by Stacy Reid
Discomfort curled through him, and he ruthlessly banished it. The Duke of Calydon, her brother, had no such thought for Marissa when he ruined her and led her to such a painful demise.
Ainsley’s gaze focused on him, jerking Lucan back to the present. “The lady is being ostracized. Lord Orwell did his task splendidly. He has hinted in all the right ears of Lady Constance and Lord Anthony’s illegitimacy, and encouraged everyone to remember how quickly the Dowager Duchess of Calydon married her lover after the death of the old duke. With a few whispers here and there, the rumors are being kept alive quite effectively.”
Lucan nodded. Lord Orwell had gambled away a substantial fortune at Lucan’s club, Decadence, and was deep in Lucan’s debt. To further his own goal, he had used Orwell to full advantage. In a game Orwell had been so sure he would win, the fool had placed twenty acres of prime London property on the table. He had lost and was desperate to reclaim his monies and land.
At the time, Lucan had not been moving in high society, too set on fulfilling the destruction of a previous enemy. But a few weeks later he had succeeded, and thus moved on to his current quarry, Sebastian Thornton, the Duke of Calydon, one of the men responsible for Marissa’s untimely death. Calydon had turned out to be Lucan’s most vexing opponent. He had not been able to find any weaknesses at all to exploit. But every man had a weakness, and he had been determined to find Calydon’s.
The duke had recently wed Lady Jocelyn Rathbourne. Lucan had studied her as a possible weakness to exploit. One thing had been clearly apparent to him on the few occasions he had observed them together. The duke obviously adored the ground Lady Jocelyn walked upon. His eyes ate her every movement, and he looked on her with tenderness. It was not an expression Lucan associated with the man. Everything he knew of Calydon had come only via the written reports he’d commissioned. Yet the reports only spoke of Calydon’s ruthlessness, his undeniable wealth, his reclusiveness, his power, and the respect he enjoyed from his peers. Nothing indicated a man besotted with his wife.
Then Lucan discovered Calydon possessed a sister, one he adored. There had been a knee jerk reaction in Lucan’s gut, and he had known with icy clarity how he could execute his vengeance in the cruelest possible manner.
It would be a sister for a sister.
The debt to pay must be comparable to the crime. Only then would Calydon understand the nature of his punishment. Calydon would have mourned the ruination of his precious wife. But a sister—he would have wiped her tears, soothed her fears, been there for her from birth. That was how Lucan had been with Marissa. And he knew instinctively Lady Constance’s destruction would torment Calydon more. Lucan had resolved that Calydon must know what profound pain and sorrow felt like. And the depth of failure Lucan had felt when he had failed Marissa should be experienced by the man, measure for measure.
Conveniently, Lord Orwell had revealed his hatred for Lord Anthony Thornton, Calydon’s brother, because Anthony had foiled Orwell’s kidnapping of the lady he had been obsessed with—Lady Phillipa. Lucan had carefully stoked Orwell’s wrath and given him the task of finding anything he could about Calydon that could ruin him. Lucan had been both shocked and delighted when Orwell produced a letter the old Duke of Calydon had left his family lawyer, renouncing his two younger children as not being of his blood. It was the exact weapon Lucan had needed to win the war Calydon had not realized was being waged against him. Lucan had always been in the business of owning secrets and trading them. He had instantly recognized the value of the letter and had forgiven Orwell his debt in trade for it. Then Orwell had leaked the vile gossip, and Lucan sat back to watch the impact.
Surprisingly, Calydon had extended his considerable power to quash the rumors, making it known he would limit his business dealings to only those he could trust not to gossip about, or cut his illegitimate sister and brother. Annoying, but Lucan had finally found the chink in the man’s armor.
Lady Constance.
She had instantly become all important to Lucan. And he had kept the gossip about her alive and flourishing. For every step Calydon made to smooth out her reception in society, Lucan had thwarted it from the shadows.
“What are you thinking?” Ainsley asked now, at his prolonged silence.
