Chapter Thirty-Four
Inspector Liam Ashton
The streets were nearly empty by the time I finished work for the day. I still couldn’t believe that Moran was a duke. Betrayal hit me so hard, I could hardly believe what I had learned.Hewas a duke. All these years he never had the courtesy to tell me anything about his lineage. While I’d ranted and raved against the aristocracy, he had secretly been a member. I didn’t know him anymore. The same could be said about Birdie. Both had hidden their true identities from me. Unlike Birdie, whose motivation I could at least understand, Moran had no excuse.
I entered the alley to the back entrance of the building, determined to give him a piece of my mind. Was he even here or had he moved to the ducal residence in Mayfair? As a duke, he had a full staff that could relocate him in a trice. Except Moran had often boasted that buying this building had been one the best days of his life. Well, the Moran I knew did. Influence often changed a man and since he was a duke, he would wield almost absolute power.
It was late and the door was locked. I used my key to open it, still not sure what I would say to him. Anger and hurt warred for supremacy inside my head. As I took the stairs, the building felt abandoned, or perhaps that was me projecting my own turmoil. The steps creaked under my weight.
A dullthump, thump, thump, greeted me from the office floor, golden light spilling out under the door. He was boxing, of course. Ever since my father introduced him to the sport, he used it as an outlet when he was upset. While I shouldn’t wish my friend to be upset, the petty part of me did.
Key in hand, I fitted it into the office door lock, my pulse racing with dread and indignation. A sea of white papers was strewn all over the office, the bookshelves empty save a few volumes. The sight caught me up short and I shook my head at the devastation. This was unacceptable behavior by my fellow officers and I would have words with them.
Moran stood behind the punching bag, his head down. The sight of him half naked and slick with sweat from his efforts would normally have sparked my blood, but I couldn’t get past my fury with him. When I arrived at the station with Birdie and Humphrey, Moran was in the jail cell, and CSI Stark’s clerk informed me that I was not allowed to visit him. It had eaten me up inside, but I also remembered Moran’s warning that if he were ever incarcerated, he didn’t want me to get into trouble either. Not intervening was cowardly on my part, but after his identity as a duke was disclosed, he was released.
His very presence at the station and the alleged charges brought against him had been the talk of the department, along with Birdie’s rather exuberant greeting for him. There was still the matter of her lies to Moran, although he had proven himself to be a liar as well.
“I thought I might find you here.” I strode to his side, my eyes locked on him. A hundred words swirled around in my mind; however, each comment I wanted to make didn’t seem powerful enough.
He glanced up and rubbed a gloved hand over his tired face, a shadow of a beard on his jaw. “Ash.”
“Moran. Or should I say the Duke of Moreland?” I went to the cabinet and poured myself a scotch, needing the fortification. Glancing over my shoulder at him, I continued, “Or perhaps you prefer Your Grace, or Lord Tobias. Tell me, what do I call you now?”
“I’ll take one of those as well.” Moran removed his gloves and left his place by the bag, his footsteps quiet on the carpet. He intentionally avoided my question, which annoyed me to no end.
The scent of soap and effort clung to him, and in another time, I would have turned and slipped my arms around his waist. It was a testament to my upset that I had no desire to even attempt a flirtation. I handed him the scotch, chugging down one for myself before pouring another shot, welcoming the liquor’s bite.
Moran took a seat at his desk, every muscle in his torso defined. He leaned back and studied the glass for a long moment. Tension lay heavily between us, broken by the ticking of the clock.
“I am sorry that you had to find out that way.” Moran rolled his glass between his palms, moisture dripping down his neck from his sweat-dampened hair.
“Or at all?” I filled in the blank in his statement. Betrayal continued to fire my blood and not positively. I wanted to shout at him, my trust in him cut deep.
“Or at all.” He leaned forward, his elbows on his desk, the glass dangling between his fingers. Resignation filled his eyes, along with regret. “The moment my uncle disowned my father, I vowed to leave that part of my life behind.”
“Yet your past found you.” I started to pace but slipped on some papers. Staring down at them, I resisted the urge to pick them up. Every word on those pages was from the imagination of some very talented authors, myself included and it felt sacrilegious to leave them unattended. Moran had allowed themto come to life from sheer determination. He was no longer that man. “You still haven’t answered my question. What do I call you now that you’re a duke?”
“What you have always called me.” A scowl twisted his lips as he sipped at the golden liquid, his knuckles white. The veins under his skin were prominent from his workout. “I am not accepting the title, so all of this is a moot point. I am sorry I didn’t say anything sooner but frankly, it isn’t who I am.”
“That is beyond idiotic.” I gulped the scotch, frustration warring with my need to wash my hands of him. “The title is the only thing keeping you from Newgate.”
“You hate titles. You claim the aristocracy is the root of all evil. I happen to agree.” Eyes closed, pain radiated from him. He waved a hand around the office. “Nothing good ever came of having a class system. I was doing fine without it before and I will do so again.”
“Spoken like an arrogant prat.” I rocked back and forth on my heels, my mood soured by everything that had happened in the past few days. “If you give up your title, what will happen to everyone else involved with the publishing house? Birdie, Timmy, and Mrs. Paul, the typesetters—all of them handled those manuscripts at one time or another.”
Moran sat upright, the chair nearly toppling over. He gripped the desktop to right himself, the grimace more pronounced. “From what Stark assured me, the charges against the publishing house have been dropped. As for Birdie, I asked for her hand and she said no.”
“You proposed?” I stopped rocking and my drink nearly sloshed over my hand. He had been reluctant to pursue Birdie for whatever stupid reason.
“She turned me down after we got in a row about her virginity.” With a black look, he arched his neck, rolling back his shoulders. Chagrin oozed from him, along with accusation. Chinlifted, he continued to stare at me, his contrite expression gone. “Of course you knew that and yet you didn’t say anything.”
I glared back, my anger still right under the surface of my calm. “It wasn’t my news to share. Just like you didn’t think to share your news with me until I found out by accident. What kind of prat does that to his friends?”
“I understand your anger.” With a grim twist to his lips, he exhaled a low breath. Sadness, along with hurt rested in his eyes. He lowered his lashes for a brief second before opening them once more. “And I am truly sorry it came to this.”
