Page 48 of Claiming His Lost Duchess
Wordlessly, he pulled a vacant chair from a separate table, putting it before the table with the men he had come to find, settling into it with a blank expression.
Almost immediately, the atmosphere changed as the five men noticed the unwelcome guest, their expressions going from surprise to discomfort, as they fully realized who was seated at their table.
One of the particular three that had brought Graham all this way cleared his throat, the abrupt noise disrupting the awkward air.
“Your Grace,” he began, his tone too light to be only polite, “Are you lost? I did not think a man of your… standing would want to be seen in an establishment such as this.”
Graham trained his cold gaze on the man who had spoken, taking his time to respond.
“You are quite right, Lord Neville. My usual club is a more refined setting than this, certainly. But to each their own, I suppose.”
One of the other men scoffed at the obvious jab, sitting up to snap,
“If you feel that way, why are you here then, Your Grace? Surely your time would be better served in the squalors you perceive as ‘refined’.” Lord Baskerton rolled his eyes, picking up his glass of scotch.
“Is that so? How strange. I am certain it was you who summoned me here. Or rather, your attitude towards my solicitor, when he brought forth the business proposal I had decided to offer you,” Graham said, with an expression of mock disbelief. “What was it you told him in dismissal? That you did not wish to work with an entitled Scot who was far too big for my breeches?”
The men exchanged nervous looks before lowering their eyes. Graham tutted, folding his arms as he leaned back in his chair.
“Come now. I want to hear more about these ideas you have about me. Tell me more about the things that make me less than you or unworthy to even breathe this filthy London air – because that is what it is about, isn't it? That I am a Scot and you are the better men, in all your English glory.”
“So what if it is?” the third, Lord Remington snapped defiantly. “Why should we entangle ourselves with one such as you? Without your title as a duke, you would simply be low-born filth, not worthy of even being the muck beneath our shoes. You have no power, only rumors about your beastly nature –spurred by that absurd color of your hair. It would be a colossal mistake to work with you. We have the right to decline.”
The insults were nothing he had not heard before. He was well aware of what they thought about him, how they felt to be lower in status than a Scot. Graham knew of their hatred, understood its reasons, and overlooked it when he deemed fit.
But now, he was being disrespected to his face, looked down on, and he was not raised to take such things in stride. And he had no intention of raising his daughter to believe that her father had no spine.
“I do not wish to work with you either. Not anymore, seeing as you lot are clearly not as smart as I initially perceived you to be. And as such, I would much rather take my chances with any other poor fellow out there. A simple ‘no’ to my request wouldhave sufficed, but it seems as though Englishmen are fond of testing the limits, foolishly poking and prodding at the ‘beasts’ they are before, just so they can claim that they were attacked when reckoning arrives. Well, I seem to be all out of patience today, so let me make an example of you.”
Lord Remington happened to be the one closest to him, and it didn’t take much effort to grab him by the throat with one hand, forcing his head down against the table with a loud thud. The other men jumped away quickly, looking frightened.
It felt natural, letting his accent come forth in full force as he spoke to the worm in his grasp.
“See, the thing about us Scots is we're folk of action. We daenae run our gobs wi' the belief that we're better or stronger than others. We put our fists up, where our mouths are. Lookin' at yer skinny wrists and legs that look similar tae those of a newborn calf, I hardly think ye'll manage tae land a single blow before I bury ye beneath these floorboards. What d'ye think will happen if I break that jaw of yours? The very one that aids ye in flappin' those useless lips of yours, wi' the belief that there'll be nae consequences tae yer actions? D'ye think yer friends will provide ye wi' any help? Especially when I tell them that they'll be ruined if they lift so much as a finger on yer behalf? Ye may see me as naebody, but ye underestimate not just me but the connections I possess, even on a land I wasnae born on. A single word from me, and everything ye believed ye had will be ripped apart from ye. What was it ye lot like tae call it? Ruin. That is all ye'll be left wi’.”
Graham tightened his grip on the man’s neck slightly, watching the panic fill his eyes as he began to claw at the hand around his throat, his distress growing when the hand did not move.
“You do not have to like me. I have no intention to share a drink with any of you cowards. But you will respect me and my title. You will keep your filthy mouths shut, and you will mind your own damn affairs, because I do not owe you or yours anything. If you ever speak ill of me or my family again, I will put you in the dirt myself, with these hands, and then I will piss on your grave. Do we have an understanding, gentlemen?”
“Y-Yes, Your Grace. Please receive our sincerest apologies –” Lord Neville spoke up, his words ignored by Graham, who simply released the fool in his grasp and stood straight.
“Good. As long as you understand. I would so hate to think that I made the trip here for nothing,” Graham stated, his accent shifting to sound perfectly English, the threat clear still in his tone.
Without another word, he turned away and left the club.
Andrew followed closely behind, his complexion a tad pale, but his eyes filled with unbridled pride.
“Andrew,” Graham called with a lazy drawl.
“Y-Yes, Your Grace?”
“I need you to visit my brother-in-law, the Duke of Windermoor, and pass on a message for me, will you?”
“Certainly, Your Grace. What will the message say?”
Graham climbed into the carriage, his mind made up.
“Give him a list with the names of those men on it. Tell him that in return for my agreement to his business proposal, with the profits split sixty-forty – the higher gain in his favor – I would like him to cease all dealings with those imbeciles,” he instructed.
