Stafford chuckled lowly. “Ah, but you must look. For if you do not sign, Catherine will be delivered back to her charming Aunt and Uncle. And from there, well… there are places in the north where a girl might vanish without trace. Her inheritance will be quite sufficient to keep her well hidden. She will never be found. Not by you, anyway.”
Gideon’s rage wavered, tempered by calculation. The words were plausible. Her relatives had already tried to trap her—Stafford would happily profit from it.
But then he glanced at McKay’s expression.
It was tight, uneasy. Another man would not have been able to see it, would have seen only military self-control. But Gideon knew Mr. Harold Fraser McKay, knew the subtleties of his expression. That was the truth. McKay’s loyalty was twisted, yes, but not corrupt. The butler was still a soldier, with a soldier’s honor. He would not allow Stafford’s kind of cruelty.
Gideon forced himself to unclench his hands. He nodded slowly. “Very well. Let us talk in the study.”
Stafford smirked, gesturing grandly. “This way.”
A woman stepped out of a doorway and stopped, clearly surprised at the group. She was a plain, stern woman with sharp eyes that missed nothing. Her gaze fell on Gideon, and her lips tightened.
“So…” she said coldly, “you are the brother? The brute. I am Meredith Chalmers, His Grace’s personal assistant and…”
Gideon ignored the barb and the rest of her words. “Where is Catherine?”
“She is not here,” Meredith said curtly. “And if she were, I would not entrust her to you. You reek of violence, sir.”
Gideon shut his eyelids and bit back his retort. If he gave his anger rein, he would only prove her right. He inclined his head stiffly and followed Stafford into the study.
McKay entered the room and spread the papers on the desk. Gideon sat, picked up the pen, and dipped it into a waiting pot of ink. He took care to read each line, Stafford showing increasing impatience.
There is no way out. If this keeps Catherine safe, then it is a price I would pay ten times over.
He signed.
Stafford’s smile stretched wide with triumph. He snatched the papers and tucked them under his arm.
“Excellent! A toast, then. To victory!”
As he turned toward the sideboard, McKay leaned closer to Gideon, his voice a low hiss.
“It is a subterfuge. She is not in his power.”
It was a break in the butler’s Spartan self-control, the need to do the honorable thing overwhelming whatever orders he had been given. Perhaps, his master had ordered him to obey Stafford in all things. But McKay’s personal honor was affronted, and he could not blindly obey.
Gideon’s blood surged.
He rose as Stafford returned, brandy in hand.
In a heartbeat, Gideon struck. He lunged across the room and seized Stafford by the throat.
The brandy bottle smashed to the floor, spilling its contents.
Stafford let out a strangled cry as Gideon hurled him against the desk, scattering papers and ink.
All control was gone at the smug smirk that had been plastered across Stafford’s face. The red mist was thick, opaque. He could see nothing but the man who had tried to steal what belonged to him. Tried to make him a fool!
“You bastard!” Gideon roared.
He tightened his grip, throttling the older man as furniture splintered beneath them. Stafford clawed at his wrists, his face purple. Gideon lifted him bodily and flung him into the bookcase.
“Where is she?” he bellowed, “Tell me!”
The door burst open. Meredith rushed in, her face pale.
“Enough!” she cried. “Do you hear yourself? You are proving everything Aaron said of you! You are no Duke—you are a brute, a beast unfit to protect any woman! Unhand him!”
