Page 87 of A Bargain with the Rakish Duke
Kenneth crumpled the letter in his fist, fury coursing through him. The audacity of the man to claim his actions were “unfounded accusations” when Kenneth knew the truth of what had happened to Catherine!
He stood up abruptly, pacing the length of his study, the memory of Thomas recounting Catherine’s ordeal fresh in his mind.
His first instinct was to ignore the letter, to let Patrick rot in whatever hole he’d dug for himself. But as his anger cooled, Kenneth found himself thinking of Beatrice. Despite their estrangement, he couldn’t bear the thought of her brother returning to England and causing her more pain.
With a heavy sigh, he sat at his desk and pulled out a fresh sheet of paper. He dipped his quill in the inkpot and began to write, his hand steady despite his inner turmoil.
Lord Afferton,
Your attempt at extortion is as contemptible as your character. I will not be manipulated by thinly veiled threats, especially not from a man who has brought nothing but pain and shame to his family.
Your claims of “unfounded accusations” are laughable. We both know the truth of your actions, and I assure you, there are those in England who have not forgotten.
However, for Beatrice’s sake, I will give you a one-time sum of one thousand pounds. This is more than you deserve, and it comes with a warning. If you ever attempt to return to England or contact me or Beatrice again, I will use every resource at my disposal to ensure you face the consequences of your past actions.
The funds will be sent through my solicitor. Do not write to this address again.
The Duke of Dunford.
Kenneth sealed the letter, his jaw clenched. As he rang for a servant to have it sent, he found himself wishing he could sharethis burden with Beatrice. Despite their arguments, despite the distance between them, he missed her counsel, her strength.
For a moment, he considered writing to her, telling her about Patrick’s letter. But pride and hurt held him back. Instead, he poured himself another glass of brandy and raised it in a bitter toast.
“To justice,” he muttered sardonically, downing the drink in one swallow.
As night fell over Dunford Castle, Kenneth remained in his study, haunted by thoughts of Beatrice and the growing certainty that, somehow, he needed to find a way to heal the rift between them. The weight of protecting her, even from afar, settled heavily on his shoulders.
Beatrice stood before the imposing oak door of Lord Eastfold’s London residence, her heart pounding in her chest. The impropriety of her visit—a married lady calling on a bachelor—weighed heavily on her mind. But the risk of scandal paled in comparison to the threat hanging over her head.
Taking a deep breath, she raised the brass knocker and rapped sharply. After a moment, the door swung open, revealing a stern-faced butler.
“I’m here to see Lord Eastfold,” Beatrice declared, her voice steady despite her nerves. “It’s a matter of some urgency.”
The butler’s eyes widened slightly at the sight of her, but he maintained his composure. “Of course, Your Grace. Please, come in.”
Beatrice followed him through the opulent foyer, her footsteps muffled by thick carpets. The house exuded wealth and power, much like its master.
Lord Eastfold was waiting in his study, a glass of brandy in hand. His eyes lit up with amusement as she entered.
“Your Grace,” he drawled, setting down his glass. “What an unexpected pleasure. To what do I owe this… clandestine visit?”
Beatrice steeled herself, lifting her chin. “Lord Eastfold, I’ve come to appeal to your better nature. This arrangement between us cannot continue.”
Eastfold’s smile widened, revealing teeth that seemed too sharp. “Oh? And why is that, my dear?”
“It’s wrong,” Beatrice said firmly. “You’re using my art, my passion, for your own gain. Surely you can see how unethical this is?”
Eastfold chuckled, the sound grating on her nerves. “Ethics? My dear, this is business. You create; I sell. It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement.”
“Mutually beneficial?” Beatrice repeated, incredulous. “You’re blackmailing me!”
“Such an ugly word.” Eastfold tsked, rising from his desk and moving closer to her. “I prefer to think of it as… motivation. After all, your secret remains safe, and your art reaches an adoring public. What could be better?”
Beatrice felt her resolve weakening in the face of his smug confidence. “Please, My Lord. I’m begging you to reconsider.”
His eyes gleamed with a predatory light. “Begging? Now that is a pretty picture. Speaking of which…” He paused, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “I think I’d like a Westback original for my personal collection. No commission, of course. Just a little… gift, shall we say?”
Beatrice’s stomach churned with disgust, but she kept her expression impassive. “And if I refuse?”
