Page 88 of Dare to Love a Duke
However, the correspondence between Maeve and Lord Stacey stopped. Tom only knew of it because his sister quizzed the footmen several times a day for the mail.
“I’m so sorry, little bird,” Tom said to her as she sat moodily by the parlor window.
She gave him a wry, sad smile that broke his heart. “I had hoped Hugh would be better than this. But it seems he’s not the man I believed him to be.”
“Bastard,” Tom growled. He could ride to Brookhurst’s home in a matter of minutes and beat Lord Stacey into a pulp of muscle and bone.
Maeve looked down at her hands, a shadow crossing her face. “Sadly, that’s the problem—he isn’t a bastard. He’s very much the Duke of Brookhurst’s progeny.”
Tom hurt for her, wanting to gather her close and sing her nonsense songs as he’d done when she was a little girl. But she was a grown woman now. There had to be other ways to comfort her. “Shall we go out? Break away from mourning and go to the theater? I hear Lady Marwood has a new burletta at the Imperial.”
Maeve’s face brightened briefly, and then she shook her head. “I haven’t the strength to face the world just yet.”
Goddamned Lord Stacey.“Should you change your mind—”
“You’ll be the first I tell.”
Wednesday night found him climbing down from his carriage outside the Earl and Countess of Garsdale’s home in Marylebone. He permitted himself a weary sigh as he mounted the stairs. Another dinner party, and more political maneuvering.
Lord Garsdale helped broker alliances amongst progressives. Gatherings such as this one were crucial, and so here Tom was, giving his hat and coat to a footman before going up to the drawing room.
The chamber fell silent when Tom entered. He stood in the doorway as a score of faces stared at him with inquisitive, scandalized expressions. A lady whispered to another from behind her fan. Someone audibly gasped.
The hostile expressions on the other guests’ faces were easier to tolerate than the ones whose faces resembled frozen lakes, chilling him to his marrow.
Even Lord Garsdale held back, the look on his face pained, as though Tom had entered the room holding a pig head dripping blood onto the polished floor.
Whatever was happening, a tactical retreat was the wisest option. He could assess the situation and formulate a strategy. Tom turned to leave, but Greyland intercepted him and they both stepped into the corridor.
“He’s done it,” Greyland said in a low voice.
“Who has done what?”
“He hasn’t gone to the papers,” Greyland said tautly, “but he’s been spreading the news in White’s, and now everyone knows—your ownership of the Orchid Club, and your affair with the proprietress.”
The room spun. Tom braced his hand against the wall. “Brookhurst is a sodding maggot,” he said in a rasp.
Greyland exhaled through his nose, his expression grim. “Bastard must have had you followed.”
“Fuck.” It was a paltry word, one that couldn’t begin to touch the rage that poured through him. “Half the soddingtongoes to the Orchid Club.”
Greyland moved them farther into the hallway, away from the curious guests who hovered near the entrance to the drawing room. “But only you own it. Only you are sharing a bed with its manager.”
Tom pulled a hand through his hair.
Oh, hell.Maeve, his mother. The scandal would seek them out, poisoning their social standing. Maeve hadn’t just lost Hugh—she’d be unable to marry anyone else.
And Lucia...
Fury turned his stomach. Notoriety might help the Orchid Club—or it could ruin the establishment and smother her dream of opening the girls’ home. Saints preserve him, but the moment he’d turned his entranced gaze to her that very first night, he’d become the agent of her destruction.
Tom’s knuckles turned white as he gripped the carriage window. Impatience and dread gnawed at him for the drive to Bloomsbury. When the vehicle pulled into the mews, he raced to the front door. He had just enough presence of mind to don a mask before entering.
Elspeth let him in, the foyer deafeningly quiet.
“A good night?” he asked, distracted.
“You’ll see it for yourself,” she said grimly.
