The duke had recently wed Lady Jocelyn Rathbourne. Lucan had studied her as a possible weakness to exploit. One thing had been clearly apparent to him on the few occasions he had observed them together. The duke obviously adored the ground Lady Jocelyn walked upon. His eyes ate her every movement, and he looked on her with tenderness. It was not an expression Lucan associated with the man. Everything he knew of Calydon had come only via the written reports he’d commissioned. Yet the reports only spoke of Calydon’s ruthlessness, his undeniable wealth, his reclusiveness, his power, and the respect he enjoyed from his peers. Nothing indicated a man besotted with his wife.
Then Lucan discovered Calydon possessed a sister, one he adored. There had been a knee jerk reaction in Lucan’s gut, and he had known with icy clarity how he could execute his vengeance in the cruelest possible manner.
It would be a sister for a sister.
The debt to pay must be comparable to the crime. Only then would Calydon understand the nature of his punishment. Calydon would have mourned the ruination of his precious wife. But a sister—he would have wiped her tears, soothed her fears, been there for her from birth. That was how Lucan had been with Marissa. And he knew instinctively Lady Constance’s destruction would torment Calydon more. Lucan had resolved that Calydon must know what profound pain and sorrow felt like. And the depth of failure Lucan had felt when he had failed Marissa should be experienced by the man, measure for measure.
Conveniently, Lord Orwell had revealed his hatred for Lord Anthony Thornton, Calydon’s brother, because Anthony had foiled Orwell’s kidnapping of the lady he had been obsessed with—Lady Phillipa. Lucan had carefully stoked Orwell’s wrath and given him the task of finding anything he could about Calydon that could ruin him. Lucan had been both shocked and delighted when Orwell produced a letter the old Duke of Calydon had left his family lawyer, renouncing his two younger children as not being of his blood. It was the exact weapon Lucan had needed to win the war Calydon had not realized was being waged against him. Lucan had always been in the business of owning secrets and trading them. He had instantly recognized the value of the letter and had forgiven Orwell his debt in trade for it. Then Orwell had leaked the vile gossip, and Lucan sat back to watch the impact.
Surprisingly, Calydon had extended his considerable power to quash the rumors, making it known he would limit his business dealings to only those he could trust not to gossip about, or cut his illegitimate sister and brother. Annoying, but Lucan had finally found the chink in the man’s armor.
Lady Constance.
She had instantly become all important to Lucan. And he had kept the gossip about her alive and flourishing. For every step Calydon made to smooth out her reception in society, Lucan had thwarted it from the shadows.
“What are you thinking?” Ainsley asked now, at his prolonged silence.
Lucan was unable to peel his gaze from Lady Constance. He now clearly saw what he had not observed earlier. How isolated she was. The vivacity of the woman he had danced with in the conservatory had wilted. She did not feel herself to be part of the gathering. He had thought she was simply aloof, choosing to stay on the sidelines.
And yet, it spoke volumes that the few ladies he had danced with had not spoken about her. They should have been eager to gossip and malign her to any man willing to listen.
Lucan pushed out a breath. “No,” he answered at length, “I did not know who she was. No one mentioned her name to me tonight.”
“I do not think when a lady is with you they would want to bring Lady Constance to your attention. She is incredibly beautiful. She was considered the toast of the season last year. Did she not introduce herself?” Ainsley asked, curiosity rife in his voice, along with a hint of amusement. “Did she not know with whom she danced?”
Lucan frowned. The lady had clearly known who he was—she had referred to him as “Your Grace.” Yet, she had chosen to remain alone with him in the dark. His reputation was notorious. He fully understood he was a novelty to society, the object of their fascination and repulsion.
He, Ainsley, the Reverend, and Marcus Stone owned and operated one of the most exclusive—and infamous—gaming halls in London. He’d been told over and over that a duke could not own, let alone work in, a club. It was simply not done. He did not care. He had owned it before the title was conferred upon him, and he was not about to disown it merely to please society. It offended many that a gentleman’s club of such notoriety even existed on St. James Street only a few blocks from White’s, but they had all still clamored to join. Because he offered them vice, gambling, music, scandalous dancing women, and the freedom to put on a mask and be themselves in an exclusive club that catered only to the haute monde and the gentry’s wealthiest.