Of course,” she replied dutifully. “The wedding was a whirlwind, and then we were off to Hertfordshire the very next morning. How are you feeling today, Your Grace?”

The dowager reached the bottom of the stairs at last and, out of breath, sighed, her pale eyes so much like her son’s that it was startling. “I am feeling my age today.”

“I wonder if you are also feeling like a woman who ought to have remained where she is most comfortable,” Stuart grumbled pointedly, though he dutifully offered his mother the use of his arm for the hand not holding her cane.

The dowager took it, and together, the two walked to the drawing room, which had not fared much better than the rest of the house, though it did appear that some of the servants had swept the carpets of debris. A tea service was already awaiting them, a welcome sight.

The three of them sat, and Rosamund took it upon herself to pour.

“This was Wesley’s doing, was it not?” the dowager asked Stuart.

“Mother,” he protested, looking torn.

She thumped her cane on the floor for emphasis. “Tell me, my son. I need to know.”

“Yes,” he allowed, his tone grudging. “Wesley is responsible. He was soused, he’d just gambled away what was left of his funds, and he decided to host a party for an assortment of unscrupulous characters from his gaming den. When I arrived with Rosamund, it was to find the house teeming with strangers who were drinking, carousing, and engaging in all manner of scandalous behavior.”

Rosamund had finished preparing the tea, and they each had a cup steaming before them. It didn’t escape her notice that none of them took a sip. The air was too fraught with tension and uncertainty.

“He is forever finding himself in one scrape or another,” the dowager said. “But inviting the rabble to your home is beyond the pale, even by his standards.”

“I’m afraid that’s not the worst of his sins,” Stuart said, passing a hand through his hair, his expression pained.

“What else has he done?” his mother asked, looking concerned.

“He stole your journals,” Stuart said. “He was using them to blackmail me.”

Rosamund gasped. “Your brother is the one who has been blackmailing you?”

The dowager looked shocked. “Wesley stole my journals? How can you be sure?”

“Because I found them secreted in a hidden compartment in his writing desk,” Stuart answered. “Along with correspondence from the solicitors he was using to collect the funds I provided and copies of the missives he sent me. He appeared to be practicing them so that he could sufficiently disguise his handwriting and make it difficult for me to recognize it.”

The dowager looked ashen and small, the teacup trembling in her hands. “What was he threatening to do?”

“To go to The Times with secrets you had written in your journals,” Stuart explained. “He knew I would do anything to protect you from scandal. I never imagined it was him until you told me today that the journals were missing. I didn’t think he knew about…the past.”

So, the secret Stuart sought to protect was his mother’s. Rosamund had been correct. Her heart ached for both Stuart and his mother at the knowledge that a member of their family would be malicious enough to use his mother’s scandalous secret for his own gain. Worse, that he would be willing to reveal it. He had stolen his mother’s private journals and used them against her.

“He didn’t know,” the dowager said quietly. “No one knew except you and your father. And you only knew because you overheard that dreadful row we’d had…”

Her words trailed away as she was presumably caught in the throes of a memory.

Rosamund couldn’t begin to imagine what her mother-in-law’s secret was, scandalous enough to drive Stuart to pay a small fortune he didn’t have to keep his blackmailer silent.

“The secret will remain safe,” Stuart told his mother. “The journals are no longer in Wesley’s possession. After all that he’s done, to you, to my wife, and to me, I cannot in good conscience continue to provide him with funds or to allow him to live beneath this roof.”

“You have cut him off.” The dowager looked dazed by the pronouncement.

Stuart cast a meaningful glance in Rosamund’s direction, his gaze burning into hers. “I have. I am sorry, Mother. I have no wish to cause you upset, but he has gone too far.”

The dowager at last took a sip of her tea, remaining quiet for a few moments, the only sound in the chamber the faraway din of the domestics restoring the town house to order. Until finally, she spoke again.

“I agree with your decision, son,” she said. “I fear I am to blame for always believing the best of your brother. You did try to warn me of what he had become, but I didn’t want to hear it. I didn’t want to believe that he could be so like his father. I was wrong.”

Rosamund took a sip of her own tea, devastated for Stuart and his mother both. For the first time, she realized just how torn her husband must have been. And the betrayal of realizing Wesley had been the one blackmailing him all along… It must have been terrible for him. Little wonder she’d been abandoned in the carriage with Megs for the better part of an hour.

“I allowed him to carry on with his destruction for far too long,” Stuart told his mother then. “I am to blame as well.”

She shook her head. “I had no notion you were being blackmailed on account of me. Why did you not say anything?”

His voice was earnest, like his expression. “To protect you.”

“You needn’t protect me any longer,” the dowager said firmly before turning her gaze upon Rosamund. “You are family now. You may as well know the secret Camden was so desperate to keep on my behalf.”

“You need not feel obligated, Your Grace,” she protested.

“You may call me Mother as Camden does,” the dowager countered. “I shall call you Rosamund. And now, my dear Rosamund, I will tell you also the terrible truth about me. When Camden’s father and I met, it was my first night at a very infamous brothel. He took me home with him for a handsome price, and then he whisked me away to Hertfordshire, where we married, much to the horror of his poor mother. She never forgave me for marrying her son.” She paused and flashed a small, wry smile. “We had that in common, at least. Because I never forgave myself for marrying him either.”

The dowager had been a courtesan.

It was a secret Rosamund hadn’t imagined.

“Thank you for telling me,” she told her mother-in-law. “You have my word that your secret is safe with me.”

“I believe you, my dear. I see the way Camden looks at you. The two of you are happy together, are you not?”

Rosamund’s gaze flew to her husband, who was watching her with a look that had softened considerably. There was an unmistakable tenderness in his eyes. She understood now what he had meant when he’d said the secret was not his to reveal. And she admired him deeply for his loyalty and love for his mother. He was a good man. Not the brother she had once thought she would marry, but she realized in that moment that what she’d once felt for Wesley had been naught compared to what she felt for Stuart.

She had never been in love with Lord Wesley Gilden.

But she had fallen in love with his brother.

True love. Real love. Deep and abiding love. And now she knew the difference. It terrified her, being so vulnerable, but she couldn’t change the way she felt. It was indelible.

Rosamund turned back to the dowager, smiling even as tears swam in her vision. “We are quite contented together, yes.”

She could only hope that one day he might grow to return her feelings and that their marriage of convenience could blossom into a love match.