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Chapter Twenty-Seven
The late-night air was dank and chill, and the streets were enveloped by a roiling fog as Dominic strode through St. James’s. According to the intelligence he’d gathered from several colleagues who frequented Brooks’s gentlemen’s club, Lord Gascoyne had moved on to the nearby Firebrand Club, a gaming hell with a notorious reputation for high-stakes play that was situated in nearby Duke Street.
There was but one stuttering gas lamp illuminating the corner of Duke Street and the narrow cobblestoned laneway near the Firebrand Club’s entrance, so it was easy for Dominic to take up residence in the dense, fog-laden shadows. He was neither a coward nor a fool—venturing inside when he wasn’t a member and creating a scene would likely result in him getting kicked out by one of the club’s burly doormen. So, he’d wait for Gascoyne to emerge.
Hopefully, he wouldn’t take all bloody night; according to Dominic’s pocket watch, it was well after midnight already. Even wrapped up in his greatcoat, Dominic was cold—he’d lost most of the feeling in his booted toes—and the pewter flask of whisky he’d brought to warm him up from the inside out wasn’t helping much either.
But needs must when the devil drives. Ever since Juliet had died, Gascoyne had been a cankerous thorn in Dominic’s side, and it was about time he did something about it.
Minutes crawled by, and a feeling of inevitability settled over Dominic while he watched the club’s distinctive red door and the comings and goings of various gentlemen—none of them Gascoyne unfortunately. In many respects, challenging the bastard to a duel was reckless as hell. Especially considering Dominic had so many responsibilities—to his dukedom, his country, his businesses, and all of the tenants connected to the Dartmoor estate. To his daughter, of course, and his beautiful Artemis…if she would have him.
Failing to do anything about Gascoyne wasn’t an option either.
Not only would he continue to plague Dominic—forever blaming him and maligning him for a crime he didn’t commit—but he was certain to harm those Dominic cared about. Indeed, Dominic feared that one day, Gascoyne might do the unthinkable and hurt Celeste in some tangible way, just for the sheer perverse pleasure of it. If Artemis did agree to become his wife, Gascoyne could very well make her a target to avenge Juliet’s death. No doubt he’d see it as taking an eye for an eye.
Dominic firmly believed that Phoebe Jones had entered Gascoyne’s sights simply because she was connected to him via Artemis. The headline in theLondon Tatlerall but proclaimed it.
In any event, he would confront Gascoyne about his ill treatment of Phoebe and see what the blackguard had to say for himself before he threw down the gauntlet. Dominic was a damn good shot, and given his determination and sangfroid, he was unlikely to miss his mark in a duel. And then of course, Gascoyne was a coward at heart and might simply turn tail and run when Dominic confronted him, even if the terms of the duel were to only fight until first blood.
One thing was clear: some sort of comeuppance for Gascoyne was long overdue, and Dominic wasn’t afraid to dish out some well-deserved just deserts. Artemis may not have wanted him to go down this path, but he had to. To not act, to not take a stand, was, in his mind, unconscionable.
It was his duty.
The nearby clock tower of St. James’s Church had just proclaimed the hour, one o’clock, when the Firebrand’s crimson door swung open again. This time, it was Gascoyne who stepped into the weak pool of light spilling from the club’s interior. And he was alone.
Perfect.
As his former brother-in-law paused on the pavement, adjusting the collar of his greatcoat, Dominic called out to him. “Gascoyne. A moment if you would.”
The viscount turned and shot a scowl Dominic’s way. “What the fuck are you doing here?” he growled, striding toward him like a mongrel on the attack. “And what makes you think I’d want to talk to you? You’re lucky I don’t darken your daylights instead.”
Dominic took a few steps back into the alleyway, luring Gascoyne farther into the murky shadows. While dueling was still a largely accepted practice amongst gentlemen to settle matters of honor, by law it was illegal and the fewer people who might overhear this conversation, the better. “I’m here because I’m utterly sick of you and the harm you inflict on other innocent parties in my sphere.”
The uncertain light cast by the gas lamp at the head of the alley revealed Gascoyne’s mouth twisting into a snarl. “Oh, my heart weeps for you, Dartmoor. Don’t tell me that you’re here to avenge the honor of your slut of a fiancée’s equally promiscuous sister?”
That was the last straw. Something inside Dominic snapped, and within the space of a heartbeat, he’d thrown Gascoyne up against the rough brick wall of the alley, his arm at his throat. “You’re a vile, contemptible excuse for a man, and I should take you apart piece by piece for what you just said.”
Gascoyne clawed at his sleeve. “Get…off me,” he choked out, and Dominic dropped his arm and stepped back a pace. It wouldn’t do to the kill the bastard before he met him on the so-called field of honor.
“Fuck you,” Gascoyne spat out, pulling at his collar and rubbing at his neck. “And you have the audacity to call me vile and contemptible when you’re the one who murdered my sister!”
Dominic ignored his accusation. There was no point. Gascoyne had made up his mind a long time ago. But there was one thing he wanted to know before he issued his challenge. “You set up that whole supposedly accidental encounter outside of Brooks’s, didn’t you? You knew Phoebe Jones would take the bait and make a public scene. You probably even fed theLondon Tatlerthat ridiculously dramatic headline.”
Gascoyne’s whole demeanor changed, a smirk replacing his scowl. Thrusting his gloved hands into his greatcoat’s pockets, he rocked back on his heels. “I’d say it’s rather inspired and also quite accurate because who’s laughing now?”
“You certainly won’t be when I extract a pound of flesh or two from you, you malicious bastard,” Dominic growled. “Meet me at dawn. Pistols at Hampstead Heath. We’ll fight to first blood.”
Gascoyne’s eyes narrowed to slits. The man’s whole body seemed to vibrate with hatred. “God, I’m so bloody sick of you and your whole ‘I’m the honorable Duke of Dartmoor’ act,” he gritted out from between clenched teeth. “Because I know what you did, despite what the coroner decreed. You killed Juliet and then dumped her body in a bog, didn’t you?”
“That’snotwhat happened. I would never have harmed a single hair on Juliet’s head. I loved your sister. I did everything I could—” Dominic broke off. What was the point of continuing this argument? Gascoyne would never believe he was guiltless. Not after all this time. “Are you going to accept my challenge or not?” he demanded, his voice harsh in the freezing dark. “Or are you too much of a sniveling coward? A depraved weakling who’d rather prey upon an innocent young woman than—”
All of a sudden, Gascoyne stepped forward until he was almost nose to nose with Dominic. “No, I’m not, because only gentlemen fight duels. You’re the one who’s depraved and a murderous cur. A pathetic dog. So I’m going to put you down like one.”
Too late, Dominic felt the press of a cold steel muzzle in the vicinity of his heart. Horror gripped him as he grabbed Gascoyne’s arm. Tried to twist away. And then a shot rang out and Dominic stumbled backward, reeling. Searing pain bloomed in his chest.
His head hit the brick wall, and as he slumped to the filthy ground, a flash of sharp regret about what might have been with Artemis penetrated his mind. And then the dark fog of oblivion claimed him.