Lucan was unable to peel his gaze from Lady Constance. He now clearly saw what he had not observed earlier. How isolated she was. The vivacity of the woman he had danced with in the conservatory had wilted. She did not feel herself to be part of the gathering. He had thought she was simply aloof, choosing to stay on the sidelines.
And yet, it spoke volumes that the few ladies he had danced with had not spoken about her. They should have been eager to gossip and malign her to any man willing to listen.
Lucan pushed out a breath. “No,” he answered at length, “I did not know who she was. No one mentioned her name to me tonight.”
“I do not think when a lady is with you they would want to bring Lady Constance to your attention. She is incredibly beautiful. She was considered the toast of the season last year. Did she not introduce herself?” Ainsley asked, curiosity rife in his voice, along with a hint of amusement. “Did she not know with whom she danced?”
Lucan frowned. The lady had clearly known who he was—she had referred to him as “Your Grace.” Yet, she had chosen to remain alone with him in the dark. His reputation was notorious. He fully understood he was a novelty to society, the object of their fascination and repulsion.
He, Ainsley, the Reverend, and Marcus Stone owned and operated one of the most exclusive—and infamous—gaming halls in London. He’d been told over and over that a duke could not own, let alone work in, a club. It was simply not done. He did not care. He had owned it before the title was conferred upon him, and he was not about to disown it merely to please society. It offended many that a gentleman’s club of such notoriety even existed on St. James Street only a few blocks from White’s, but they had all still clamored to join. Because he offered them vice, gambling, music, scandalous dancing women, and the freedom to put on a mask and be themselves in an exclusive club that catered only to the haute monde and the gentry’s wealthiest.
He turned to his friend. “Yes, well, she introduced herself as a Miss Desiree Hastings. She clearly did not want me to know who she was.” He thought of her laughing eyes and innocent recklessness, and was instantly irritated. “Why is she even here? How did she secure an invitation?”
“You are forgetting her brother is Calydon. And her other brother, Lord Anthony, is a powerful man in his own right, a lion of commerce. They have both used their clout to try and force society to forgive her perceived sins. If not for your interference, they would have surely succeeded.” Ainsley grimaced and moved to lean against the railing. “You have had satisfaction from all the other parties who played a role in Marissa’s tragedy. Have you considered leaving Calydon be? He is nothing like Stanhope.”
Satisfaction? Lucan went cold inside. He would never be satisfied. His sister was dead, and until everyone involved had suffered as she must have suffered, he would not be able to sleep, to finally stop having nightmares.
“No,” his response was flat, and he need not say more. Ainsley should understand.
His friend clasped Lucan’s shoulders. “Calydon is a formidable opponent, Lucan. He controls the purse strings of many prominent families through his investments. And he dotes on his sister. It will be a miracle if you escape unscathed. ”
Lucan smiled. The wealth he had brought back with him from the Orient and that which he earned from the club matched Calydon’s fortune, and it was to Lucan’s benefit that he now also held a title the equal of Calydon’s. He could break the man just short of murder, with little repercussion. “I cannot leave it alone, Ainsley. Her death haunts me too much.”
The earl sighed. “The gossip said Calydon murdered Marissa, but we know it was not really so. We have her letter saying otherwise.” His friend continued, oblivious to the emotions tearing at Lucan’s insides. “The
greatest blame lies with Stanhope, the man who was entrusted with her care, and you now have him where you want him. The Reverend thinks you are going down a slippery path, Lucan. You are a duke, and no longer a common gambler or a shipping merchant. You should be focused on the title, your estate, and on the procurement of an heir. It took the crown four years to track you down. You now have a great responsibility to the realm and to your lands. It cannot be dismissed lightly.”
Lucan’s lips curled in distaste. He cared not one fig about the dukedom he had been given, or in obtaining an heir. The pomp that came with being a duke was useless to him, unless it played a role in his vengeance. That was the only reason he had assumed the outward mantle of a nobleman and stepped into society these few months. With his fortune and his newly elevated status came immense power. It allowed him to execute his vengeance on those who had previously seemed untouchable.
