Weston returned with the tray of piping hot coffee before taking his leave. Dorian knew he was going to oversee the whist table, the table Carrington’s men always gravitated to when he visited.
“The stables,” Sterling began. “I am buying them.”
Dorian scoffed. “The hell you are. Harcourt and I have a gentleman’s agreement.”
“It is already broken,” the other man smirked. “Diversification. Ever heard of it? When I get that business into my fold, it will shore up my drying accounts. I will be as rich as Croesus again.”
“Not if I have anything to do with it,” Dorian promised him in a clipped, cold tone. Ignoring the coffee, he leaned forward and placed both palms flat on the table. “I would tear that empire down, brick by brick with my bare hands before I let you get your grubby hands on it.”
Dorian knew he should have kept his head about him, kept his demeanor calm and collected as he always did when it came to dealing with Sterling. This time, with the troubles at home blistering under his breastbone and the headache pounding at the back of his skull, he’d thrown caution to the wind.
Carrington’s smarmy smile sickened Dorian. “So passionate. I am surprised you’ve allowed me to see you this way.”
Gritting his teeth, Dorian sprang across the room and snatched a bottle of whisky from the dry bar. Making his coffee, Dorian poured more whisky into his cup than cream. “I will fight you on this.”
“Of course you will,” Carrington replied. “I wouldn’t expect anything else from you. But I do wonder why you are so determined to buy this horse breeding business.”
Settling into his chair, Dorian gave him a flat eye, his tone mocking. “The same as you.Diversification.”
Carrington made a cup and sipped it. “And here I think it’s because you want to go above and beyond for your beloved and give her a grand wedding gift. A horse-breeding business is dirty, Beaumont, not something I think is exactly your style in financial ventures.”
“You know nothing of what I want,” Dorian spat.
Leaning in, Carrington's knowing expression made Dorian feel queasy. He looked like a man who had the king trapped on the chessboard and had one move left to make—checkmate.
“I now wonder if your pure, innocent new bride knows of your past. Yourtruepast. The dirty, bloody past you’ve tried to hide behind your tailored clothes, private tutors, and fancy elocution lessons,” Sterling goaded him. “Do you remember the pits, boy? Do you remember the night you bartered for your freedom?”
Dorian snapped. “Stop your bloody yammering! Yer a pox-ridden bastard and I pray for the day ye’ cock up yer toes.”
Satisfaction painted Carrington’s face. “And there it is. Therealyou. The boy who was raised in the streets and rubbed elbows with cutthroats. The lady is too good for the likes of you, and you know it. Behind all this proper posturing, you know deep down you are still the very same gutter-rat from those old days.”
The older man pushed the coffee aside and reached for the bottle of whisky, put the bottle to his mouth, and took two hefty gulps. After slamming the bottle back to the table, he stood. “This game of charades you are playing will come to an end soon,Beaumont.” Tugging his jacket down, he smirked. “Watch your back, boy—and for that matter, watch hers too.”
The moment the door closed behind his back, Dorian flung the bottle of whisky into the wall, not so much as wincing when the glass shattered like a gunshot. He sank to his chair and pressed the heel of his palm to his left eye.
“Just as I think things cannot go from bad to worse…” he groaned.
Weston, as astute as he was, appeared moments later at the sound of the harsh noise, took a look at the glass on the floor and the liquid dripping from the walls, and fixed his glasses.
Dorian pulled his hand from his face, stood, crossed the room, and pulled a bag out of a cabinet. “Send for my carriage. Tell the driver I am bound for Gentleman Jack’s.”
Ellie could not feel lost any more than if she were in a paddleboat in the middle of the ocean while using a dessert spoon as an oar. She had paced her room until the walls felt as if they were closing in on her, and from there, she’d left to the sitting room.
“What can I do to fix this…” she wondered aloud. “Is there any way this can be fixed at all?”
Since Dorian would not listen to Benedict or try to open his mind and do away with his old beliefs about his betrayal, the only solution would be to find Benedict’s father and get him to admit his actions. The only other solution would be to ambush Dorian into a room with Benedict and hold a pistol to his head.
“He’d disarm me in seconds and turn it on Benedict.” She slumped to a chair and caged her face in both hands. “I am sure no less than divine intervention will get him to see past his erroneous beliefs.”
Disheartened, she departed the drawing room for the library and found Dorian’s mother's book on the same shelf she’d left it. She paged through the book reverently and sighed. If only his mother were here.
What could she do?
A bribe would not work, a threat would make her look foolish, and there was nothing to blackmail him with. Not that she would do something like that at all though.
She snapped the book shut and dropped her head over the lip of the chair as her mind kept whirling with options—but they all ran into roadblocks.
Maybe she could somehow coax him?
