Page 63 of A Duke's Lustful Portrait
“Or where the menarerats,” Sebastian suggested.
He had always hated gambling, thinking it a fools’ sport. That Pembry was one such fool didn’t surprise him all that much. All these wealthy men with too much power were fools in their own way—that’s what happened when one didn’t have to suffer the consequences of one’s actions.
“That’s right,” Sinclair replied, pointing his spoon at Sebastian with delight. “I’d quite forgotten! Of course, you know the area well, don’t you? What with your upbringing. You’ve probably even frequented that very gambling house, given what you are.”
Sebastian could sense his calm wavering, and he tried to hold back the tide of hatred he felt for this man. As time ran out, so his fuse got shorter. He glanced once more over his shoulder. The other gentlemen seemed wholly engrossed in their conversations, but Sebastian was certain one or two were eavesdropping. He lowered his voice and spoke to Sinclair in a harsh whisper.
“What I am is the Duke of Ravenswood,” he snapped. “And whether I know it or not depends entirely on where in London it was, for there are several poor areas of the city—to our great shame. We resided mostly in the north.”
“A shame indeed.” Sinclair shrugged, not at all lowering his voice. “Pembry’s little hole is in the south. Still, I suppose when you know one such place, you know them all. The rat farms where the commoners live are all much the same, aren’t they?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Sebastian snapped. “I only had the misfortune of living in one of them. Usratsrarely get the opportunity to travel.”
The man was pure hatred and disgust, and Sebastian wondered how such a man could produce a woman like Arabella—kind, sweet, and beautiful. He would do this for her as much as for his mother now. She deserved to be free.
Sinclair pouted in mock apology. “Come now, Sebastian. You know I meant no harm by my words. I hardly consider you one ofthemany longer, not after what you’ve achieved. Tricking an old man into leaving you everything! That really is quite the win. Very few can move up the ranks at all, but you’ve travelled from the very bottom to almost the top. What’s next? Become King of England?”
He snorted at his little joke, which Sebastian did not find amusing. Instead, he remained silent for a moment, gathering himself. He was making mistakes and losing his self-control because his nerves were so on edge, and he couldn’t allow that to happen. He had to discover the truth before he found himself with a pistol in his hand and a terrified man on his knees in front of him—or worse before Sinclair found him out.
It won’t get to that.
“This gambling house that Pembry visits,” he said, calmer now, “I take it that is where I am to complete my task?”
“It’ll be an effortless task ultimately. The shuffling fellow who runs the place is a snivelling wreck who has garnered wealth and power through luck rather than judgement. He will be easy to handle.”
Easy?How could Sinclair think murder of any kind waseasy?
“I see,” Sebastian replied.
He knocked back the remainder of his brandy, then signalled for another.
“You’ll be provided with a knife—”
“Not a pistol?” Sebastian cried, surprised. Realizing his mistake, he glanced around at the other men, but they hadn’t seemed to notice.
“No, we prefer a more direct approach. Besides, pistols are noisy. You are far less likely to attract attention with a stabbing than a shooting.”
“Of course,” Sebastian replied through his teeth.
A knife felt somehow more personal, crueller even. It required more forethought, more risk to oneself. It meant being closer to the action in every sense. But then it had been how Sinclair had murdered his mother. Perhaps it was part of the task itself.
Dearest Arabella, please forgive me for even humouring your father.
“Did you use a knife?” he asked. An image of Sinclair flashed into his mind, standing over his mother’s bloodied body, the knife in his hand drip, drip, dripping.
“When?” Sinclair feigned ignorance, but Sebastian could see he understood the question perfectly well. He sat forward, resting his elbows on the table. He wanted answers, and his demeanour would not remain so peaceful for much longer.
“What was your assignment, Edward? If you don’t mind my asking.”
Edward sat back in his chair and motioned for a cigar. The footman brought two, handing one to each of them, then lit Edward’s for him. Sebastian raised his hand to decline. Smoking was a dirty habit he avoided whenever he could.
As Edward took his first puffs, he looked up at the ceiling as if filled with happy nostalgia. It made Sebastian want to scream.
“It was a fair few years ago now,” Sinclair said. “But I still remember it like it was yesterday.”
“You talk like it’s a happy memory,” Sebastian said.
“Oh, it is,” Sinclair replied. “At least for me.” He chuckled again.
