Page 98 of Never a Duchess
If he stopped, his mind might explode from confusion. If he stopped, he would have to acknowledge what he’d read. Still, Satan meant to torment him tonight with wicked lies and dark secrets.
Words and visions crept into his mind.
His mother’s name scrawled in that filthy book. Bets placed. Scores kept. Details of her womanly attributes recorded as if she were a mare for sale at Tattersall’s.
Old memories took on new meanings.
She’d worn perfume on their walk in the woods. The smell was so potent it smothered the refreshing scent of pine. So potent, Callan had covered his nose when she hugged him, had almost choked, too. So potent, his father had emptied the rest into the chamber pot and tossed it out of the window.
Recognition dawned. Her last words were not a means of explaining the tragedy. They were a plea to a distraught son.
Tell yer father I picked the wrong berries.
I love ye, Callan, but ye’ll nae save me.
Tears trickled down his cheeks. Tears he’d not shed since he was twelve years old. Tears unbecoming a duke or a man of his brawn.
Pain tore through him anew.
Slashing at the heart that had brimmed with love an hour ago.
Yet his hands throbbed with the need to murder someone tonight. He had to pray he’d find Valmary at the perfumery. Didn’t care if he hanged from the gallows. It would be worth it just to make the bastard pay.
He had a duty to punish the men who’d murdered his mother. In his eyes, Baudelaire and Valmary both bore the guilt. He didn’t care who poisoned her perfume. On his oath, no other woman would suffer at their hands again.
His lungs burned.
His muscles ached.
But he pushed on, sprinting along Fleet Street and onto the Strand, knocking into drunkards and vagabonds—cursing every villainous bastard to Hades.
A shady fellow slithered out of the darkness, the glint of a blade catching Callan’s eye. The footpad moved to block his path. “I’ll ’ave yer blunt, guv’nor.”
“Ye picked the wrong man to cross tonight.” Callan launched his fist into the miscreant’s face, knocking the fool on his arse.
Like his kin of old, he would wield a claymore and slice through anyone who dared to stand in his way.
With anger surging through his veins, he reached Pall Mall. Seeing MacTavish’s house roused another crippling emotion.
Betrayal.
Did MacTavish know why the Duchess of Dounreay loved visiting the metropolis? Had he lied to Callan all these years? Conspired with Lorna to hide the truth? Was that why he never condemned Callan’s father when he should have cursed him to the devil?
He hammered on MacTavish’s door, loud enough to wake the dead. Except Angus wasn’t dead. He had sniffed the damn perfume and survived.
No one answered.
Callan stepped back and stared at the upper windows. Much like his heart, the house was shrouded in darkness.
“MacTavish! Open this door! Do ye hear me?” Lucifer’s temper consumed him, a fire hot enough to singe all the liars in hell.
He banged until the blurry-eyed butler opened the door. “Your Grace?” Monroe had thrown his coat over his crumpled nightshirt and stood blinking at Callan like he was dreaming.
This isnae a dream.
’Tis a bloody nightmare.
“I must speak to MacTavish.” Callan barged past him, mounting the stairs two at a time.
