“Grayson!” his father called. “Grayson, let me help!”
But his words faded in the distance Grayson’s stride quickly put between them.
“Willems!” Grayson said, bursting into his room. “I need to look smart. Quickly.”
“What is the occasion, my lord?”
“I’m visiting the duke. We’re going to have a little chat.”
He had no idea how he would convince the man to call off his wife’s planned assault of Henrietta’s reputation and her family’s livelihood. And argument construction seemed impossible with his brain wholly preoccupied by everything his father had said. He didn’t care if Grayson married Henrietta. He seemed to care only that Grayson not abandon his responsibilities.
And he didn’t ask much. Grayson didn’t want to abandon his responsibilities either. He poured himself a glass of whiskey and propped against the window while Willems set out clothing. Below him, the front door opened and his father, in top hat and great coat, stepped out. He pulled the coat close around him and hurried away from the house. Where did he go? His club most likely. He’d want to immerse himself in a dignified atmosphere after Grayson’s explicit show of emotion downstairs.
Grayson chuckled, but focused on the pulsing desire to act brewing within him. Before the last year, he would have jumped onto Trott and blindly set out to fix whatever problem baffled him, but he’d learned that careful planning had benefits. Valingford was not a man to be underestimated. Grayson would find the perfect approach to convince such a man to give in, so when Grayson next visited Henrietta, he could give her the good news: he’d guaranteed their future together.
“Change of plan, Willems,” he said, setting the tumbler down. “I’ll not be visiting his grace yet. First, a visit with an ex-friend.”
No one planned and plotted better than Tobias Blake. He needed to join forces with his enemy.
Chapter 22
The Duke of Valingford was having a very bad evening. And the fault could and would be laid directly at the feet of that disrespectful young pup, Lord Rigsby. If not for the boy’s roaming nether regions, Valingford would be spending his evening as he always did, agonizing over account ledgers that never added up the way he needed them to, not confronting an earl.
An inconveniently wealthy earl, too. Loads of money, that one. And the duke’s line currently needed money. A filthy business, money, but necessary. The age of your title mattered little without it. And though the Earl of Bennington bore a title considerably younger than the Valingford title, and had less influence in Parliament, he had enough funds, provided by his son in trade, to do exactly as he now threated to do—destroy the Duke of Valingford.
Bennington’s body thrummed with energy and his eyes burned with some desire or other, likely the desire to harm him. Rage—what a plebeian emotion.
“Lord Bennington, I understand your concerns but—”
The door to the study burst open. “Let me in!” the intruder shouted, shoving Valingford’s footman. “I’ll see him now, his wishes be damned.” The Duke of Devonmere also had violence in his eyes.
Valingford shooed the footman away. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your uncharacteristically volatile presence, Your Grace?”
The other duke straightened his cravat, moderated his tone. “I know we had an agreement, Valingford, but nothing was in writing, nothing signed. If you or your wife speak a word out of line about my son and future daughter-in-law, I will see you tried for slander.”
The old earl swung a disbelieving gaze toward the newcomer. “Bravo, Devonmere!”
The other duke blinked at the earl, seeing him for the first time. “Oh, you’re here, too. Well, good. No reason not to have an all.”
The earl nodded sharply, turning back to Valingford. “And don’t think we don’t have the money to combat you. My son, you know, Miss Blake’s father, is one of the wealthiest men in England, possibly Europe. Our money has further reach than your title.”
Ah. The old man understood the heart of the matter. Valingford stood and walked around the desk. He’d not stood from his desk when the other two men had entered. Why? They were, usually, beneath his notice, their bank accounts their only worthy qualities. But one did not stay seated in the presence of such threats. “Sit, please,” he instructed the duke and the earl. Better to have the height advantage.
“I think I’ll stand,” said the duke.
“I don’t plan on staying long enough to sit,” said the earl.
Fine. Valingford could grasp the upper hand without a height advantage. He allowed his chin to tilt forward an inch, the only acknowledgement the two men would get that he ceded to their wishes. “Let me see if I understand. Your son”—he whipped his gaze toward the other duke—“is throwing over my daughter in order to marry another woman, and your granddaughter”—he swung his gaze toward the old earl—“slept with a man out of wedlock.”
The earl tensed. His fists clenched. Fascinating. Hot blood ran in the Earl of Bennington’s family. How puerile. No wonder half the family had turned to trade.
The other duke put a constraining hand on the earl’s shoulder. A united front.
If Valingford was prone to laughter, he would have laughed then. “And yet I’m being branded the villain here? Name my crime. Gossip? A woman’s game.” He turned from them. They bored him. “And is it gossip if it’s the truth?” He shrugged. “Your granddaughter is a whore, Bennington. There’s no harm in others knowing it. In fact, they have a right to know.”
A hand gripped his shoulder and swung him around. A fist connected with his nose. Pain exploded. He heard a crack. The bloody fool had broken his nose! Valingford blinked and pushed down a tide of emotion. Three controlled breaths steadied him, returned him to normal. Bennington had a strong right jab for an old man.
Valingford shook his head and made sure his hair remained smooth, then reached a hand up to the cold spot on his upper lip. Blood. It tasted metallic. “Brutish behavior is uncalled for.”