It was even more powerful now, considering what he knew he had to do.
Nottington House was dark, and few servants were about. When he answered the door, the butler looked surprised to see Dorian. Which made sense; Dorian had been finding almost any excuse not to stay here ever since he’d returned to London.
Usually, he spent the night drinking at his club, only to stumble back home in the morning--or to one of the houses of the many gentlemen who considered him a friend--and sleep off his hangover on their settees.
“Up all night with one of your mistresses?” His friends would chortle as they rang for tea or coffee to be brought for him. He would simply smile and demur like he always did.
But now, he was finally home, and as the butler took his coat, the usual uneasiness crept into his stomach and up his spine, making him shiver with dread.
“Can I bring you anything, Your Grace?” the butler asked, but Dorian shook his head. “Some brandy or port?”
“No thank you, Hardwick. Not tonight. I just want to be alone.”
Of course, in this house, he was never truly alone. There were too many ghosts haunting its every room.
Dorian set off down the corridor, not sure where his feet were taking him at first, until he found himself standing outside of his study. As he put his hand on the door handle, a strange feeling pricked up his spine; it was the feeling like he was being watched. But he didn’t bother to turn around to try and catch whoever was spying on him. He knew who was watching him, and they weren’t behind him. They were inside this study.
Dorian twisted the door handle and pushed open the door. Inside, darkness greeted him, along with the stuffy smell of old books and a dusty room that hadn’t been opened in quite some time. He felt as if the scent had punched him in the gut.
Slowly, Dorian stepped into the room. It was so dark he couldn’t see anything. He went to the windows and pulled back the curtains, letting in the moonlight outside. The silver light filtered into the room, illuminating the desk, the chairs, the quills and ink, and the large portrait on the far wall.
The portrait was of a tall, severe-looking man, with auburn hair flecked with gray, a strong jaw, aquiline nose, and blue-green eyes that seemed to cut through the room and into Dorian’s skin. The man was handsome--or at least, he would have been, had he not carried a look of deep disapproval on his face, which the painter of the portrait had somehow managed to capture. Or maybe it was Dorian’s imagination.
As he looked up , Dorian’s whole body tensed. The white-hot rage was an old, familiar companion, but somehow it felt new every time he saw the portrait.
“Hello, Father,” he said out loud to the room, to the portrait. “It’s been a long time. What--two years?” Yes, it was at least that since he had been in this room and looked up into his father’s cold, loveless eyes. “I’ve been flirting my way across Europe since then. You would have been furious with me.”
Even if this wasn’ttechnicallytrue--really, he’d been hiding out and teaching himself how to cook--it felt good to say it to his father’s portrait. It somehow made it sound true.
This portrait was the only evidence left in the house of the late Duke of Nottington’s existence. There were no other portraits. None of his books or letters. Nothing that spoke to the long and financially lucrative life Dorian’s father had led.
He had made sure to get rid of everything. Everything except this portrait. It was his way of reminding himself of what he was doing and why he was doing it. His way of keeping himself from straying from the path he had set himself on all those yearsago. His way of making sure he let his father down in every way possible.
But now, as Dorian gazed up at the portrait, he felt doubt flooding him. He didn’t know what was right anymore. On the one hand, there was the vow he had made to his father and himself. On the other, there was Lady Leah, alive and in desperate need of help. To help her meant to betray the promises he’d made to himself.
But not to help her would be to betray Caroline’s memory. And to betray myself, as well, and the promise that I wouldn’t allow anything like that to happen again.
Dorian’s hands curled into fists by his side. He stared up at the portrait for another few minutes, not moving, barely even breathing, before finally, he made up his mind. Turning away, he left the room, closing the door behind him with a definitive snap.
“Where’s Hardwicke?” He muttered to himself. “Maybe I will have that drink after all.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
“What have you discovered about the contract? Was it forged?”
Lucien tried not to sound too desperate as he leaned toward his solicitor, but it was difficult. The man had been pouring over the contract for almost a fortnight, and Lucien had held off on pressuring the man to come to a conclusion for that entire time. But he couldn’t be patient any longer. The deadline that he’dgiven Leah--that he could hold Dubois off for a fortnight--was coming to a close, and he needed to know if his case against Dubois was hopeless or not.
His solicitor, Mr. Hartfield, Esq., folded his hands and looked at Lucien very seriously. Lucien felt his heart drop. He had a bad feeling he knew what was coming.
“Your Grace,” Mr. Hartfield began, “I have read through this contract very carefully. I have examined the signature, and then compared it to all the signatures I still have of your father. I have even gone back through previous contracts your father signed to see if there was any wording in this that he had rejected before in similar contracts, just to see if there was any way of refuting it.
“But I’m afraid that there is no way to prove to a court of law, that the contract is fake. The signature matches your father’s perfectly.”
Lucien felt as if someone had dropped a pile of lead into his stomach. He sat back in his share, the taste of bile rising in his throat. It couldn’t be true… His fathercouldn’thave signed this. He would never have condemned Leah like that.
Would he?
Lucien looked up to see the solicitor watching him apprehensively. He licked his lips and coughed, and Lucien got the impression that there was more he wanted to say.
