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“Indisposed? Is he not here?”
“Yes, no, I mean…” The man dabbed his sweating brow, clearly uncertain of what lie he was supposed to say. A sound echoed from within the house of a door closing. James latched onto that sound and stepped forward, pushing past the butler. “No! What do you think you are doing? Your Grace! Even you cannot demand entry to another man’s house without invitation.”
“I would happily stand here and debate with you what men should and should not do, but another time. I must see your master.” James felt hatred curl in his chest and an excitement building as he wondered if he was about to come face to face with the masked man.
He pushed open a door, finding himself in a small parlor which was not empty.
A man, who appeared to be James’ age, was sitting at the far end of the room by the fire. His icy blue eyes turned to James in surprise, his fair hair was plastered back on his forehead, and his body was somewhat hidden by the fact he was crumpled in his chair, slumped down.
“Allow me to introduce myself.” James stepped forward and bowed though he did it with contempt and barely bowed at all. “I am the Duke of Curton, and you must be the Marquess of Stanton.”
CHAPTER20
“Stand, My Lord,” James demanded of the man before him. The Marquess of Stanton didn’t move. If he moved at all, he simply slumped forward in his armchair. He waved a dismissive hand at his butler a second later, urging him from the room.
“As you are rude enough to demand entry into my house, I will not stand. One discourtesy deserves another,” the Marquess said calmly.
That voice.
It held the same pitch as the masked man though perhaps it was not as gruff as the man’s voice had been the other night. It made sense, for he would have been disguising it then.
It could be him. The color of his eyes is right.
“Stand,” James ordered, stepping forward. “To hell with courtesy.”
“Courtesy?” The man laughed though he looked a little uncertain as he did so, his lips not quite spreading wide enough. It suggested he was forcing the laugh, trying to be calm when he wasn’t. “How about plain decency?”
“Decency is repaying your bills,” James warned, his glare heavy. “You owe my establishment over three thousand pounds.”
The keen gaze of the Marquess faltered on this occasion.
“I’m curious because someone demanded of me a great sum this week. It would have paid for your debt and much more,” James continued.
“Who was that?” The Marquess looked to his fireplace and sighed as if he wasn’t really interested.
“Stand, and I shall tell you, or I shall make you stand.” James’ words had little effect though.
The Marquess refused to move and continued to stare into the fire.
“You have a fascination for this fireplace. Come, I will stoke it for you.” Seeing an opportunity, James strode to the stone hearth and grasped the poker from the fireplace. He stoked the wood in the grate, making the flames leap to life before he turned around, facing the man. “Stand, My Lord.”
“No,” the man still refused.
James took action. He knew how to hurt a man, but that was not his intention in this moment. Marina had told him exactly how the man limped, leading James to conclude where the masked man was injured. Testing his theory, he struck out with the poker and tapped the man on the upper part of his right thigh.
“Ow!” the man leapt forward in sudden pain. “Are you mad?”
“Most men would not have cringed so much in pain.” James tossed the poker into the fireplace as the Marquess of Stanton stumbled to his feet, apparently trying to get away from James. His figure was revealed, the tallness, the rounded belly, and the limp as he backed up a few steps. “I know exactly who you are.”
James launched himself at the man and grabbed the collar of his shirt, holding him in the air.
“Let me go!” the Marquess demanded, his voice high pitched now, full of panic.
“As you wish.” James released him, but only by tossing him to the side. The Marquess fell over the footstool behind him, stumbling into the nearest wall. James followed, thinking of the bruises on Marina’s neck and the wound to the back of her head. “So, you would hurt a woman, would you? You’d treat her as if she was nothing, no more important to you than an ant you can squash beneath your boot.”
He took hold of the Marquess’ shirt again and held him up against the wall, baring down on him with superior height.
“You have this all wrong. I do not know your wife!” the Marquess insisted.