Also, being a peer, even a notorious one, allowed him to persuade other lords to side with him on issues that were important to him. Since the opening of parliament, he’d leveraged gaming debts and secrets when he wanted certain bills to be passed. He had lived a life of poverty in the seedier parts of London, down in the soot and grime, and in the Americas and the Orient. He had known despair and deprivation. If he could use his status to fight for those who lived how he once had, he would.
All other uses of the title were irrelevant.
“The Reverend would do well to preach some sense into you.” Ainsley grunted, then sighed at Lucan’s stony face, and changed the subject. “When are you coming to the club? You have been notably absent all this week.”
“I will be there on Friday,” he said softly, his gaze returning like a magnet to Lady Constance.
She looked so lonely, standing alone in the crush of the ballroom. She was an important key to his final vengeance, and yet, there was something about the girl he had just kissed and danced with that called to him. Just remembering her sweet taste, the lushness of her frame, made his cock twitch.
Silently, savagely, he cursed his unbridled response to his enemy. I am weak. He should feel no guilt at the idea of ruining her. Calydon had possessed no compassion for his sister, and Marissa had been everything that was sweet and gentle.
Lady Constance is innocent, his conscience taunted. The lash of discomfort and guilt bothered him. He ruthlessly banished it. He had worked too hard to sway from his path, to let beauty and innocence get in his way. He allowed icy satisfaction to settle deep inside him. He had already lured in his prey, albeit unwittingly. He would not turn back now. The slipperier the slope, the better. For the harder Calydon crumbled, the more Lucan would savor his revenge.
Chapter Four
Constance felt the thrum of the music deep in her soul. She cradled the violin reverently, caressing the bow against the strings, her heart aching as the beautiful notes spilled into the drawing room. Music had always soothed her, comforted her, and brought untold joy to her life. Of late, the music she produced had been mournful, the notes always too poignant, bringing tears to her eyes. She no longer seduced her strings to play jaunty jigs and warm music. Only powerful songs were played now, the ones that evoked the ache in her, leaving her satisfied, if only for a moment. The last of the notes died away, and she finally relaxed her spine.
“Your new wardrobe has arrived,” Charlotte said.
Constance had momentarily forgotten Charlotte was in the room. Staring out the window into the gardens, Constance was unable to dredge up any excitement in this season’s fashionable apparel, something that had previously brought her happiness. She had been numb as she traveled with her mother, and sometimes Jocelyn and Phillipa, to the different shops on Bond Street, ordering dresses, hats, slippers, and so many other fripperies without any real interest. What use would they be?
In anger Constance had ordered daring colors—dark blue, gold, chartreuse, colors very unusual for a young debutante like herself. Her mother had not objected once. But now that they were here, Constance had nowhere to go. No friends to walk with, to picnic with, to attend the opera and theatre with. She winced. That wasn’t quite true. Charlotte was her friend. She was really Lady Ralston, a widow whose husband had died two years past. Constance had initially rebelled when her mother had suggested hiring her a lady’s companion, someone from a genteel family who needed employment. It had stung, to accept that they had to hire someone to speak with her. But Charlotte had become her staunchest ally and closest friend.
She laid the violin on the music stand with tender care and sighed. She stood and went over to sit beside her friend on the sofa by the pianoforte. Charlotte handed her a glass of lemonade and Constance pressed the cool glass to her cheeks. The sunlight pouring in through the open windows made the room feel unusually warm.
“Would you like to take a walk in the gardens? Today is so sunny and glorious. It would be lovely,” Charlotte asked, realizing no doubt that Constance did not want to speak of the multitude of gowns she had ordered.
She took a sip of her lemonade. “In a bit. I would look at the parcels. I’ve decided to attend Lady Beaumont’s ball. I do have the most perfect Venetian evening gown for it.” The only reason she now felt some excitement in attending was because she would see Mondvale. Though she felt in her heart nothing good could ever come from placing herself in his path again.
Charlotte smiled at her in approval, and Constance realized she needed to make a greater effort to not seem so morose.
