His friend’s frank words slapped Cassian harder than the punch he had delivered to Whitmore.
“Inlove? Ben—are youmad? I haven’t fallen in love with her. What happened in that room was me defending a woman who could not defend herself, not the wayIcan.” He rubbed his face, “That night, Cecilia was…”
“Drunk?”
“Disheartened,” Cassian corrected. “With a hint of desperation. Can you imagine doing everything right, everything society told you to do, and still coming up short? I feel partially guilty for standing on the side while Whitmore played with her life.
“The moment she hit spinster age, he would shove her to the side and find a younger model, like he did—only this time, he didn’t have to find a dastardly way to tell her he was not going to marryher.” Cassian slumped in his seat while he examined his bruised knuckles. “Kissing me did that for him.”
Rubbing his face too, Ben said, “You know Whitmore will milk this to Judgement Day.”
“What other brush is there to paint me with?” Cassian shrugged. “They have me as every degenerate in the book. I hardly think a fistfight will worsen their opinion.”
“I can understand you trying to protect her reputation, but with you out of the spotlight, you might have given Whitmore the bigger stage to bellow out his Cheltenham Tragedy.”
Rubbing his knuckles, Cassian muttered, “I told him I had every reason to destroy him, and I will. When he is on his knees, he will be singing a new tune.”
Brows lowering, Ben asked, “What do you have in mind?”
“Whitmore has some loans to businesses that he does not knowIown,” Cassian pressed. “I will be calling them in, post haste.”
“I have never seen you so dedicated,” Ben gawked. “In your life. Back in there—” he jerked his head to the left, “—you looked like you wanted to take Whitmore’s head off with your bare hands.”
“And I will fulfill my promise to ruin him, just not with my fists,” Cassian promised darkly while he peeked out the window. “Where are we going?”
“My home,” Ben said. “I cannot, in good conscience, leave you to your devices so you can double back to the club and finish mauling Whitmore.”
Cassian snorted, “I am insulted that you think so little of me…” he paused. “But you are not wrong.”
“I’ll send you home tomorrow when you are not seething enough to cause a second London fire,” Ben sighed. “Meanwhile, I am going to prepare every defense in the book to stop Whitmore when he brings that claim against you.”
Wordlessly, Cassian rubbed his sore knuckles, “Are there any apothecaries open this late? I may need some cream.”
“I have balm at home,” Ben replied. “And bandages.”
Cocking a brow, Cassian wordlessly asked why. To that, Ben laughed, “You are not the only man here with a membership to Gentleman Jacks.”
“Cassian—” Cecilia walked into his bedroom, wondering why he was not at breakfast, only to find his room empty. Her lips pursed, “I hope you are not somewhere over a barrow drunk.”
She heard the door scrape open and turned to find one of Cassian’s hounds nosing at the door. The dog was the mottledbrown one, his dark eyes hardly as vicious as she once thought. It came to her and nosed at her hand.
Hesitatingly, she rubbed its ears and watched as he lumbered on to make circles on the rug before lying down near the slumbering fire.
“What does it feel like to be a Duke…” She circled Cassian’s desk, sat in his chair, felt the studded leather and faint whiff of his lingering spicy musk giving her a pleasant shiver.
She scanned the surface of the desk, which included a tray of writing implements and an ornate wax jack. Andrews had left a large stack of the day’s correspondence, and while she looked around, she spied a half-open drawer.
Curious, she pulled it out and spotted a worn book. That was odd. Did Cassian do remedial reading when he was not working?
As she dug out the book, a letter slid from the stack, the flowy, feminine handwriting catching her eye. After a moment, she set down the book and picked up the note.
The paper was creamy and thick but had yellow around the edge. The letter was addressed simply toCassian Fitzroy,with a return address in Verona, Italy.
Turning it over, she read its contents.
Tesoro mio
I write not to reproach, though Heaven knows my heart is heavy with the weight of all you once vowed and have since forsaken. I write because silence has become unbearable, and I must speak — if only to the paper I write on — lest I be consumed by the ache of what might have been.
