Lockwood’s mind whirled. “I’ll send someone to Ireland immediately.” He raised his glass in a mocking toast. “To Lord Lucien Furoe and the house of cards he’s built around himself. May it collapse spectacularly.”
Mrs. Bellamy’s body hummed too. She’d survived in her business by knowing when to speak and when to remain silent. And something in Lockwood’s eyes tonight—a merciless gleam, cold as winter—suggested silence was the wiser course. She would bide her time and get what she wanted from Lockwood when she found out how much he received for this knowledge. Alternatively, she could do some blackmailing of her own.
Kitty, however, could not contain herself. “What are you planning, my lord? I don’t want Ava’s child harmed. Whatever Ava did, the girl is innocent.”
“Innocent?” Lockwood repeated, the word twisting on his tongue as if it were foreign. “No one is innocent, my dear. We’re all tainted by the circumstances of our birth, the choices of our parents.” He leaned forward, his voice dropping to an intimate murmur. “But don’t fret. I won’t harm the child…physically. I’llsimply ensure that society knows exactly who—and what—she is, if I have to. But I believe Furoe will pay to keep her secret.”
“That’s cruel,” Kitty whispered.
“That’s justice,” Lockwood said, correcting her. “His justice, for what he’s done to me.” His eyes gleamed with unholy satisfaction. “And when I’m finished, when the mighty Viscount Furoe is brought low by his own deception, when his precious daughter bears the stain of illegitimacy that no amount of wealth or privilege can erase…then perhaps he’ll understand the cost of humiliating Baron Lockwood.”
He drained his glass in one fluid motion, setting it down with a decisive click. “Now, Kitty, I’ll need you to write down everything you remember about Ava and this gentleman she claimed as her husband. Every detail, no matter how small.”
Glancing briefly at Mrs. Bellamy, Kitty said, “I can’t write, Baron.”
Lockwood merely grunted. “Then I’ll get my lawyer to draft up a note that you can leave your mark on.”
Kitty looked even more uncomfortable. She jumped to her feet. “I must depart, Mrs. Bellamy. You won’t see me here again—I hope. Good day, Baron Lockwood.”
Once Kitty had left, Mrs. Bellamy watched Lockwood with growing unease. She’d seen many men consumed by revenge during her years in the demimonde. Noblemen, merchants, soldiers, all twisted by their thirst for retribution. Few ever found the satisfaction they sought, and many destroyed themselves in the process.
But Lockwood…there was something different about him. A cold calculation beneath the veneer of wounded pride. A patience that boded ill for young Lord Furoe and his little family. Lockwood would find a way to line his pockets with this information. Appeasing his wounded pride would always be secondary to money because the baron needed coin more thanpride. And she intended to get her fair share of whatever the baron earned from this information she’d help reveal.
Or perhaps there was another way. Perhaps she should call on Lord Furoe.
Chapter Eight
Lucien adjusted hiscravat for the third time, studying his reflection in the glass of Lord Rockwell Ware’s ballroom windows. The evening’s celebrations were in full swing—a grand affair to mark Rockwell and Farah’s wedding. The gentle strains of a Mozart piece floated through the air as couples swirled across the polished floor, their movements elegant and practiced. Candlelight glimmered off crystal chandeliers, casting a warm glow over the assembled cream of society.
He should have been elated. After all, his plan had worked to perfection. Rockwell had finally come to his senses when faced with the possibility of losing Farah to another man—even if that man had been Lucien himself. The scene played out in his mind like a theatrical production: Rockwell storming into Danvers House the morning after the ball, practically frothing at the mouth, demanding to know what Lucien thought he was doing by proposing to Farah.
“You don’t even love her,” Rockwell had snarled, pacing the library like a caged beast.
“Perhaps not,” Lucien had replied coolly, leaning against the mantelpiece. “But I care for her deeply, and I’ll give her the security and position she deserves. Which is more than you’re offering at present.”
Rockwell had looked as if Lucien had struck him. “You know why I can’t—”
“Can’t what? Love her? Because that’s patently false. Can’t marry her? Why not? Because you’re afraid she’ll be lonely while you sail the world? Have you asked what she wants, or are you making that decision for her too? Or is it that you are too scared to face what it is you really want?”
It had been a calculated strike, designed to pierce Rockwell’s armor of noble self-sacrifice. And it had worked spectacularly. Within days, Rockwell had proposed properly to Farah, offering her not just his heart but a partnership. Farah had accepted with tears and laughter, and Lucien had been graciously released from his “engagement” with minimal damage to anyone’s reputation. After all, society always swooned over a love story.
So yes, he should have been elated. His friend was married to the woman he loved. The scandal had been contained. And most importantly, Lucien was now free to pursue Courtney without complications or divided loyalties.
Yet as he scanned the ballroom, searching for her auburn hair among the crowd, he couldn’t quell the restlessness churning in his gut. Or was it fear? The fear that his motives were not honorable, driven by his need to save his family. Or the fear he wasn’t good enough for her? Or the fear that she would demand more than his heart could give?
“Admiring yourself, brother?” Lauren appeared at his side, resplendent in a new gown of pale blue silk—a gift from Lucien after he’d finally gained control of the family finances and paid off the most pressing debts. “Or plotting your next social catastrophe?”
Lucien smiled despite himself. “I believe I’ve met my quota of scandals for the season.”
“Pity. I was just getting used to them.” She followed his gaze across the ballroom. “She hasn’t arrived yet.”
“Who?” he asked, feigning ignorance.
Lauren raised an eyebrow. “Cinderella? Who do you think? Courtney, of course.”
“Ah.” He tugged at his cuffs, aiming for nonchalance. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“Of course not. That’s why you’ve been watching the door like a hawk for the past half-hour.” She patted his arm. “She’ll come. Tarquin promised he’d escort her.”
