Episode 31

The night had already fallen over London when the rain began to pour, persistent and relentless, accompanying the Duke of Cavendish’s arrival at his club. The building’s imposing façade cast long shadows under the dim glow of gas lamps. The servants opened the doors immediately, recognizing him, but he paid them no attention. His face displayed his fury and frustration.

Lilian had defied him. Lady Penelope had humiliated him. And now, the Duke needed time to think, away from the women of his family, away from society’s scrutinizing eyes. He entered the main hall and headed straight for the bar. The silence among the gentlemen present was broken only by the clinking of glasses and hushed murmurs. He was in no mood for conversation.

He ordered a brandy and sank into one of the dark leather armchairs, massaging his temples. It was then that a sharp voice sliced through the quiet atmosphere of the club.

“Your Grace.”

The Duke continued swirling the brandy in his glass, not granting an immediate glance. When he finally lifted his face, the coldness in his eyes was a silent warning. Whitaker stood before him, his dark coat perfectly fitted, his gloves aligned, and his gaze sharp as blades. He knew exactly where to find the Duke of Cavendish. Anticipating his actions had not been difficult. After all, he himself had provoked him.

He had written that anonymous letter with a calculated intention, knowing that the Duke’s pride would not allow him to ignore it. And to ensure he knew the exact moment to act, he had generously paid one of Lady Penelope’s servants.

“If the Duke comes to London, I want to be the first to know.”

And so it was. Just hours after Cavendish’s arrival, the information had already reached him. Now, all that remained was to finish what he had started.

“Lord Whitaker.” The Duke did not move, but the iciness in his voice was unmistakable.

Whitaker stepped closer and sat down without waiting for an invitation. “I believe we have unfinished business.”

The Duke set his glass down with more force than necessary. “If you came to complain about the failure of this engagement, spare me.”

Whitaker leaned slightly forward, his fingers gliding slowly along the rim of his own glass. “I did not come to complain.” His voice was low, almost cutting. “I came to see if you still have the determination and power the world attributes to you… or if, after all, Lady Penelope’s influence has made you retreat with your tail between your legs.”

The insult hung in the air.

The Duke’s expression hardened, but he did not reply immediately. Instead, he studied the man before him. Whitaker was not angry. He was measuring his reactions. Evaluating him. As if he were the puppet.

“If you think you can speak to me that way, Whitaker, then you do not know me.”

Whitaker smiled, but there was no humor in his eyes. “Then prove it. Prove that you still control your own daughter.”

The Duke rested his hands on the arms of the chair, feeling the weight of that statement. “My own daughter.”

Lilian was not a possession, was she? She was his responsibility, yes, but… But…

The Duke narrowed his eyes, analysing every word Whitaker had said. His tone was not that of a man trying to regain his future father-in-law’s trust. It was that of a man demanding obedience. And Cavendish obeyed no one.

He tapped his fingers slowly against the arm of the chair, an almost imperceptible gesture but one he always made when something displeased him.

“You speak to me as if you believe you have some power over me, Whitaker.”

The silence between them grew heavier.

Whitaker leaned slightly forward, his fingers drumming lightly against the chair’s armrest. “I am merely reminding you that this engagement was your decision. It would be unfortunate if you lost control of what you started.”

The Duke felt an unexpected unease.

“Was that a threat?” No, Whitaker would not be that foolish. But the tone, the choice of words… Something was wrong. Something he had yet to grasp.

“My decision remains mine.”

The Duke stood, making it clear he had no interest in prolonging the conversation. “And I will not have some opportunist dictating how I should govern my household.”

Whitaker remained seated for a moment before standing as well, adjusting his gloves with a forced smile.

“Then I hope you make the right decision, Your Grace.”

The Duke did not respond. He simply watched as Whitaker left the club, leaving a trail of tension in the air.

As Whitaker passed the club’s servants, one of them averted his gaze and bowed slightly, as if already accustomed to taking orders from him.

The Duke noticed the gesture, and a cold sensation ran down his spine.