Your real son.
The duke‟s lips pinched together in a satisfying manner. "Much of this is, or should I say, was, his." He swept his cheroot over the bundle again, a line of smoke blessing the top and then floating upward.
"But then money isn‟t what you desire, is it, Sebastien?" Sharp, glittering eyes surveyed him.
Predatory mirrors of his own.
"I daresay I desire money as keenly as the next gentleman, Your Grace."
"Are you considered a gentleman, Sebastien?"
His shoulder muscles tightened. He took another drag and forced the tension out with his breath. He stared at the duke, unwilling to answer and cede anything. No answer would make him the winner.
"The crux, is it not, Sebastien? You could have been like that namby ponce of Dullesfield‟s loins. Obsequious and accommodating. Gaining more invitations and a step higher in standing due to his willingness to splay himself before the field." The duke snapped his fingers for a drink. "Yet you chose to take the other path. To make yourself less of a catch. A reputation blackened and disagreeable—and every penny of it earned."
"Why, Your Grace, do you even care? I‟ve long since known that you do not. I‟ve long since ceased to cry in my buttercups." He purposefully tapped ash onto the rug again.
"If you had been born on the right side, I might. As it is, you still bear a reflection upon me." A nearly exact reflection, if one needed a looking glass. "I have seen that you are taken care of, after a fashion."
Yes, school, clothing, entrance to certain levels of society, he had. Nothing would remove the taint though. Nothing would remove the betrayal. And nothing would replace the cold emptiness in his chest.
"You made quite the gentleman of me."
The duke‟s drink appeared before him, a waiter slipping away almost before he was noticed. "A gentleman wouldn‟t have had the Plumley chit splayed on the balcony, ready to spread her legs to the heavens."
The Plumley twit could only wish. "I merely follow your flawless lead, Your Grace."
The duke‟s long fingers tightened around the bowl of the brandy glass. "You are a trial to talk to, Sebastien."
Sebastien smiled mockingly and stubbed his cheroot before dropping it into his half-empty glass. It gave a hiss before sinking to the bottom. "Why thank you, Your Grace."
"One of these days you will impregnate some chit, and then what will you do, Sebastien? Knowing you have a little bastard running about?"
If the duke knew him as well as he pretended to, he would know that such was highly unlikely.
Debauched debutantes? Yes. Titillated and teased them? Yes. Introduced them to pleasure?
Yes. Cause them to nearly defy their guardians and run away with him? Yes. Deflower them? No. If he needed to indulge, he went to women who knew how to take care of such things and prevent untoward occurrences.
"Sob into my sherry like you did perhaps."
The duke was the one responsible for his appearance in the club tonight, and he welcomed the largesse from the toads who thought they knew how to play cards, but he suddenly didn‟t care that he was jeopardizing his chance to wring another fortune into his pockets.
He had reached his threshold. "After all, you know me so well, Your Grace."
The duke‟s eyes narrowed. "I do know you, Sebastien. Better than you think. I know what you long for." He took a drink, one edge of his mouth pulling into a smirk as the glass left his lips.
"Do you?"
"Power. Respect. A title."
Sebastien drummed his fingers on the chair‟s arm in a bored manner. "Don‟t all of us who do not have them? Hardly a deduction."
"I can give you all three."
He examined the duke‟s face to determine his level of drink. "Last I knew, a title was something not even you could grant me, Your Grace. Such pesky laws concerning entailment, articles of succession. And bastards." He flashed even, straight teeth, another gift from the duke that hadn‟t been passed on to his real sons.
"No, but the King can."
The cold, swirling emptiness in his chest froze for a second, before regaining its aimless movements. "And why would the King grant me anything, least of all a title? I‟m not a war hero, a politician, a scientist, or a favored child of England."
He picked at the edge of the leather chair, the action twofold. It gave his aimless fingers purpose, and he prided himself on leaving unnoticed destruction in his wake whenever possible. He was a guest at the club, not a member. Never a member.