After a soft knock, the door opened and the butler, Mr. Harris, strode in.
“You have a visitor, Lady Constance,” he announced without preamble.
“A visitor?” she asked, sure she’d misunderstood him. No one had called on her in over six months.
His kind brown eyes smiled along with his whole face. “Indeed,” he said and handed the card to her with a flourish.
She took it from him and stared at the calling card in shock.
“Who is it from, Connie?” Charlotte asked, shifting in her seat to see.
Constance reread the name several times until she was certain she had not misread the name printed on the thick cardstock. His Grace, Lucan Devlin Wynwood, Duke of Mondvale waited for her in the parlor.
She looked at Mr. Harris in somewhat of a daze. “Did you make it known that Mother is not home?”
“Yes, milady. I was informed he was here to call on you, Lady Constance.”
She gave a weak nod. Mondvale knew who she was? How had he found out? Since her return home from last night’s ball she had been conflicted. She had written to him over a dozen times, only to discard the rumpled notes. Each one had started with an apology for lying to him before revealing her name. Each time her nerves had attacked her, and she had started over. She had then resolved to attend Lady Beaumont’s midnight ball, and if she saw him, she would be truthful about her identity—and then hope he would not condemn her for lying. But how had he found out that Miss Desiree Hastings and Lady Constance were one and the same?
She dismissed the question instantly. She had felt his eyes on her last night after she had returned inside. That same awareness, hot and almost uncomfortable, had simmered through her. Since he had been watching her, it was very probable he had asked someone about her. Drat.
Constance wondered if he had called on her to express his disgust. She suddenly felt ridiculously vulnerable. She gave Mr. Harris a half smile. “Please tell Mrs. Pritchard to have tea and cakes in the parlor, and inform His Grace I will be with him shortly.”
Mr. Harris bowed and exited.
“The Duke of Mondvale?” Charlotte demanded anxiously. “The man everyone refers to as the Lord of Sin?”
Her voice sounded strangled as she looked at Constance with ill-concealed alarm.
Constance leaped to her feet and paced for a few seconds. Should I change out of my morning dress? The simple pale pink dress and the chignon her hair had been gathered in now seemed wholly understated to see the duke.
“When were you introd
uced?” Charlotte asked, taking the card from her, examining it as if she doubted it really came from him.
Constance could not prevent the heat that climbed her neck to her face, as the circumstances in which they had spoken and danced roared through her mind. Their kiss had been the most exciting thing that had happened to her since her debut. All day, it had been a difficult thing to keep from Charlotte. Constance had vibrated inside to share their magical night in the conservatory with someone, but had chosen to hold it close instead. Now it seemed her secret was out.
“Good heavens, you are blushing, Connie.”
She sighed. “I met him last night. We were not introduced. Oh, Charlotte, I lied to him about who I was, and now I cannot credit that he is here.”
“You spoke, but you had not been formally introduced?” Charlotte demanded, her voice bordering on exasperation.
Constance clasped her hands and forced herself to stand still. “Yes.”
“I gather from the redness of your face that something more happened,” Charlotte said wryly.
With a groan Constance flung herself into the depth of the sofa. “We danced in the conservatory under the stars, and then he kissed me.”
“Constance Isabella Desiree Thornton!”
She sat up, and laughter pulsed from her at the appalled look on Charlotte’s face.
Constance hugged herself. “Oh, Charlotte, he did not know it was me. Well, of course he now knows because he is here. What do I do? Do I change out of my morning gown?”
Excitement and trepidation glowed in Charlotte’s turquoise colored eyes as she cupped Constance’s cheeks. “You look beautiful. Come now, it is best to not keep him waiting. Changing your gown and redoing your hair would take too much time.”
She inhaled deeply, squared her shoulders, and swept through the door. Charlotte walked with her, and Constance could not work up the courage to ask to meet with the duke alone. Charlotte would not allow it anyhow. And Constance doubted she had the capacity to face him alone. Is he angry? Disgusted?