Page 52 of The Duke of Pain

“As I said, you have overplayed your hand,” Gideon said, his voice calm. “To hell with you and my mother. Drag the family name through the mud. I could not care less. Nor do I care if you get a divorce and marry your mistress. That has nothing to do with me. So, I will not be approaching my mother on that particular subject. When I leave in the morning, I will stop by the village to make arrangements with the parish constable to have you physically removed in three days’ time.”

“You cannot do that,” Whinstone snapped.

“I can. There is no written contract between us, nor are you paying me rent. You are a squatter and will be treated as such. If you have any further need for money, that is between you and my mother, as I will no longer be funding your vices. You had better hope the baronet’s daughter comes with a settlement because once you divorce my mother, the spigot is shut off permanently.”

Gideon pushed the plate of sole from him and stood. “Goodnight. And fuck you.”

As Gideon strode from the room, Whinstone’s torrent of colorful obscenities followed him up the stairs.

One of the first things he was going to do was fire the entire staff here at Foxmont. Gideon recognized no one save Henderson, the butler. Was Mrs. Peterson still here as a cook?

He had no time to investigate the matter. The sooner he was away from here, the better.

Chapman, his steward, had told him there was a substantial turnover in staff over the past couple of years, as many did not want to serve Whinstone in any way. In fact, there was a minimum of servants on the payroll, and the place showed the neglect.

Neglect that was all on Gideon’s shoulders.

It was far easier to tuck Whinstone away out of sight.

Yet more proof of Gideon’s selfish nature. He never thought of the staff, some of which had been at Foxmont for decades. Chapman assisted some in finding other positions, but the rest?

Blast it all.

The only positive note to this visit is he had finally stood up to that odious toad. The bonds of cruelty and abuse that had had such a hold on him for decades were at last breaking apart.

And it was well past time to right all other wrongs.

* * *

Sanford watched his stepson leave the room with his chin held high.

Insolent pup, with whom does he think he is dealing?

The duke marched to the wall and pressed the bell, still holding the bloody cloth to his nose.

When the butler entered, he demanded, “Send for the doctor, then bring Jonas to me at once. Is he on the premises?”

“He is, Your Grace.”

The burly ex-convict, Jonas Bisby, would be just the man to carry out this particular work for him.

“Well then, just don’t stand there, you addle-pated old fool, get on with it!” he roared at the butler.

Henderson disappeared, and Whinstone marched over to the decanters and poured a whiskey.

Watford was always an infuriating little pustule. But, oh, how he had fun bullying and beating the little bastard until he shot up to a little over six feet in height when he was sixteen. After that, Sanford kept the abuse to verbal only.

There was a delicious sort of gratification to watch the boy, then as a young man, struggle to hide his fear, then later, his disgust and loathing.

Sanford fed on that hate for years.

It almost made up for putting up with his annoying lady wife.

Almost.

To know he had inflicted permanent damage on Watford was gratifying, indeed.

But how dare Watford lay a hand on him.