Page 182 of The Enslaved Duet
I’d earned the punishment. In fact, I’daskedfor it to spare the girl I’d been sure would break apart like a human vase on the cold stone floor of my father’s favourite room in Pearl Hall.
Noel would not see me coddled. There were consequences to every action, and I had to learn that, in order to avoid the consequences, I had to be the driving force behind every action.
It was the first lesson he taught me that I wasn’t happy to know, but in the end, it turned out to be the most powerful.
I was reminded of the gravity of that lesson the day Noel finally discovered I was working against the Order.
It was the same day I had irrefutable evidence that Amadeo Salvatore didnotkill my mother.
It was just over a year since Cosima had been taken from me, and I’d never been colder, inside or out. My father took it as he was meant to, as a sign that I had moved onward and upward from my fleeting mistake with an Italian slave girl. He involved me in his business dealings once more, happily plying his sudden access to my influence to make rash, ill-advised business dealings across Great Britain.
Normally, he might have questioned my pliancy, but he was too relieved by my financial and political backing to study my motivation too closely. He made his moves across the board, and I—as I had for most of my life just as he trained me to—followed.
I had just finished an important call with the COO of Davenport Media Holdings when Noel appeared in the doorway to my office, his handsome face folded into a smug smile.
“Son,” he greeted. “I believe it’s time for the next stage.”
“Of your master plan?” I asked without inflection. The words could have been sarcastic or sincere, but if I made my tone empty, Noel was always ready to fill my intent in for himself.
I focused on the numbers on my screen instead of my father as he took a seat on the arm of the red leather chair before my desk, but I noticed in my periphery that his smile was particularly curled that day, in the way of a cartoon villain’s mustache.
Foreboding played my vertebrae like piano keys.
“For both of our gains, I should think. The Howard girl is ready to be wed, and I believe you are just the man to do the deed.”
I wasn’t surprised by his proclamation. Martin Howard, Noel, and Sherwood had been pressing Agatha Howard into my arms as soon as I’d dropped the knife after castrating Simon Wentworth. It was understandable. She was beautiful and highborn, but more than that, the Howards were one of the Order’s most dynastic families just as the Davenports were. It was a political marriage made in secret society heaven.
“Do you indeed?” I asked blandly as an email for Willa Percy appeared in my inbox labeledBulgari Fashion Week Party.
My heart kicked brutally at the door of my ribcage, restless and wild in the face of possible information about my estranged wife. Willa and Jensen both kept me in the loop about Cosima through her work with St. Aubyn, ostensibly reporting on her life because she was the face of the fashion house I owned but didn’t operate.
It wasn’t enough to satisfy my burning need to know everything about her every day, but it was mild enough, clever enough to slide by without notice because the Order never thought to check deeply into my dealings with St. Aubyn.
My gaze cut to Noel who sat patiently with his cat ate the canary smirk.
“She’s here now in the antechamber waiting for you to call on her. I took the liberty of having O’Shea prepare a tea service. You and Agatha will have much to discuss.”
“Perhaps you’ve forgotten, but technically, I’m already married.”
I hadn’t forgotten, neither of us had. Noel still watched my every move, looking for the weakness I’d exposed by my dealings with Cosima, and I still worked tirelessly every day to move closer to the termination of the Order so that I could live with her as my wife once more.
“Pish posh, we can annul that sham of a marriage even if we didn’t have the Archbishop of Canterbury in our back pocket. You don’t worry about that. Focus on Agatha.”
“Why?” I asked, finally giving my father the attention he wanted.
I sat back in my chair, crossing my legs and casually adjusting the coat of arms cufflinks at my wrists. They were too diminutive to read the writing, but I took heart from the family motto as I sat there playing the grandest game of chess I ever would against my father.
Non decor, deco.
I am not led, I lead.
“Martin owns the rights for Falmouth Port, and we need to secure him to bring in the shipments from Africa.” The illegal shipments of blood diamonds my father had invested much of his fortune into.
He had everything set up—a seller, a warehouse, and a way to funnel the money so that it would end up in his hands as clean as money like that could be.
He was excited.
In fact, I hadn’t seen my father that excited in years.
