Her teary eyes locked onto his, and Raph regretted his coldness towards her.
She stepped back. “You’re insufferable,” she whispered, though her eyes lingered on his mouth a moment too long. “Are you like this with every woman you corner in a library?”
“Only the ones who challenge me,” he murmured, his gaze darkening as he brushed a stray lock of hair from her shoulder. His fingers lingered just a heartbeat longer than necessary. “And you, my future wife, are proving to be quite the challenge.”
CHAPTER 10
“Lord Montague’s dealings are as crooked as a river bend, Your Grace,” Mr. Harrow, Raph’s solicitor, said.
The elderly man leaned over his cluttered desk, his spectacles glinting in the lamplight.
“The man’s a fraud, plain and simple. He orchestrates rigged card games to fleece his opponents—gentlemen of means, mostly. I’ve secured a testimony from a club owner who’s seen it all, willing to swear to it in court.”
Raph’s eyes narrowed, his fingers drumming lightly on the arm of his chair. “And the cost to see him gone?”
Harrow adjusted his spectacles, a sly smile tugging at his lips. “A small sum, Your Grace. A few well-placed payments to the right hands, and Montague’s reputation will crumble faster than a house of cards. He’ll be out of London by spring.”
“Interesting,” Raph said calmly. “We can bury him under his own schemes.”
Harrow nodded, scribbling a note. “Consider it arranged when you are ready, Your Grace.”
“Thank you, Harrow.”
“It is always a pleasure, Your Grace.”
Raph rose, adjusting his coat, and strode out into the evening chill.
The gentlemen’s club, a haven of cigar smoke and clinking glasses, was only a short walk away. He entered, the familiar hum of conversation and laughter enveloping him as he made his way to a secluded corner table and ordered a drink promptly after being seated.
“Raph, darling,” came a sultry voice just as his brandy arrived. Wendy, clad in a daringly low-cut gown, glided towards him, her eyes alight with expectation. “It’s been too long.”
He regarded her coolly, his expression unyielding. “Wendy, I’m afraid our acquaintance has reached its end.”
Her smile faltered, her hand pausing mid-air. “What’s this? Surely you don’t mean?—”
“I do,” he cut in. “I’m to be married. My attentions are elsewhere now.”
“You’re getting married?” Wendy’s sharp voice cut through the smoky haze of the gentlemen’s club.
She leaned against the velvet-draped wall of the private parlor, glaring at him and tapping her foot furiously against the wooden floor.
“Who is this woman, Your Grace?”
Raph swirled the brandy in his glass; the amber liquid caught the dim light of the chandelier.
She’s not pleased, but I expected as much.
“She’s none of your concern,” he replied smoothly, though his grip on the glass tightened. “This is the way it must be, Wendy.”
She hovered over him, her perfume heavy and cloying, and her voice dropped to a sultry purr. “You’ll miss me, Your Grace. Your wife won’t know you as I do. She won’t know how to please you. How to accept your discipline when she’s been a bad girl.”
Raph met her green eyes with his icy ones. “Enough, Wendy. I’ve made my decision. You’ll be compensated for your… discretion.”
She huffed and planted her hands on her hips, but before she could speak, the parlor door swung open, and Lord Montague strode in, his face a mask of barely contained irritation.
Of course, he’s here. The man slinks about like a rat, always sniffing out trouble.
“Your Grace.” Lord Montague’s tone dripped with false civility when he spotted Raph. He strode towards him as he adjusted his cravat. “I didn’t expect to find you here. Drowning your sorrows after your heroics?”
