“Extreme cruelty.”
Tragmore sank slowly into a chair, still gaping at the document in his hands. “Does she understand the ramifications? To her? To Daphne? Elizabeth will be shunned and Daphne will be bastardized.”
“Not if we’re granted a parliamentary divorce.”
The marquis gave a humorless laugh. “A parliamentary divorce? You’re more of a fool than I imagined, Hollingsby. Elizabeth is a woman. She and I are estranged. She is, therefore, without money or credibility, both of which are needed in vast amounts to pursue something as unlikely as a legal divorce.”
“And both of which are possessed in vast amounts by the Duke of Markham.”
A chilling silence.
“Markham? That lowlife, contemptible—”
“The very same.” A corner of Hollingsby’s mouth lifted. “My association with him, judging from your reaction, re
presents another conflict of interests.”
“Do you realize who he is? What he is?”
“You must know that I do. I was, after all, the one who notified him of his newly acquired title. I represented his late father for decades.”
“And you’ll trust his word over mine? A workhouse bastard?”
Hollingsby’s gaze was icy. “There are all different types of bastards, Tragmore. I’ll take a scrupulous one like Thornton any day. Moreover,” a biting smile, “he pays his bills. Good day.”
Tragmore stared vacantly after Hollingsby’s retreating form, blood pounding through his temples. His numbed gaze lowered to the pages he held—Thornton’s ultimate degradation.
With a muttered oath, he crumpled the documents into tight fists of fury, hatred for Thornton coursing through his veins.
The bastard had pushed him to the limit; stripped him of his money, his family, and now his dignity.
But it wasn’t over. Far from it.
Let Hollingsby do as he would. Let him and the street scum he worked for think they’d won.
He knew better.
Backed into a corner, he knew there was but one way out. One way to flourish and punish all at once.
Unclenching his fists, Tragmore smoothed out the rumpled papers. Then, with deliberate precision, he tore them once, twice, and crossed his study to toss the shreds into the fire.
“Daphne, don’t!”
Pierce took the room in five long strides, catching his wife’s waist and hoisting her off the chair where she’d stood on tiptoes, reaching for the window. “What the hell are you doing?” he demanded, setting her feet on the floor.
With a start of surprise, Daphne regained her balance, her dismayed gaze darting at once to Pierce’s shoulder. “You shouldn’t be lifting me. Your shoulder—”
“Is healed, and has been for a week. Now answer my question. What the hell are you doing?”
“I’m adjusting the curtains.” Tucking a loose wisp of hair behind her ear, Daphne gazed about Markham’s new, neatly arranged classroom with utter satisfaction. “Once the slates and chalk arrive today, our schoolroom will be ready for use.” Quizzically, she regarded Pierce’s furious scowl. “Why are you angry?”
“Because you could have fallen, damn it. You don’t stand on chairs when you’re with child.”
Daphne’s lips twitched. “Really? And how many times have you been with child?”
“I’m not amused.”
“No, but you’re terribly heroic.” Daphne reached up, laying her palm on her husband’s jaw. “Fear not. The babe and I are fine. I’m taking excellent care of us both.”