He’d come alone, though he’d done so with the blessing of his wife after a frank discussion. She’d taken some convincing, but in the end, had agreed that, as her father had propositioned Sterling privately, he was well within his rights to clear up the matter on his own. A man-to-man discussion, so to speak.
He’d left only one part out. He had some things to say to Lord Marion Montrose, and he had his doubts about how the man would receive those things. He did not want Annabelle hurt in the crossfire. Her family had done enough damage. That was at an end.
To his credit, the butler who saw him in did not appear overly shocked at his appearance, despite the bruises and scrapes still liberally decorating his face. He showed Sterling to Montrose’s ostentatious office, and bid him wait. Sterling took in the overabundance of gilt, too many Grecian statues, and themassive self-portrait Lord Montrose must have commissioned hanging over the mantle.
The marquess joined him in swift order, anxious, no doubt, to hear what Sterling had to say regarding what he viewed as his winning proposition.
“Lord Randall, welcome. I did not know you had arrived to town,” Lord Montrose said immediately upon entering. He closed the double doors behind him before crossing to Sterling.
A startled expression flashed over his handsome features upon his first close look at Sterling’s visage. “Did you have an accident, Lord Randall?”
“No. Someone thought to hurt my wife. I showed him the error of his ways.”
Montrose blinked, but otherwise showed no further reaction. “How fares my daughter? Is Annabelle also in London?”
“She is well. And yes, she accompanied me, and is currently apprising herself of her new home, undoubtedly making a list of changes she’ll wish to see wrought.”
Montrose appeared to take the news in stride. “Can I offer you a brandy, Viscount?”
“No. I won’t be staying that long.”
The marquess’s signature genial smile dimmed. “I see. You wish to get down to business, I take it. To discuss the parameters of our agreement.”
Sterling reached into his waistcoat pocket and withdrew, a soiled and battered piece of parchment that looked as if it had been trampled under a horse’s hoof. “Yes."
He wasn't sure why he had gone to the trouble of looking for the lost missive after the events of a week ago. Perhaps, for just such a moment as this, to show the marquess precisely what he thought of the threat he’d levied.
In no particular hurry, he made his way to the grate, and with a flick of his wrist, tossed the letter into the fire. Then he sent Montrose what he hoped was a feral smile.
Montrose arched a brow, apparently unfazed, and folded his arms over his chest. “You can destroy my letter, but that changes nothing. You have my demands.”
“So I do. Now, I'll tell you mine.”
“I beg your pardon?” Montrose said with a disdainful huff of laughter.
“First, to clarify, I will not now noreverbe recommending you for membership to White’s, or any gentlemen's club in London.”
Montrose’s expression remained placid, though his face bloomed with color. “I was not bluffing, Randall. I have every intention of spreading, far and wide, the scandalous tale of how my daughter allowed herself to become your whore until you were forced to marry her. I will gain sympathy. Annabelle will be ostracized. Your family will be enmeshed in scandal.”
“I don't think so, Montrose, and I'll tell you why.” Sterling made his way to a massive oriel window overlooking a pristine garden. Everything was just so here, at Montrose House. Everything tidy and glossy and a touch too-much. “You see, I know yours and Lady Montrose's dirty little secrets.”
“I have no notion of what you speak.”
“No notion? Really? No notion of how your filthy reputation precedes you all over town, crawling its way up from the gutters and seedy hells that actually permit your patronage? Noblemen can be bastards when it comes to their dealings with those whom they view as their lessers. Such as prostitutes and maids, hm? Nobody cares much what gentlemen do, so long as they’re generally discreet and pay the house handsomely. Until it becomes too much.
“So, bravo, Lord Montrose. You’ve reached that illustrious pinnacle. You’ve made a real name for yourself. You standout amongst thetonfor your sick tastes—enough that your patronage is not welcome. I even hear tell that your wife must go outside London these days when seeking to hire household staff of the female variety—but I’ll get back to that.”
“How dare you? How dare you come into my home and insult me?”
“How dare you, sir,” Sterling said in a softly menacing voice. He started wandering again, in a seemingly aimless manner. “But I wasn’t finished detailing your sleazy antics. You see, I know your son followed in your footsteps, Montrose. I also know neither you nor your wife did much to curtail him. You? I can perhaps see why not. Chip off the old block, hm?”
Montrose glowered.
Sterling paused near the double doors. “But your wife? Gaston’s own mother?”
“Keep my son’s name out of your damned mouth, Randall. You’ll regret this. Mark me.”
“I suppose Lady Montrose did try to manage his proclivities by limiting his access to female staff. Access, to which you have not seen fit to limit yourself—but that is going to change. From now, on, your house will be staffed with males only.”