"To get a title, you have to earn it."
Rage walked a tightrope up his spine. "Or be born to it—little enough earning there. If that is all
I believe it is time to retire." He rose. "I grow weary of the company."
He‟d head down to the gaming hells in the east. Places where the men in this club would never go or be welcome. Dens of iniquity just for men like him.
"Sit. Down."
The duke‟s steely voice was low, but punctuated each word. For a man who valued emotional control, it was out of character. Sebastien narrowed his eyes and slowly sank back into his chair.
"The season ends next week. Everyone will be leaving London soon. Two weeks from today a tournament will begin that will progress through the summer. Ten tasks. Each with a monetary reward. Competitors will vie for the ultimate prize that includes a viscountcy and a fortune."
Sebastien tried to relax into the chair, but his back remained stiff.
The duke continued, still agitated. "The King has sanctioned this tournament.
The winner will have the backing of all involved. Entry into all events for one year. Membership to all the right clubs. A seat. The rest of the tide is up to the winner to sway."
Sebastien had no idea what showed on his face, but he desperately hoped it was as little as possible.
The duke took a deep breath, and a well-rehearsed calm returned to his features. "A title, money, a wellborn bride, a platform to start. All ingredients that can launch a determined man to success." The duke drank his brandy, but his eyes never left Sebastien‟s.
Sebastien said nothing, shocked, his insides charged with anger and something wild. Power. The offer was inherently one of power.
But his mocking, destructive nature was never silent. "I have money. What use do I have of a title, a seat, a wife, and some land?" Besides power and temptation…
"What about your mother‟s land?"
The emptiness froze again. "What about it?"
"I‟m giving it away. To the winner of the tournament."
Loathing, fierce and deep, ran through him. Worse than before. Steaming and coiling in his gut, searching for an outlet.
Iron pride clashed with longing. Roseford Grange was the only thing for which he had ever begged. The duke had purchased it from the lienholder when Sebastien was sixteen just for that reason.
A taunt, a way to keep his bastard son in line.
It hadn‟t worked yet. But then the duke had never gone so far.
Sebastien took a deep breath, shoving the anger and hatred below an icy barrier in his mind. He tapped his fingers on the chair‟s arms, thinking, coldly plotting. The duke smiled in a satisfied manner, telling Sebastien that he was not successfully hiding his emotions.
He examined the man across from him, looking for weakness. "A wellborn bride? Some poor chit coerced into being the prize for a bunch of bastards or third-born sons?" The shifting of the light on the duke‟s eyes confirmed his guess on the participants. "Who is the girl? Why even include her? Better to have the choice once the winner hits the bosom of the ton ."
"Lady Sarah Pims."
Ah. The girl was passably attractive, if you could separate her from the wallpaper, and an heiress, but possessed of a temperament that made the sconces on the walls seem interesting. He wasn‟t quite sure he had ever heard her string two words together, no less two sentences. No worthy suitors, at least to Lord Cheevers‟s exacting standards, had lasted long this past year, her first out after her mourning period, and her father, the earl, was said to be at wit‟s end. Too, he was a crony of the duke‟s.
"The Tipping Seven, is it? Or have you finally increased your number to ten?"
The duke‟s stare hardened. "Yes, it is mostly our crowd."
The Tipping Seven formed a formidable faction despite their blackened past.
They could do exactly as promised—open society to whomever they willed.
And with the King involved…
Sebastien rubbed his lips against each other. Sponsorship was everything. His own state in society proved that.
Roseford Grange…
The duke would refuse any offers to buy the property, even at twice the price.
He had refused every time Sebastien had asked. It was a sign of weakness now to even bring it up. A show of his hand, even though his cards were in plain view.
The duke must desperately want Sebastien in the competition if he was offering his trump. That alone was nearly enough to get Sebastien to refuse.
But the prize…what it entailed…what he could do with it…the revenge he could take…