Page 92 of Beyond Scandal and Desire
Chapter 20
I have managed to obtain the deeds to the properties you lost as well as your markers from various gaming hells. Bring the duke to my office at eleven so we might discuss the terms upon which they will be returned to you. No duke, no meeting. No meeting, and I shall see you ruined.
—Mick Trewlove
Mick had the missive delivered to Kipwick first thing that morning.
Now as his valet brushed shaving lather over his thick beard, he studied his reflection in the mirror. When he’d discovered the bones in Ettie Trewlove’s garden, he’d also uncovered his own past. She’d given him the tattered remains of the blanket in which he’d been wrapped, and she’d told him the tale of the gent, in the fancy carriage, who’d brought Mick to her door. The man had never given his name, and it was possible the blanket had been nicked, but the first time Mick had caught sight of Hedley, he’d known the truth: his father was a bloody duke.
He’d seen himself in the tall, slender man with the black hair and the vivid blue eyes. He’d seen himself in the pronounced dimpled chin. The same chin that the Earl of Kipwick sported.
He’d been fifteen at the time, hauling the dustbin out of the iron trench near the servants’ entrance where it was kept. The duke—striding toward the stables, no doubt about to enjoy his morning ride—hadn’t even bothered to give the laborers who disposed of his rubbish a passing glance. Not a tip of his hat nor a “Good day to you.”
They were beneath him, not even worthy of being noticed.
He’d damned well notice Mick today or tomorrow or the day after. Whenever it was that he decided the reputation of his legitimate son was worth saving. He had no guarantee the man would heed his summons for a meeting today, but eventually he would come.
As the valet carefully scraped the razor over his jaw, Mick felt the cool air touch upon skin that he’d not seen in years. As soon as he’d begun to sprout facial hair, he’d set about hiding beneath dark whiskers what he considered a mark of his heritage. The duke hadn’t wanted him when he was born. He’d determined he’d gain nothing by approaching the man directly, since the scapegrace didn’t believe his own flesh and blood deserved to breathe London’s air and all but one of his missives for a meeting had gone unanswered.
Mick was fairly certain he wouldn’t want him now, but his plans would remove the duke’s wishes on the matter. He would be publicly acknowledged before the week was out. Then he would call upon Aslyn as a gentleman would and convince her that what had been done had been necessary if they were to have any future together.
As the dent in his square chin was revealed, he shifted his gaze to the bed, visible behind his reflection. It was still scented with gardenias mingled with the musky fragrance of sex. After he’d followed the marching Aslyn until she’d located a hansom—dear God, even when her fury was directed at him, she was magnificent—he’d returned here, stretched out on the bed and relived every moment he’d been in her company, from that first night in Cremorne to her standing in the hallway clad in his silk dressing gown. It had clung to her curves and thighs as though worshipping the flesh it had the honor of touching. He tormented himself by recalling every smile, every laugh, every tease, every look of want, every kiss. She’d claimed to hold affection for him, then she’d walked out on him.
Having experienced the wrath of her guardians not wanting to allow him entry into their residence, having seen their disgust at the thought of a bastard crossing their threshold, did she not understand that he would do anything, everything necessary to have his existence acknowledged?
She was angry now, hurt, but she would see that he was paving a future for them. That the price paid now would be worth the rewards. That it would all be worth it.
“As I understand it, he’s your bastard.”
“I have no bastard.”
Kipwick stood before his father’s desk as he had a thousand times in his life, fearful of disappointing him. “He seems to be under the illusion you do.”
The duke tapped his forefinger on the desk, all the while his gaze never leaving Kipwick. “Why approach you to arrange this meeting?”
He’d so hoped to avoid his father learning the truth, but there was no hope for it now. “I’ve gotten myself into a bit of a bother.”
His father arched one dark brow over startling blue eyes—a shade that so matched Mick Trewlove’s Kipwick realized in retrospect. Perhaps one of his father’s brothers had sired the man. Or he had nothing at all to do with anyone in the family. It wasn’t as though blue eyes were uncommon. He swallowed hard, clasped his hands behind his back until they ached. “I’ve been gambling of late. Ran into a spate of bad luck.”
“How bad?” It would be easier if his father would raise his voice, but he kept his tone flat.
“I lost all the properties and the funds you’d allotted for their upkeep.”
His father’s eyes slid closed.
He took a step nearer, even though his sire couldn’t see him. “He will see me ruined. If word gets out that I have lost all this, who will lend us money when it is needed? Who will find me trustworthy? Who will allow his daughter to marry me?”
The duke’s eyes sprung open. “You are betrothed to Aslyn.”
“He has turned her against me.”
“How the devil did he come to be in her company so he could influence her at all?”
“It’s a rather lengthy story.”
“Then I suggest you immediately get started on the telling of it.”
He had investments to analyze, a new business venture in need of partners and recently constructed buildings to walk through to ensure they met his standards. Yet he seemed incapable of focusing on what needed to be done, and instead continually stared at the contents of the box that had been waiting on his desk when he arrived: a pearl necklace, a comb, a parasol.
