Page 96 of Wedded to the Cruel Duke

Charles’ smile flashed coldly and when Ambrose Jones looked up at the Duke, his features displayed his growing fear.

Wait for me, Phoebe. I am coming to rescue you, my darling.

“Let us begin.”

Those words were the death knell for any servant who dared to betray the rules Charles Montgomery had set forth from the moment they accepted employment. Ambrose Jones would soon learn what it meant to betray his master.

Hardly an hour had passed and Charles was nonchalantly wiping his hands with a clean handkerchief. When his gaze passed over the bloodied form of his traitorous valet, a disgusted sneer curled on his lips.

In the end, it had taken very little for Jones to confess to spiking his laudanum at the behest of a nobleman he only referred to asThorpe. He was also the one who personally tampered with the carriage that was reserved for the use of the Duchess, at the behest of the same man.

“A pity that you did not even bother to learn the name of the man you betrayed your master for,” O’Malley sighed with mock sympathy. “Ah well… it can hardly be expected that such a fop would come to your rescue, besides.”

A spy who had been caught was useless. A spy who confessed his crimes even more so.

“You know what to do with him,” Charles muttered to his footman, flinging the bloodied handkerchief at Ambrose’s battered face.

He had gotten all the information he needed from the man and he now had better things to do—like rescue his beloved wife from the evil clutches of whoever tried to take her from him.

A Thorpe. In London. There is only one… very pertinent man that comes to mind,he thought to himself.

When he worked for the Crown, Charles had been renowned for the swiftness and ferocity with which he accomplished his jobs. He had risen the ranks summarily and gained a certain reputation.

Now, he would put all that knowledge to use to bring Phoebe back home safely from the scoundrel of Scunthorpe.

“Your Grace?”

“Yes, O’Malley?”

“Bring Her Grace back home.”

His answering smile was cold, like the flash of wicked steel unsheathed. “Naturally, O’Malley.”

When Charles arrived at Scunthorpe Manor, he was the very picture of a civilized gentleman, except for the barely noticeable grazes on his knuckles. It was not something that a man like the Baron of Scunthorpe would notice instantly, in any case.

The butler showed him to the receiving area for guests as Charles deliberately took notice of the number of men stationed in the residence. There were quite a few of them, but nothing that might prove too difficult, especially since they did not appear to be armed.

As if that would stop me, he thought to himself in derision. He had infiltrated far more guarded buildings in his long and prestigious career. What was a mere Baron capable of?

“Your Grace, I must admit that this visit is quite a surprise!”

Charles smiled as his gaze swiveled over to the Baron, who had just entered the room, looking a little flustered.

“Good evening, Lord Scunthorpe,” he greeted him.

“Oh, please…you are simply too polite. Do have a seat, Your Grace.”

Just because Charles disdained the charade that most of thetonsubjected themselves to, it did not mean that he was ineptat playing their game. Before he worked for the Crown, he was already titled the Marquess of Wentworth, and his education was not lacking in that aspect.

He did not refuse when the Baron called for a glass of wine to be served for the guest and some brandy for himself, choosing to closely study the man instead. It was almost comical how he donned his firearm so openly, as if he believed that such a display would be a deterrent for Charles for whatever reason.

He also noted that Lord Scunthorpe moved with the arrogance of a man who was confident that he was in his element. Of course, this was his own home, but the fact that his guards were unarmed, and yethewas, spoke volumes about his insecurity complex.

When the servant came over with the wine, the Baron wasted no time in regaling Charles of just what a fine vintage it was, as if it might impress him. What could a positively repulsive Baron possibly have that might impress the tastes of a Duke? Charles could hardly contain the scorn at the man’s actions yet kept it tucked sweetly beneath a polite smile.

“I am honored that you think me worthy of such a fine offering, Lord Scunthorpe,” he remarked obsequiously, swirling the wine in his crystal glass. “Alas, I no longer hold a particular penchant or appreciation for wine. Distasteful events in my youth that involved an overindulgence at rather crucial gatherings. It left a… permanent mark on my palate.Now, brandy, however, is more to my taste.”

“Oh? A pity then,” Lord Scunthorpe sighed as he graciously handed him the glass of brandy instead.