Page 32

W hen William alighted at 37 St James's Street, White's facade loomed ahead, its windows casting a hazy glow in the dank street.

The porter opened the door, bowing. "Good evening, Your Grace."

"Which member of the committee is in attendance tonight?"

"The Duke of Devonshire has arrived this afternoon, Your Grace."

William gave a curt nod. "Tell him I require a word. I shall be waiting in the library."

The club buzzed with the rustle of cards, the clink of crystal, and the murmur of voices. William strode toward the main staircase, energy thrumming through him like the charged stillness before battle. As soon as Devonshire appeared, William would demand the withdrawal of the bet and a written promise from the committee forbidding more slandering words. Then he would procure a special license and marry Helene.

The door clicked behind him. About time.

Instead of Devonshire, Thornley shadowed the entrance, followed by Cavendish. Curse his friend and his meddling.

"I hear you were distressed, son. What is the matter?" Thornley frowned, his brows meeting above his aquiline nose. He moved to the sidebar and poured a drink, his movements deliberate and slow. "Here, have a brandy."

Cavendish cleared his throat, his hands slipping into his pockets, his expression sheepish, almost apologetic. William's glare darkened as he eyed his friend. If Cavendish thought that an intervention by Thornley would change his mind, he was gravely mistaken.

“I’m not distressed. In fact, I’ve never seen more clearly in my life.” William kept his voice steady.

Thornley sighed, extending a glass. "Then indulge your family's oldest friend?"

William shook his head. Where the hell was Devonshire? If a committee member didn't appear, he would remove the bet with his own hands.

"As your father's best friend, I must speak my mind. I'm concerned to see you so... distracted. You were absent from the funerals of Captain Montague and Major Henry Barrington, two war heroes. You missed four sessions of Parliament this past fortnight. Meanwhile, Wellington is waging the offensive of our lives, Napoleon is raising a monstrous army to invade Russia, and we are no closer to gaining a majority of the MPs to raise the war budget than we were at the beginning of the season."

William crossed his arms, his jaw tightening. "I've done my duty."

"Is it courting a dancer called duty these days?"

William's hands fisted by his sides, and his voice lowered to a dangerous growl. "You won't speak ill of my future duchess."

Color drained from Thornley's face, and he drew in a wheezing breath. "Marriage is a solemn social arrangement. It should not be decided in haste. What is happening, son? You have always been the epitome of control—"

"I'm not here to discuss my personal life." William paced away from Thornley.

"Why are you here, then? To ruin the Albemarle name?" Thornley followed him, his voice rising. "This infatuation will be your undoing. Imagine the scandal. Can you afford to be seen as a man ruled by passion rather than reason? Your legacy, your influence—compromised for a fleeting romance."

William splayed his hands over the mantelpiece, as Thornley's words struck him like shrapnel.

"Can't you see she's your Cleopatra, your Caroline Lamb? A man of your stature can't afford such weaknesses. Think of the power she wields over you. Rodrick believes she has connections in France."

William shook his head repeatedly. "Miss Beaumont has opinions, but she doesn't have an agenda."

"How can you be so sure? What if she has family there? A lover?"

William grabbed Thornley's lapels, his face inches from the older man's. "You won't say a word about her."

Thornley's eyes widened, his mouth gaping.

William released him, stepping back in shock.

"You see what she does to you? I only ask that you wait for your passion to cool before you act."

William shut his eyes against the dull ache in his head. He was not ruled by passion, damn it. He. Was. Not. "Enough."

"What would your father say if he saw you now?" Thornley's tone softened.

The door opened with a gust of cooler air.

“There you are, Your Grace,” Baines said breathlessly, stepping inside. “I’ve been looking everywhere.”

William straightened. One look at the valet’s face—pale, tense—and dread coiled in his gut.

“Helene?” he asked, already moving. “Is she—?”

“No, Your Grace,” Baines interrupted quickly, holding out an envelope. “This arrived from Brighton. I thought… I should bring it straight to you.”

William’s hands trembled as he unfolded the note.

His mother.

He hadn’t yet read a word, but he already knew.

Something was wrong.

William sank into a chair, his strength bleeding out as he stared at the delicate scrawl of his mother’s hand. The room closed around him, the urgent voices of Thornley and Cavendish fading into dissonant chords.

Cavendish placed a hand over William's shoulder. "What is it?"

"My mother."

Exhausted, William pressed his fingers against his temples. It was his fault. How many notes had his mother sent him this season, asking him to visit? But he hadn't gone, unwilling to leave Helene's side.

"Go to the Dowager Duchess, Will," Cavendish urged, extending his hand with a solemn nod. "It's the bet page. I removed it. I promise I will look after the rumors while you are away."