"I own the magistrates. I own half of Parliament. I let my mother rule my estate because I was too bored and too arrogant to manage it myself. I let her dictate my life because I thought it didn't matter. But it matters now."
He stood up, towering over the bed. He reached down and gently grasped her arms, pulling her to her feet. "We are leaving now."
"Theo, my things—"
"Burn them," he commanded gently. "You will never wear rags again. You will never freeze again. You are coming with me."
"Where?" she asked, the fear bleeding back into her voice. "If you take me to the estate, she will know."
"I am not taking you to the estate," Theo said, guiding her toward the splintered door.
"I am taking you home." The journey from the rotting heart of St. Giles to the quiet, gaslit streets of Mayfair passed in a blur of motion. Theo had found a decent hackney cab, paying the driver triple his fare to provide a heavy lap rug and drive as smoothly as the cobblestones allowed. Josie had fallen asleep against his shoulder within minutes. The sheer exhaustion of her existence claiming her the moment she felt safe.
Theo held her tight against his side, his arm wrapped protectively around her shoulders. He watched the dirt and soot on her cheek, a stark contrast to the luxurious wool of his coat. He directed the driver not to the grand Westmore mansion on Park Lane, but to a smaller, discreet townhouse in Somerset Square. It was a property he had inherited from his uncle, a place his mother considered too modest to bother visiting. When the carriage pulled to a halt, Theo did not wait for the footman.
He carried Josie inside himself, ignoring the shocked gasp of Graves, his elderly, fiercely loyal butler. "Graves, have Mrs. Graves prepare the master suite, light every fire in this house, send a boy for Dr. Lewis immediately, and tell him to bring his obstetrics bag," Theo barked, taking the stairs two at a time with Josie in his arms. "At once, Your Grace," Graves said, bowing deeply, his eyes darting to the heavily pregnant woman in the duke's arms.
He asked no questions. An hour later, Josie was asleep in a massive, feather-topped bed, swathed in clean linen and flanked by roaring fires. Dr. Lewis, a discreet man who owed his practice to Theo's patronage, had examined her. He pronounced her malnourished and severely fatigued, but the child was strong. Strict bed rest and a heavy diet were prescribed.
Theo stood in the doorway of the bedroom, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of her breathing. He wanted to stay. He wanted to sit in the armchair by the fire and watch her sleep for the next month, but there was a war to wage. He turned and walked down the stairs. Graves was waiting in the foyer holding Theo's clean riding coat and a silver tray with a glass of brandy.
"Mrs. Graves will not leave her side, Your Grace," the butler assured him quietly. Theo downed the brandy in a single swallow. The burn grounded him.
"If anyone comes to this door—anyone, Graves—even if they carry the King's seal, you do not let them in. If they force entry, you shoot them. I will take the consequences. Understood?"
"Understood, Your Grace," Graves replied, entirely unbothered by the command to commit murder.
Theo stepped out into the night. The carriage was waiting. "Park Lane," he told the driver.
The Westmore mansion was ablaze with light when he arrived. Carriages lined the driveway. Theo remembered with a jolt of disgust that his mother was hosting an intimate dinner party to celebrate his betrothal to Beatrice. He stormed through the grand double doors ignoring the footmen who scrambled to take his coat. He was still wearing the clothes he had worn to St. Giles, mud splattered on his trousers smelling faintly of street smoke and cheap tobacco.
He walked directly into the grand dining room. The conversation died instantly. 10 of London's most elite aristocrats sat around a mahogany table dripping with silver and crystal. At the head of the table sat the Dowager Duchess Eleanor. She was a striking woman, her spine made of steel, her neck glittering with the Westmore diamonds.
To her right sat Beatrice, looking pale and furious. "Theodore," the Dowager said, her voice smooth and chillingly calm. "How kind of you to join us. Beatrice was quite distressed when you abandoned her in the street today like a commoner."
Theo did not sit down. He walked slowly around the edge of the table, his eyes locked onto his mother. The guests watched him, paralyzed by the sheer predatory menace radiating from him.
"I have a brief announcement to make to our esteemed guests," Theo said, his voice carrying clearly across the silent room. He stopped behind Beatrice's chair. "The betrothal between myself and Lady Beatrice is formally dissolved, effective immediately."
Beatrice gasped. Her father, Lord Fairfax, half rose from his chair. "See here, Westmore—"
"Sit down, Fairfax," Theo commanded without looking at him. The man slowly sank back into his chair.
Theo turned his full, terrible gaze on his mother. "The wedding is canceled because I am already married. And I have just spent the afternoon retrieving my wife and my unborn heir from the gutter where you put them."
A collective intake of breath sucked the air from the room. The Dowager's face remained a mask of polite confusion. But Theo saw the slight twitch of a muscle in her jaw, the absolute panic in her eyes.
"Theodore, you are unwell. The stress has clouded your mind. Your marriage was legally annulled."
"Do not insult my intelligence, Mother," Theo interrupted, his voice dropping to a terrifying whisper. He leaned across the table, bracing his hands on the mahogany, invading her space. "I know about the forged ledgers. I know about the threats against her father. I know everything."
The Dowager didn't flinch. She leaned in closer, dropping her voice so only he could hear. "You fool, if you bring her back, I will hand those papers to the magistrate tonight. Her family will be destroyed, and you would be dragging a street rat's bastard into this house."
"Do it," Theo whispered back, a savage, feral smile touching his lips. "Take your forgeries to the magistrate, but understand this, Mother."