Page 53 of The Duke of Pain

Oh, he will pay for that transgression.

Jonas lumbered into the library. He touched his forelock. “Aye, Your Grace.”

“There is a train leaving at nine this evening. You are to travel to London posthaste to my stepson’s townhouse at 34 Hyde Park Corner. You are to evict the slut in residence by any means necessary and dump her in Whitechapel, where she belongs. Inform her if she dares to contact my stepson again, you will cut off her pretty tits and slit her throat for good measure.”

“You know for sure she’s there, Your Grace?”

“Not completely, but I know my stepson. If he believes himself in love, then he has the woman with him. He’s a needy little bastard.”

Sanford paused. “Tell her that it was Watford that gave this order. He wants nothing to do with her ever again, that he has had his fill. Take someone with you, someone who can keep his mouth shut. And do not rouse the duke’s servants, be as quiet as possible, understand?”

“If you wish, Your Grace, we can slit her throat for real. Whores are always turning up dead in Whitechapel, sure as brass.”

Sanford seriously contemplated the suggestion. Then he gave a nonchalant shrug. “No. We will be civilized in this instance and give her a warning. But make sure she understands the consequences. My stepson travels to London in the morning. All trace of her must be erased from the townhouse before then, understand?”

Jonas touched his forelock. “Leave it with me, Your Grace.”

Tossing aside the bloody cloth, Sanford reached into his side pocket and pulled out a small roll of pound notes. He peeled off a couple and handed them to Jonas.

“You and your man will have to stay the night in London but return on the first train in the morning. I’ll pay you the rest when the job is done. Once you are back, we will rent wagons and load them up with whatever we can carry. My stepson wants me gone from the premises? Then we will help ourselves to whatever is valuable in this wretched pile of bricks.”

“Aye, Your Grace.” Jonas departed.

With a smug smile, Sanford poured a generous snifter of brandy.

“Is he gone?”

Sanford didn’t turn to acknowledge the reedy female voice. It was his current mistress, Annabella. She could be a blubbering, clinging thing, but he would tolerate her—as long as she carried his child.

He swirled the brandy in the snifter. The prospect of marriage did not appeal, but his child must be legitimate.

His son.

And by God, his son would be everything Watford was not.

Strong, formidable, resolute. Whatever other descriptive words fit.

Whinstone would ensure it if he had to beat the boy. Best way to toughen him up.

With a sort of twisted admiration, he was impressed how Watford had stood up to him. He toughened up at last.

It took long enough.

Sanford chuckled as he picked up a napkin and held it to his no doubt broken and still bleeding nose. Yes, all those beatings finally made a man out of Watford. He had finally struck back after all these years.

“Sanford, what happened, are you injured?” Annabella asked tentatively.

“Go back to bed. In your own room. I don’t need nursing; the doctor is coming directly.”

“But, I—”

He turned to face her, his face no doubt looking as thunderous as he felt.

“I said leave me!” he roared.

Annabella visibly winced, and hurried from the room.

Sanford didn’t care, he had more important matters to consider.