He wanted to roar his anger at the insult. If anyone else dared speak in such a manner, West would destroy them. They would suffer for a week at his hands. And they would suffer for years at the tip of his pen.
But Tremley was safe from West’s anger, because he knew too well how it had been used in the past. What it had fought for. What it had won.
And so instead of beating him bloody, West said, “You should be careful with how you speak of the lady.”
“Oho, she’s a lady now? The whore” – he emphasized his crass wording – “must be tremendous between the sheets if you’re elevating her so far.” Tremley looked back at him. “I don’t care what you do to her. But she’s Chase’s whore first and foremost. And you’ll get me his identity.”
One day he would destroy this man, and it would feel glorious.
The earl seemed to hear the unspoken thought. “You loathe it, don’t you?” he said, watching West carefully. “You hate that I have so much power over you. That with a single breath, I could ruin you. That you are beholden to me. Forever.”
Hate was too easy a word for what West felt for Tremley. “Forever is a very long time.”
“Indeed, you would learn the truth of that statement if you were ever found out. I am told that forever in prison is even longer of a time.”
“And if I cannot get you his identity?”
Tremley looked away and West followed his gaze, the way it flickered over the ton, finding his wife in the throngs of dancers. West noticed the lady’s eye, yellowed around the edge. It took a moment to realize that Tremley was not in fact looking at his wife; her partner turned her, revealing the couple behind. The woman behind.
Cynthia.
“She’s a pretty girl.”
West’s blood ran cold at the threat. “She stays out of it. That’s always been the deal.”
“It was. It still is. After all, the poor thing doesn’t know the truth about her perfect brother, does she? What you did? What you took?”
The words were a cold, brilliantly crafted threat. West did not look to the earl. Could not guarantee that if he did, he would not assault the man. Instead, he took the words Tremley spoke. “It would be a pity if she were told the truth. What would she think of you then? Her unimpeachable brother?”
It was a perfect threat. Not empty in any way. It did not threaten West’s future. It was enough to keep him under Tremley’s thumb without being enough to force Tremley to make good on the larger, constant threat that hung between them.
He did not threaten to reveal West’s secrets.
He threatened to reveal Cynthia’s.
“You cannot save all the women in the world, Jamie.”
Anger flared, hot and nearly unbearable. He spoke, a low, dark promise. “I will wreck you someday. I shall do it for me, yes, but for everyone else you’ve ever hurt.”
Tremley smirked. “Such a hero. Tilting at windmills. Still the boy who cannot win.” The words were designed to make Duncan feel powerless. “I don’t care how much money or influence you have, Jamie, I’ve the protection of a king. And your freedom exists only through my benevolence.”
With the words, Duncan was a child once more, furious and eager for a fight. Desperate to win. So desperate for a different life that he was willing to steal one.
He did not reply.
“That’s what I thought,” said the other man, taking his leave.
West watched him as he approached a young woman, a duke’s daughter, just out, and asked her to dance. She smiled and accepted the offer, sinking into a deep curtsy, knowing that a turn with the Earl of Tremley, who held King William’s ear, would only increase her value.
It was ironic that the aristocracy did not notice the filth among them – only its title.
He needed to know what Chase knew about Tremley.
Immediately.
She’d had too much to drink.
It was unplanned. Unexpected, even. Indeed, she could drink scotch with the best of them. She had drunk scotch with the best of them.
But tonight, she’d had too much champagne. And champagne, as everyone who had lived since Marie Antoinette knew, was perfume going in and something altogether different once it got there.
She paused. Was it Marie Antoinette with the champagne?
It did not matter. What mattered was that she had had too much champagne, and now she was expected to dance. And later, she would be expected to do other things entirely.
Things she wanted to do. With Duncan West.
Things she’d asked to do.
Things she was terrified of doing incorrectly.
But all those thoughts were for a different time. Now, all she had to do was dance.
Thank heavens that Viscount Langley was an excellent dancer.
It should not have come as a surprise, as he was exceedingly well bred – charming and amusing and more than willing to keep up his end of the conversation – but Georgiana was always surprised when the viscount whirled her across the ballroom without a single misstep, ignoring the fact that she was not an exceedingly talented follower at this point in the evening.
She didn’t think she’d ever danced with someone so clearly athletic.
She had enjoyed it in the past, and might have done so this evening if she hadn’t had too much champagne, which she would never have done if she weren’t so damn focused on another man, who was not dancing. Indeed, Duncan West had not moved from his post at one end of the ballroom since he’d arrived at Beaufetheringstone House an hour earlier. And his lack of motion was making it quite difficult for her to watch him without being caught.