The Wicked Ways of a Duke(31)

He and Weston found Feathergill in one of the reading rooms of the club, scanning that day’s issue of the Times, a bottle of port on the table beside his chair and a glass of the wine in his hand. Wes paused beside the chair and made a surprised exclamation. “By Jove, it’s Feathergill! Haven’t seen you in ages.”

“Lord Weston.” Feathergill, a portly man of middle age, set aside his port and stood up, folding his newspaper into one hand so he might shake hands with the other. “Last we met, my lord, I believe we were both at that horse auction in Haywards Heath.”

“Ah, yes, looking at that chestnut filly. Did you buy her?”

Feathergill shook his head. “She went far too high for my purse.”

“Pity. She was a pretty thing.” He turned, gesturing to Rhys. “Do you know my friend, the Duke of St. Cyres?”

All the friendliness went out of the older man’s face, and his expression became a mask of frozen civility. “How do you do,” he murmured with a stiff bow.

Rhys reciprocated, though his bow was much more relaxed. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance at last, Mr. Feathergill,” he said as he straightened.

“At last, Your Grace?”

“I met your niece, your wife, and your cousins at the opera not long ago, but I did not have the pleasure of seeing you there.”

“Yes, yes, I…um…my wife told me. I believe it was during intermission. I was in the smoking room, I think.”

An awkward silence fell over the circle for a moment, then Rhys spoke again. “Did you enjoy the champagne?”

“Er…yes, yes, we did. Deuced fine, it was.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” He paused, then said, “It’s such a fortuitous thing, encountering you here, Mr. Feathergill. I’ve been meaning to make your acquaintance, for there is a matter of business I should like to discuss with you.”

The frozen mask became even stiffer, if that was possible. “I cannot imagine what you and I would have to discuss, Your Grace.”

“It is a matter of great concern to us both, I assure you.”

In the pause that followed, Weston cleared his throat. “Well, I must be off,” he said, clapping Rhys on the shoulder. “My whist game is about to begin. Gentlemen, forgive me?”

His task accomplished, Weston bowed and departed, leaving the two men alone.

Rhys gestured to the chairs nearby. “Shall we?”

Feathergill sat down again with obvious reluctance. Rhys took the chair opposite, but before he could bring up the issue of Prudence, Feathergill did it for him.

“I can guess what it is you wish to discuss with me, Your Grace,” the older man said, dropping his newspaper to the floor beside his chair.

“Indeed? How perspicacious you are.”

“You wish to court my niece.”

“Court her?” Rhys gave a pleasant laugh. “My dear fellow, you are rather behind the times. The courtship is over, and we are engaged to be married.”

“What?”

Feathergill’s outraged exclamation caused several other men in the club to turn their heads in disapproving surprise, and some made hushing sounds of admonishment.

The squire swallowed hard and lowered his voice. “You cannot possibly be engaged to her. You are already engaged to Lady Alberta Denville.”

“I don’t believe any such engagement has been officially announced.”

“Yes, but…but Prudence is to marry her cousin, Sir Robert Ogilvie.”

“Oh, dear.” Rhys donned an air of perplexity. “I fear you, and possibly Sir Robert as well, are under a misapprehension. Miss Abernathy gave her consent to marry me not two hours ago. I suppose I should have asked your permission to court her first and all that, old chap,” he said, giving the old man a look of apology, “but I fear that she and I were carried away by the spontaneity of the moment.”

“Spontaneity, my eye! You’re after her money, but if you think you will receive one penny of my niece’s inheritance, you are the one laboring under a misapprehension!” Feathergill was growing quite red in the face, though he did manage to keep his voice down. “You are a fortune hunter, sir, and your past conduct demonstrates a disgusting lack of moral restraint. I know all about you, and I will be sure Prudence knows all about you as well. Once I have made your notorious exploits clear to her, she will certainly change her mind and break the engagement.”

“My exploits?” Rhys leaned back in his chair, smiling, pretending to be relaxed, though his entire future hung in the balance. “And which of them shall you reveal? That I am in need of money? She knows that. That I have had numerous liaisons with women? She knows that, too. That I am a scoundrel? I have admitted that to her myself. She knows all those things, and yet, she still wants to marry me. Astonishing, but there it is. Love is blind, they say.”

