For once the baron spoke honestly about his daughter’s failings. Was this really about something Miss Bromfield had written in a note? Had Biggs lied about looking for old letters merely to appease them?
“So you admit it was Ambrose who made the decision not to marry,” Devlin said, his tone revealing the depth of his loathing for the gentleman currently sitting in his chair.
The sound of grinding teeth reached Devlin’s ears.
“You may as well tell the truth,” Juliet said. “I overheard their conversation in the garden. Hannah sobbed. Ambrose seemed composed, stoic even.”
“Stoic? The heartless bastard offered to compensate her for the upset.” Bromfield shot up out of the chair, braced his hands on the desk and glared at them with such menace. “As if money might mend a broken heart, might wash away the stain left by his blatant disregard.”
Unperturbed by the baron’s threatening countenance, Devlin straightened to his full height. “That is how things work in the ton.” And Ambrose was a man who followed the rules, pandered to the matrons, obeyed society’s edicts. “Did he not do your daughter a courtesy? Was she not permitted to say she ended the betrothal?”
Bromfield snorted. “Everyone knows Hannah has a lively temper. People would have drawn their own conclusions. Your brother ruined any chance she had of making a decent match.”
Perhaps that was why the lady had taken to wandering the corridors in her night-rail, looking to trap a wealthy husband. The only thing the foolish chit was likely to achieve was total ruination.
“Was it your daughter’s vulgar attitude that forced my brother to change his mind?” Goading the baron brought Devlin immense satisfaction. “Did he consider her unrefined manners beneath him?”
Oh, that comment certainly hit the mark.
“Beneath him!” Bromfield raged. Even in the dim light, Devlin could see that the man’s cheeks burned red. “I’m a peer of the bloody realm, your brother a mere mister.”
“And so Hannah wrote to him, slandered his good name,” Juliet said, pressing the baron for answers, too. The tension in the air reached fever pitch. “She made up those vile stories about his preferences in the bedchamber for she hoped it might add credence to the lie that she ended the betrothal.”
“Of course she made it up,” Bromfield blurted. “The girl was desperate. And I supported her decision. In a society such as ours, reputation is everything.”
Bile bubbled in Devlin’s throat. Conflicting emotions raced through his body. Anger burned in his chest when he thought of the humiliation his brother had suffered. People in high society were too judgemental. Relief settled in his chest, too. The lewd tales were nothing but spiteful lies.
But that did not answer the question about the baron’s hunt for private letters, or why Ambrose happened to be walking across the common before dawn.
“Then as a peer of the realm, I wonder what people will say when they discover you’ve stooped so low as to rummage in a gentleman’s private desk.” Devlin released Juliet’s hand and stalked to meet the baron. He, too, braced his hands on the polished surface, leant forward and looked Bromfield in the eye. “You’ll tell me what the hell your daughter wrote in those letters. Else I shall have no hesitation in beating the information out of you.”
“You wouldn’t dare.” The man’s nostrils flared, and his eyes bulged as he scanned the breadth of Devlin’s chest.
“Wouldn’t I? There are enough witnesses here to claim you provoked me. There are enough witnesses to say you were caught stealing.”
The baron’s lip curled up in disdain. “Your friends are heathens. There’s not a gentleman in the ton who would believe them,” he said, but his quivering chin belied his arrogant countenance.
Devlin decided to apply a little more pressure.
“Lord Valentine has an unblemished reputation,” Devlin said with a wicked grin. “But you’re right. I am a heathen and will think nothing of putting an end to your meddling.” Devlin cast him his blackest stare. “Now tell me what the bloody hell your daughter wrote in those letters.”
The baron blinked rapidly.
Devlin could feel his control slipping. He reached over the desk and grabbed the baron by his fancy cravat, ready to throttle the last breath from his lungs.
“Let go, I say.” The baron clasped Devlin’s hand, tried to loosen his grip. “I cannot … damn it … I cannot breathe.”
“Good. Now tell me what I want to know.” Devlin shook the man violently. “Tell me.”
“That stupid girl mentioned the duel in the last letter she wrote to him.” The words flew out of the baron’s mouth, though he seemed shocked to have uttered them. As Devlin relaxed his grip, the baron closed his eyes and shook his head. “That stupid girl cannot hold her own water let alone her tongue.”
The tension in the air abated as Devlin released Bromfield and the weary lord fell back into the chair.
“What duel?” Devlin asked, though one did not need Aristotle’s intelligence to piece the events together.
“After your brother’s dishonourable conduct, I did the only thing I could.” Bromfield dragged his hand down his face and sighed. “I challenged Ambrose Drake to a duel on Wimbledon Common. It was a matter of seeking satisfaction. Of letting him know I am not a man to cross. Neither of us had any intention of firing the damn pistol.”
The room seemed to sway. A cloud of confusion filled Devlin’s mind. Even the most sane and logical man would struggle to make sense of the conflicting tales.