Page 101 of Stolen By the Rakish Duke
The Morrison warehouse loomed against the gray London sky, its abandoned silhouette casting long shadows over the rain-slicked cobblestones. Leo approached alone, his strides purposeful despite the tension in his muscles. His pistol pressed reassuringly against his ribs, hidden beneath his coat.
He paused at the entrance, listening for any sound that might betray an ambush. Hearing nothing but the distant cry of gulls, he pushed open the weathered door, wincing at the creak that echoed through the cavernous space.
Dust motes danced in the shafts of afternoon light piercing through broken windows. The vast space echoed with his footsteps as he moved deliberately toward the center, his senses alert for any movement in the shadows.
“Your Grace. How good of you to come.”
Westbury emerged from behind a stack of forgotten crates, immaculately dressed as always, his cultivated refinement at odds with their squalid surroundings. Not a hair out of place, not a speck of dust on his perfectly tailored coat.
“Lord Westbury.” Leo kept his voice neutral, maintaining a careful distance. “Your note mentioned an agreement.”
“Indeed.” Westbury gave a smile that never reached his cold eyes. “I find myself in the unusual position of demanding a compromise.”
“Compromise?” Leo arched an eyebrow, scanning the periphery for hidden assailants. “I wasn’t aware we had anything to negotiate.”
Westbury circled him slowly, his hands clasped behind his back in a posture of contemplative ease. “Come now, Your Grace.We’re both men of the world. Businessmen in our own ways. Surely, we can reach an agreement that serves our mutual interests.”
“I fail to see what interests we might share.”
“Safety,” Westbury replied smoothly. “Security. The continued enjoyment of our respective positions in Society.”
Leo remained still. “Elaborate.”
“It’s quite simple.” Westbury paused, studying him with calculating eyes. “Your cousin and his… companion remain silent about what they believe they witnessed. You cease your inquiries through official channels. In exchange, I make sure that no further… misfortunes befall your lovely Duchess.”
At the mention of Beatrice, Leo’s control nearly slipped. Blood roared in his ears, and it took every ounce of his willpower not to lunge for the man’s throat.
He managed to keep his expression neutral, though his pulse quickened with rage. “You poisoned her.”
“A regrettable misunderstanding.” Westbury waved a dismissive hand, the gesture casual as if discussing a faux pas. “Merely intended as a demonstration of reach, not permanent harm.”
“A demonstration that failed.” Leo took a deliberate step closer, the floorboards creaking beneath his weight. “She recovered. And now I know precisely who my enemy is.”
Something shifted in Westbury’s demeanor, the veneer of civility thinning. “Think carefully, Stagmore. You have more to lose than anyone else.”
“Do I?” Leo maintained eye contact, watching for tells—the slight twitch at the corner of Westbury’s mouth, the fingers that couldn’t quite stay still. “My investigation has uncovered interesting details about your operation. The customs officials you’ve bribed, the shipments of contraband, the violence against those who threaten your interests.”
“Allegations without proof,” Westbury countered, but his voice lacked its earlier confidence.
“Oh, I have proof,” Leo lied smoothly. “Documents. Testimony from those who’ve seen too much to remain silent. All safely delivered to people beyond your reach, should anything happen to me.”
The practiced charm vanished from Westbury’s face, replaced by cold calculation. His eyes flicked briefly to the warehouse’s rear entrance. “I see. Then perhaps we should discuss terms more… concretely.”
“There are no terms,” Leo replied, dropping all pretense. “You attacked my family. Threatened my wife. There’s only one acceptable outcome, Westbury.”
“Your father would have understood business,” Westbury sneered, backing away slightly. “He knew when to negotiate and when to compromise.”
“I’m not my father.” The words felt like freedom as they left Leo’s lips.
Something shifted in Westbury’s expression—a flicker of uncertainty, quickly masked by hardening resolve. “No, you’re not. More’s the pity.”
The movement came with practiced speed—Westbury reached inside his coat; metal glinted in the dusty light. Leo reacted instinctively, lunging forward even as pain exploded across his ribs.
They crashed together, momentum carrying them into a stack of crates that splintered beneath their weight. The impact knocked the breath from Leo’s lungs, but his hand locked around Westbury’s wrist, forcing the knife away as they grappled on the warehouse floor.
Blood soaked through Leo’s waistcoat, hot and slick against his skin. Each movement sent fresh agony through his side, but the pain sharpened his focus rather than dulling it. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth as he clenched his teeth against a shout.
Westbury fought with the desperate strength of a cornered animal, landing a blow to Leo’s wounded side that sent stars across his vision. Leo retaliated with calculated precision,driving his fist into Westbury’s throat, cutting off his cry for assistance.