“Handle him,” she whispered her gentle command.
“I will,” he promised before turning back to Penwike.
Still, Victoria could not help but be wary when the doors to Richard’s study closed with a resounding click.
Inside the study, the air felt cold despite the fire in the hearth. The place was often Richard’s comfort, with the smell of books and cedar. However, today, he would be witnessing a scene that he had imagined in his head so many times. He had thought of this confrontation.
He and Penwike regarded each other with unmasked dislike. Richard did not even offer him a seat. They would have to have this conversation standing. He walked behind his desk, creating a boundary between them, and folded his arms across his chest.
“Speak, Penwike. I am listening,” he said. “However, make it brief.”
He noticed the slight change in his visitor’s demeanor. The slumped shoulders straightened. His chin lifted higher. His gaze was upon him, steady and direct. For a moment, he pointedly looked at the objects in the study: the maps, the inkstand and quill, and the sheets of paper on Richard’s desk.
“Hawksford, I believe you think you’ve won this battle,” Penwike began, voice dripping smooth. “With that one visit to the scandal sheet writer, you’ve managed to rebut my report and make me look like a liar, when you know better. You think that because I am being made out to be a liar, I would simply flee London or crawl into a hole. That’s where you are wrong.”
“It is mere justice, Penwike,” Richard replied calmly. “You have been ruined by nothing less than your own actions. I’ve provided the scandal sheets with evidence, but that is only one part of the puzzle. You’re the one who completed the picture by the wayyou’ve acted so far. This family feud has always commanded your life. It did not have to. It does not have to continue.”
Penwike paced, rubbing his chin as if he were thinking. Then he stopped to look at Richard with a menacing smile.
“The records,” he murmured. “There you go. What do you think they will say if they find out that their noble protector, a duke no less, forged the documents or bought the vicar’s obedience?”
“Believe what you like,” Richard said. “You and I both know what you did. It is what’s coloring your understanding of the situation—of what I did.”
The duke didn’t know what Penwike expected from the conversation, but he was not going to allow him to rile himself up.
“I believe your act is exhausting, Your Grace. You have been playing hero for a woman who married you for your estate. Does she love you at all, or is she merely here because she is nothing more than another Brighton gold digger from the Grisham house? I am certain you know what the ton thinks about that family. But oh, even your title and wealth cannot make her think fondly of you now that she knows she is nothing more than a titled nursemaid for your bastard. What an insult! Bringing another woman’s child for her to take care of!”
Richard remained silent even though his anger was beginning to simmer. His eyes remained on the troubled man in front of him. Penwike seemed like a man on a mission to make him snap.
Penwike’s smile faded, and he could see the barely hidden hatred beneath the surface. This time, he walked closer to Richard’s desk so that the two of them were directly face to face, merely separated by an arm’s length.
“So, why are you being so protective? Is it because you know it’s your fault she is tainted by association? You’ve found a woman desperate enough to wait for you for a whole year while you mess around with whores. Or what about the little gutter-rut in your nursery? She still smells of the narrow Soho slums. None of the silk, lace, and fancy linen can hide the fact that she comes from a whore. She is a parasite, leeching your home of everything good left in it. She will be a constant reminder of all your mistakes, particularly that one that has you pulling down your trousers.”
That was it.
Richard held on to the last of his patience. He could feel it draining from him.
“You’re a fool, Hawksford! You have ruined your life for a bastard and a woman who is nothing but a?—”
The duke made sure Penwike did not get to finish that sentence. His fist connected with the marquess’s jaw. He heard a crack but did not care. If he had to go to prison for this, so be it. He did not know how he was able to move to the side of the table, right in front of Penwike, in almost no time. Everything blurred.
His nemesis slammed against the bookshelf behind him. Leather volumes tumbled to the floor. Blood trickled from his mouth.
Richard rushed toward Penwike, standing over the fallen marquess. His chest was still heaving, and his bloodied knuckles stung, but he didn’t care. He had tried to keep his emotions at bay, but failed at the last moment.
Penwike did not cry out. He didn’t look defeated despite having been knocked down. He wiped the blood from his burst lip and gave Richard a terrifying grin. It looked like he got what he wanted. The conclusion belatedly buzzed in the duke’s head.
Then, without warning, Penwike grabbed the silver letter opener from Richard’s desk and, with a snarl, he used it to slash at Richard. Like with their past encounters, the duke was quick enough to duck. However, they were so close together, and the marquess had made a wholly unpredictable move. He ducked again, but it was not enough to avoid the silver tip grazing him. The sharp tip sliced through his shirt and cut the side of his abdomen. Richard roared from the pain and surprise. Anger bloomed with the blood on his side.
Before Penwike could make the cut deeper, Richard was able to muster enough strength to shove the marquess back. His attacker staggered and fell back from the force of the push, falling back onto the stack of books that were dislodged from their shelves earlier.
For a brief moment, Richard looked at the spreading stain on his shirt. The wound stung, but he did not think it was that deep for it to be fatal. He used the pain to fuel him into action.
Once both of them recovered, a scuffle ensued. Penwike still held on to the letter opener, slashing away like a madman. The stabs were futile and desperate, but he was just as dangerous with this uncertainty.
Richard parried each lunge, and at the closest one, he managed to grab Penwike’s wrist. He squeezed it hard and slammed it against the edge of the desk until the weapon clattered to the floor. The duke followed through with punches and jabs to Penwike’s ribs and jaw until he was able to pin the villain against the wall, gripping him by the throat.
“Look at you. You are a mere violent brute,” Penwike wheezed. Richard flinched at the crazed look on the marquess’ face: eyes bulging and dancing with glee, a smirk breaking through his features. “You didn’t see that, did you? You let me into your study, not thinking of the myriad of weapons inside it. I was close enough, wasn’t I? You hit me. You are larger than I, and my stabbing you is merely me acting in self-defense against a liar and a madman. Then, I would expose you for not only lying about your bastard but also about the forgery. They would declare me the hero!”
