Chapter 96

The Dowager Marchioness’ dinner was held two days later, and it was every bit the grand, elegant affair one might have expected.

The house was teeming with guests by the time Draven arrived with Octavia and Genie. Conversation flowed merrily through the grand rooms, accompanied by the soft clink of glasses and the rustle of expensive fabrics, as the usual collection of influential families gathered beneath one roof.

Draven recognized most of them.

Some were members of old aristocratic families, families whose names were nearly as old as his own. Others belonged to the gentry, wealthy families whose influence stood only a step below that of the nobility. They had money, connections, and the ability to shape the opinions of those around them.

He noticed the difference almost immediately.

People were watching him. They did so subtly and with tact; they were too well-bred to gawk at him like dolts. A glance here, a whispered exchange there. Nothing so blatant that he could call them out on it, but enough for him to know that he had their attention.

Conversations seemed to pause whenever he approached, only to resume once he had passed.

People perceived him differently in this stretch of the kingdom, and it was not even because of Fenwick, though Draven knew the blackguard relished it regardless.

No, Draven had formed a reputation for himself through his own actions, actions that would haunt him for years to come. He was quite notorious for them, and there were few here who had forgotten what he had done. Those ill-advised actions had driven his youngest sister away from him, and that consequence alone was one he could never quite put from his mind.

He greeted the hostess, spoke with several guests, listened when spoken to, and behaved exactly as was expected of a man of his station.

Calm, cordial, and gracious.

Still, these people had long memories, and the fact that he put a bullet through a man’s chest was hardly something they were likely to forget.

Across the room, Fenwick was doing much the same.

Their eyes met once.

Fenwick lifted his chin arrogantly. He wanted a reaction and Draven took pleasure in depriving him of it.

Dinner itself proceeded without incident. The conversation remained pleasantly removed from anything that might cause discomfort, touching upon travel, the Season in the capital, new fashions and several recent social engagements.

Draven participated when necessary and otherwise allowed himself to listen.

He was not particularly interested in the conversation. His thoughts occasionally returned to the reports waiting in his father’s study at Westmarch.

By the time the company began to break into smaller groups, Draven grew tired of the endless interactions he had to endure.

He excused himself from one discussion and left the drawing room, intending to find somewhere quieter to recuperate before returning to his mother and sister.

The corridor beyond the drawing room was considerably darker, the candles in their sconces throwing only pools of light along the walls.

He had nearly reached the end of the passage when he caught the faint scent of tobacco.

Draven turned left at the next corridor and found himself in a secluded part of the house, far removed from the bustle of the gathering. A few feet ahead stood Theron Fenwick, a lit cigar held between his fingers.

It appeared Fenwick had sought the same escape from the company. With his back turned, he raised the cigar to his lips and drew deeply upon it.

Of all the men Draven could have encountered in his search for solitude, Fenwick was perhaps the last he would have chosen. Under ordinary circumstances, he might have considered the encounter an unwelcome inconvenience.

But after the report concerning Fenwick’s activities, Draven could hardly regard the unexpected meeting as entirely unfortunate.

The Viscount glanced around at the sound of his approach, and for a moment neither man said anything. They had already spent the better part of the evening in the same room without quarreling, each perfectly aware of the other’s presence, and that was a feat in itself.

"I had wondered when you would decide to speak to me," Fenwick remarked breezily.

There was a taunt there somewhere, Draven was sure.

Fenwick had always possessed a particular talent for wrapping verbal jabs in the appearance of casual conversation, so he could say whatever he pleased and then dismiss it as harmless if challenged.

Draven took slow, casual steps forward, his expression giving little away. "You seem to have been doing enough speaking for both of us."

Fenwick gave a quiet laugh, though there was little amusement in it. The cigar remained between his fingers, its smoke curling lazily into the air. "I hardly think I have done anything deserving of your attention."

"That is where you are mistaken." Draven’s voice remained even. His father would have applauded him for staying so calm. Then again, he suspected that had Geoffrey been alive, he would have urged him to make peace with Fenwick. His father was such a gentle soul, and Fenwick had taken advantage of it for years. "I have received reports about your concerning fascination with me. It has to stop now."

"I have said nothing that is untrue," Fenwick shot back. "I simply wish for others to finally see you for what you truly are."

"And how would that be?" Draven drawled, feeling bored and thoroughly put out by the conversation.

Fenwick glared at him, anger burning wildly in his eyes. He was no doubt about to spit out something vile. "Lacking. Unworthy. You are running Norham into the ground. Poor Geoffrey, if he could see you now—"

"Finish that sentence and I swear it will be the last one you utter."

Draven’s placidity was the calm before the storm. Something colder had entered his eyes and the hand at his side had curled ever so slightly into a fist. He had no intention of allowing Fenwick to drag his father’s name into this simply to provoke him.

"People are free to question me. You are free to dislike my decisions. What you are not entitled to do is take every problem that arises and turn it into a campaign against my ability to govern."

Fenwick’s mouth tightened faintly. "A campaign? That is a rather dramatic description."

"An apt one," Draven corrected. "You have never been careless with your words, Fenwick. Do not insult me by pretending otherwise."

The Viscount was silent for a moment, and Draven could see that the remark had landed. Fenwick’s jaw worked once before he took another slow drag from his cigar, his gaze remaining fixed upon Draven.

Draven had also known, for years, that the Viscount knew how much he disliked being compared with his father, yet Fenwick never quite abandoned the habit of implying that the late Duke would have handled matters differently.

It was an old weapon, one Fenwick returned to whenever he wished to strike somewhere deeper than the surface.

"Perhaps the families have concerns because there are genuine problems in Norham," Fenwick said at last. "The smuggling has increased. Merchants have suffered losses. There have been disturbances that were not common when your father was Duke. Am I forbidden from acknowledging what everyone else can see?"

"No," Draven replied. "But you are going to stop using those problems as an excuse to undermine me."

"And if I choose not to?"

Pride truly made men fools, Fenwick in particular.

Draven’s patience was stretching thin. "Then I will stop extending the courtesy I have given you for years."

"You would punish a man for having an opinion?"

"I would respond to a man who has decided to make himself my adversary."

"Is that what you believe I am? An adversary?" His glare somehow turned more lethal.

The two men held one another’s gaze, neither willing to retreat from this battle of wills. Draven could feel the tension settling heavily between them, but he refused to be the first to look away.

"Don’t antagonize me. It won’t end well for you." Draven had no interest in humiliating Fenwick or making empty threats. He simply wanted the man to understand his place.

Fenwick’s cigar had burned almost to the end, but he seemed not to notice. The ash at its tip had grown long, threatening to fall, yet his attention remained fixed entirely upon Draven.

"Are you threatening me?"

"I am warning you," Draven said. Those were the last words Fenwick would get from him that night.