“No, no, no.” Feathergill shook his head back and forth in violent denial. “Even if what you say is true, it hardly signifies, for I refuse to give my consent.”

“I’m sorry you oppose the match, but fortunately, your niece is past twenty-one. We do not require your consent.”

The older man stirred in his chair, keeping his emotions in check with an effort. Rhys waited with an air of patient gravity as Feathergill worked to suppress his anger and think of how to proceed.

“My consent may not be necessary,” he said after a moment, “but to marry her and gain her inheritance, you do need the consent of the trustees.” He nodded several times and his expression became more confident. “They will never approve the match.”

Rhys made a derisive sound. “Do you really think they would dare oppose a duke?”

“Your rank will not impress them overmuch once they are informed of your sordid family skeletons.”

Rhys was glad he’d learned long ago how to act as if he didn’t give a damn. He tensed, but his smile stayed in place. “God, man, if every marriage were opposed because of family skeletons, no peer would ever wed, and the entire British aristocracy would die out. The trustees of Miss Abernathy’s estate could hardly oppose our marriage on such trivial grounds.”

“Trivial, you say? Is it trivial, sir, that your uncle shot himself to avoid financial ruin and your brother hanged himself at school? That your mother has had more lovers than a Whitechapel whore? That your father had the cocaine habit and died as a result? Suicide and vice run in your family.”

At the mention of Thomas, Rhys’s smile vanished, but his voice remained cool and nonchalant, with all the well-bred disdain worthy of his position. “You seem to have made quite a study of the De Winter family tree.”

“And a weak, sickly tree it is. The moment I learned you were sniffing about my niece, I made inquiries. As a result, I am quite well-informed about you.”

Though he seemed to have the facts straight about Rhys’s parents, he wasn’t well-informed enough to know the true reason Thomas had chosen to tie a rope around his neck and take a leap from the stair banister in his school dormitory two days before his return to Winter Park for the summer holidays. Thank God that was still a secret. “My, my, how forward thinking you’ve been to go about finding these things out,” he drawled with mockery. “My hat’s off to you.”

Feathergill refilled his glass from the bottle on the table beside him, his hand shaking. “I shall see that the trustees are told everything about you and your family,” he said, and took a swallow of port. “By the time I’ve finished, they will know all your sordid little secrets.”

“Ah, but what of your sordid little secrets?” Rhys countered, his voice soft and suddenly dangerous.

Feathergill set his glass on the table with a thud. “What do you mean?”

Rhys pulled a folded letter from the breast pocket of his jacket, giving the squire a look of pity. “You didn’t think you were the only one making inquiries, did you?”

“Pinkerton’s is an amazing institution,” Rhys said, watching the other man’s florid face turn pale as he unfolded the document in his hand. “They can find out the most intimate details of a man’s life.”

Feathergill licked his lips. “Pinkerton’s?”

“Mmm…yes,” Rhys murmured, glancing through the papers. “I haven’t a clue how you learned about my family history, but I can tell you that I’ve had a man following you for nearly a week. He’s also been digging into your past.” He looked up, smiling. “Does your wife know how often you visit Mrs. Dryer’s establishment? That brothel caters to a very specific clientele, I believe.”

The other man was now sweating profusely. “I—I—”

Rhys winked, putting on his best jovial, man-of-the-world air. “Tying up young girls and spanking them?” he murmured with a grin. “How naughty of you, Feathergill.”

He tilted his head, and his grin vanished. He leaned forward, moving in for the kill. “What would happen, d’you suppose, if your wife, your daughters, your friends and acquaintances were to learn of your…umm…interesting proclivities?” He tapped the letter thoughtfully against his palm. “I wonder how Edith would feel to know that while she’s been pinching pennies and worrying about how to afford beef fillet for Sunday dinner, you’ve been coming up from Sussex every month to spend what little money you can manage to scrape together on lascivious games with prostitutes. Tell me, how do you explain these trips to town? Business matters, I suppose?”