He could see the moment his words began to puncture the marquess’s shield of invulnerability. The quality always believed themselves omnipotent. They’d been born to wealth and privilege, fine educations, the best of everything. Sooner or later, however, men like Silwood discovered they were not as untouchable as they believed themselves.
And what a privilege it was to be the one to bring the Marquess of Silwood low.
The man had kept Persephone beneath his thumb until she had fled, and even then, she had been so desperate to escape him that she had spent years in hiding as a governess who had also been at the mercy of others. The debts he had been incurring at The Devil’s Spawn had been enough to catch Dominic Winter’s notice, thank God. As had the questions he had been asking, along with rumors he had befriended Viscount Gregson. From there, Rafe had been able to find the rooms Persephone had taken, and he had learned she had left in the company of none other than the Marquess of Silwood.
The truth had unraveled. Gossip had long been swirling about the mysterious disappearance of Lady Persephone Calcot. Jasper’s wife, Lady Octavia, had heard the tale many times but had never realized Miss Wren and Lady Persephone were the same until Rafe had torn apart London trying—and failing—to find her. Uncovering the rest of the information he had needed had proved simple. Learning Abingdon Hall bordered the Marquess of Silwood’s lands had been a timely discovery.
“You know nothing,” Silwood spat. “Who do you think you are?”
“Rafe bleeding Sutton,” he said calmly, holding his ground. “Don’t forget it.”
Silwood’s lip curled. “Do you know what I could do to you?”
Rafe raised a brow, unaffected. “Nothing. That’s what you’ll be doing to me, Silwood. Do you know why?”
“I did not come here to play games with you, Sutton. I came here to collect Lady Persephone.” The marquess took a menacing step forward. “She belongs to me.”
“You are wrong.”
The voice from the doorway took Rafe by surprise as much as it did Silwood, he was sure. He turned to find Persephone standing at the threshold, an expression of defiance on her lovely face. Damn it, he had told her it would be better for her to remain unseen by the marquess.
Beyond his dastardly reach.
“Dearest,” Silwood said coolly. “Whatever is this nonsense? I insist you return to Silwood Manor with me at once.”
“No,” Persephone said, her voice ringing firmly and loudly as a bell. “I will not be returning to Silwood Manor with you. Because I do not belong to you. I belong to no one but myself.”
Although Rafe wished she had listened to him and stayed far away from the marquess, he knew a moment of fierce pride, watching her defend herself. She was strong, his woman. The only reason she had agreed to sacrifice herself to the callous blackleg before him was to save Rafe.
“Have you forgotten what we discussed?” The marquess was moving toward her.
But Rafe was having none of that. His long-legged strides took him to stand between Persephone and her odious cousin. She did not need him to defend her, and Rafe knew it. But by God, he would anyway, until his dying breath.
“Not another step in her direction,” he warned Silwood.
The marquess halted, a glower darkening his features. “Are you daring to threaten a peer of the realm, Sutton?”
“Of course not,” he said, careful to keep the worry from his voice. There was every chance this plan of his would not proceed as he hoped. But he would fret over that later, in the event he needed to do so. “I am merely advising you, Silwood. Lady Persephone will be reaching five-and-twenty soon.”
“Her age is immaterial,” Silwood growled.
“It is not,” Persephone denied, stepping forward until she stood at Rafe’s side, so near, the skirt of her gown brushed his legs. “You know as well as I that turning five-and-twenty means I shall be capable of inheriting the trust left me by my mother.”
“Not if you marry first, and without my consent to the marriage,” Silwood countered, sounding smug. “You cannot believe I would ever give my permission for you to marry an East End rat such as this. He may be occasionally capable of aping his betters, but he is a lowborn scoundrel. Your father would never have allowed it, and neither shall I.”
“That is where you are mistaken, my lord,” Rafe interjected smoothly. “You will approve of my marriage to Persephone.”
“Never!” the marquess bellowed.
“You seem to be confused about where you stand, my lord marquess,” Rafe said, “so I will pay you a favor. You are in debt to The Devil’s Spawn for more blunt than you can hope to repay. Lady Persephone is willing to generously settle your debts as long as y
ou accede to her wishes. You have also been stealing from Lady Persephone’s trust for years. And then, there is the matter of your maids.”
The marquess paled. “What of my maids?”
“Did you think belowstairs doesn’t gossip, Silwood?” Rafe shook his head. “Of course you did. Well, you’re bloody wrong. They do talk, and quite a bit, especially for the right price. I also happen to know of a scandal journal that’s about to print an article about the villainous Marquess of S., who beats and ravishes his maids and has already sired three bastards.”
“You are lying.”