A duke? “Who?”
“Duke of Glaston-Something-Or-Another. Dukes are more powerful than marquesses, ain’t they?” Stephen whispered. “One of the whores said they’re more powerful than anyone except a prince or a king.” He slammed his fist down again. “And Spark is trying to stop it.”
Bloody hell on Sunday. Why in blazes would she do that? He was already striding for his office.
Stephen hurried to keep pace. “Why do you think she’d do it?” Stephen whispered. “She’s trying to destroy us. She knows we need that match. Only thing that makes sense.”
No. That wasn’t Reggie.
But then, neither did you believe she’d plot to steal your best staff and guard out from under you, either.
His brow dipped. “Is the gentleman a patron?” Reggie had been clear she’d never support a match between Gertrude and any lord in debt to Broderick.
“No.” Stephen gave his head a shake. “Never seen ’im in the Devil’s Den even once. Didn’t recognize his name. Glastonbury,” he blurted. “His name was Glastonbury.”
His frown deepened. Then why should she interfere in the gentleman’s courtship?
“She told me to not allow Gert near the gent. Told me to keep her in her chambers.”
He continued past his brother, heading for his office. A pair of parlor maids stepped aside, allowing him to pass. With every step came more and more questions. Why would Reggie turn away a suitor? What motives could she possibly have? Or was it as Stephen said and her actions were driven by malice?
Impossible.
Broderick reached his office, and his gaze quickly took in everything.
The first thing he noted was the gentleman’s nearness to Reggie. His bulky frame, angled toward hers, hinted at a familiarity between them.
Broderick hated him on sight.
The pair at the center of the room spun to face him.
Relief swept over Reggie’s expressive features.
“Your Grace, how may I be of assistance?” Broderick asked, coming forward, deliberately omitting a bow for the pompous peer.
“I thought I might speak with you about a matter of personal importance pertaining to your sister.” The duke glanced pointedly from Reggie to the doorway.
At that slight but telltale directive, Broderick narrowed his eyes on the visitor who’d order anyone in his household about. Those orders came naturally to one of his rank and bespoke . . . a ducal arrogance. That arrogance of Polite Society was the pomposity Reggie had spoken of and hated so much.
Reggie, however, remained fixed to the center of the room. Her lips moved, but no words came out. And then: “No.”
The duke swiveled his stare in her direction.
Reggie drew in a slow breath and then brought her shoulders back. “His Grace would not make Gertrude a suitable match.”
A ruddy flush marred the duke’s slightly fleshy features. “Have a care, Miss Marlow,” he warned.
“Get out,” she ordered, leveling that order on the duke.
“Miss Spark?” Broderick gave her a warning look.
“Miss Spark?” the duke jeered. “You’ve not even given him your real name.”
The color leached from Reggie’s cheeks.
Broderick straightened. They knew one another.
The duke faced him. “I’ve come with honorable intentions to court your sister. And this one?” he said in nauseatingly affected tones. “She seeks revenge against me for crimes she is guilty of.”
Reggie flinched but stood, her carriage as proudly erect as any military commander. “I’m guilty of nothing.”
The duke turned his back dismissively. “Miss Marlow, otherwise, known as your”—he slashed a gloved hand in her direction—“Miss Spark.” Numb, Broderick looked to Reggie. A stranger to him, with this man privy to her past. “She was my sister’s governess,” the duke said.
Broderick flexed his jaw. “Is this true? Did you serve in the duke’s employ?” It was widely accepted and understood that every person in the Dials possessed secrets. But that this man should have them and Broderick find himself sitting an outsider, learning those secrets not from her but another, brought his hands curling into tight fists.
She wet her lips. “No. Yes.” She tried again. “I was employed by his father.”
Broderick stared on, the exchange like a volley match with his head swinging back and forth between the participants.
The duke pressed a hand to his chest and stared back at Broderick with stricken eyes. “I pledged my heart to her, my troth, and in the end, she sold herself to my closest friend for a bag of coins and a fancy pendant. And now”—he spun, lashing out at Reggie—“you would put yourself between a possible arrangement between . . .”
“Liar,” she cried.
A thick tension fell over the room. The duke seethed. “You would question my honor?”
“I would and I am.”
“Do you deny that you were my lover?” the duke demanded.
Reggie recoiled as silence met that charge.
Jealousy—violent, blinding jealousy—stabbed at Broderick. Making a mockery of the illusion of friendship he’d upheld with this woman who’d been a friend and confidante . . .
She peeked over at him, like a naughty child seeking absolution. Some of the fight went out of her. It was a confirmation. And it gutted Broderick.
His Grace adjusted the diamond stickpin in his cravat. “And what of my purse, Miss Marlow?”
Reggie shook her head. “Those monies were mine,” she whispered. “I earned them.”
“You are a thief.”
An unfamiliar sentiment held Broderick in its grip—fear. “Enough,” he said quietly, that order coming in part from a need to silence any other admission from this man’s lips. “Miss Spark,” Broderick said evenly. “If you’ll excuse us?”
Reggie’s stricken eyes met his. “I . . . of course.” She released the death grip she had on her skirts and spoke calmly. “I would have you know he is a liar.” Breathtaking in her boldness, she withered the duke with a hard stare. “And you can be assured if you allowed him to marry Gertrude, he would make her life misery.” With that, head held high, she marched around the duke and quietly took her leave.
As soon as the door had closed, Broderick made for the sideboard. “My apologies,” he said evenly, fetching two glasses and a bottle of brandy. Carrying them back to his desk, he poured two snifters full and held one over to the duke. Broderick made no move to sit but rather settled his hip on the edge of the desk. “Miss Spark is . . . spirited.”
The duke accepted the proffered drink. “No apologies necessary,” he assured, waving his other hand dismissively. “The young woman was always more spirited than is prudent for a lady to be. Particularly a young governess.”
Broderick sipped at his brandy. “So you were quite familiar with my sister’s companion?”
His Grace leaned forward, the leather folds of his chair groaning under that slight shift in his weight. “As a rule, I do not speak about my relationships with lovers.”
All the muscles in Broderick’s face went to stone. “Indulge me.”
“Our affair took place ten years ago,” the duke was swift to reassure. This was Reggie’s past. This was the story of ten years ago. And he despised that the telling now came from this man. “I was young.” The duke paused. “And I was in love with the idea of being in love with someone wholly unsuitable.”
Wholly unsuitable.
Broderick offered the other man a steely half grin. “I trust no less suitable than a bastard raised on the streets who’s lived more years than not in a gaming hell.”
The other man must have heard something layered there in Broderick’s speech. He blinked slowly and then sat upright. “You misunderstand.”
Broderick arched an eyebrow. “Do I?”
“It was not the young woman’s station that made her unsuitable but rather her actions. I was in love with her, and she was in love with the baubles and gifts to be had.”
He stared over the top of the other man’s head.
I don’t need more than two dresses. I’m a companion, Broderick. Dull colors, drab garments, are suitable attire for a servant . . . Not cheerful, extravagant garments . . .