Page 36 of Dare to Love a Duke
Tom didn’t have to look at Greyland to see the smile in his friend’s voice.
A moment later, the butler appeared with his master’s coat. “The knives, Your Grace,” he added, pulling two folded blades from his pocket.
“One for me,” Greyland directed his servant, “one for the Duke of Northfield.”
Tom took an ebony-handled knife from the butler. “Plan on forcing me to fight you for my life?”
“All shall become comprehensible, if you can manage to endure a two-minute wait.” Greyland waved off his servant’s offer of assistance and slipped his arms into his coat. “There. We are fortified. Follow me.”
Moments later, Tom and his friend ambled the gravel paths that wove through Greyland’s substantial garden, the stones crunching beneath their boots. Tom struggled to keep his stride easy, though he wanted to run and run until his legs gave out beneath him. He made himself look around and study his surroundings. Trees planted alongside the paths reached bare arms up to the ash-colored sky, and the fountains were dry vessels holding crisp, brown leaves. The rose bushes had all been trimmed back, as well.
But not everything was asleep or dead in Greyland’s garden. An ambitious gardener had planted late-flowering shrubs, and more silvery frost-glazed leaves and grasses. It held a spare, stern beauty.
“Going for a ride or taking a walk in the park means we risk being set upon by importunate MPs,” Greyland said, his breath misting the air. “The garden gives us room to move without having to endure fulsome, ingratiating praise or heated jeremiads.”
“Surprised anyone would subject dukes to a lecture,” Tom said in disbelief. “And lecturingyou,well, that takes bollocks of iron.”
A corner of Greyland’s mouth hitched. “A rare occurrence, but when one proposes levying higher taxes on this nation’s most affluent, one should expect a certain amount of protestations.” His friend bent down and picked up two slender branches which lay across the path. He handed one to Tom.
“We’re to practice our ripostes and feints?” Tom swung the branch like a fencing sabre through the air.
“Observe.” Greyland produced his knife and used the blade to scrape off bark. He leaned against a low wall. “Whittling isn’t just for sailors and farmers.”
Tom watched Greyland for several moments, learning the way of moving a knife over wood, and then his own hands quickly fell into the rhythm of whittling, and fragile calm settled over him. Which, he supposed, had been Greyland’s intention all along.
They worked silently for several moments, the only sounds coming from the rasp of metal against wood. Within the confines of Tom’s mind, however, all was noise and confusion as though a dozen carriages collided.
He careened off into the ether, nothing holding him down or keeping him steady. His father—the source of his gravity—had been proven to be full of duplicity and secrets, and with that gone, the world had no balance.
The blade of his knife skittered across the wood he held, and he narrowly missed cutting the hell out of his finger. He cursed softly.
“I’ve something to tell you,” he said abruptly. “Something that cannot be repeated. To anyone—that goes for the duchess, as well.”
“I’d trust Cass with everything, including my life.”
“I can take no chances.” Tom tried to shove away his need to speak to someone, anyone. “Never mind—I’ll not burden you with it.”
He moved to stride away, but Greyland’s hand on his arm stopped him. “I swear to you,” his friend said, his tone low and sincere, “I’ll tell no one of your confidence.”
Tom drew in a breath. “Have you heard of the Orchid Club?” It seemed unlikely, given his friend’s moral rectitude, and Tom never discussed his weekly visits to the establishment with anyone.
A stain of color appeared on Greyland’s cheeks, surprising Tom. “I am aware of it.”
Well... how unforeseen.
But he couldn’t be distracted by his astonishment. “It...” He struggled to speak, even as the demand to confess pushed him from the inside out. Finally, he blurted, “My father owned it. And now I do.”
To his credit, Greyland’s expression barely changed, save for his brows edging up slightly. “That is unexpected.”
“I only learned this afternoon. The manager delivered my share of the profits today.”
Better to leave out the fact that Tom and the manager had just spent a torrid night together—it would only complicate an already thorny situation.
“My father,” he growled. “My father.He’d deliberately positioned himself as a bastion of decency, while maintaining ownership of the Orchid Club.”
Tom threw his branch away, and it careened in a spinning arc over the hedges. He felt himself in a similar trajectory, flung into the air as he twisted in confusion.
“If anyone learned of this,” he said tightly, “the family name would be destroyed. My mother, Maeve—they’d have to retreat from Society entirely. How can Maeve marry with the disgrace poisoning her reputation?Fuck.” A crushing weight pressed down.
