After what felt like hours, a knock sounded at the door.
"Enter." John called out to the person on the other side. He was usually self-conscious about letting people see him in this state but right now he was passed the point of caring.
A guard stepped inside, looking as though he’d rather be anywhere else.
"My lord, forgive my intrusion. I thought you would want to know, since the marquess has already retired to his rooms." He hesitated briefly before saying, "Earlier this evening, I watched Lady Cassandra leave the grounds with the duke of Norham"
John went so still, he could have been mistaken for a statue. "Montague?"
"Yes, my lord."
"That’s all. You may go."
The footman bowed, clearly relieved to be dismissed.
John sat alone once more, only this time he was pondering the guard’s words. Draven, duke of Norham.
He knew he and Cassandra were acquainted, yet when John searched his memory for anything noteworthy that had ever occurred between them, he found almost nothing.
The only thing that came to mind was the dance Cassandra and Draven shared together at the Kensworth ball, months ago but at the time, the action had seemed innocent enough.
And yet she’d left the estate alone with Draven tonight, of all nights.
It was probably nothing. John told himself this several times, in several different ways, and none of them settled the feeling sitting low in his stomach.
Perhaps what happened tonight wasn’t entirely her doing.
He didn’t like where the thought led, and he followed it anyway. By the time he rose from the chair, the thought had already taken root in his mind.
He left the manor and wandered into the gardens. The cold air filled his lungs.
Why him of all people, John wondered. Why Draven Montague. Why leave with him, and not wait for her own family.
Had they planned all this together. Had she and Draven arranged it so the humiliation would land as hard as possible, so they could laugh about it while he stood out here in the cold, wallowing.
He didn’t know if that was true. He wanted it to be true. It was easier than the other simple answer.
The other answer being Cassandra had chosen not to marry him. She had made that choice herself, for her own reasons, and Draven Montague had just been there at the right moment and convenient.
John’s steps halted.
Had someone turned her against him? Reached her first and filled her head with doubts? Was that why this had happened?
The longer he dwelled on it, the more his thoughts spiraled out of control. He needed to go somewhere and clear his head. Even so, one thing remained certain. Cassandra had more than earned the punishment he intended to give her.
***
John arrived at the Blackwood Gentlemen’s Club shortly after.
He noticed the change as soon as he stepped through the doors. Conversations carried on as usual, the sound of glasses clinking could still be heard, but the men who usually greeted him warmly without a second thought now only gave him a stiff nod before turning their attention back to their tables.
It was hard to say whether they were avoiding him or whether he was only imagining it. Humiliation had a way of making every glance feel pointed.
The attendant relieved him of his hat and coat.
"Your usual table, my lord."
John made his way across the lavishly decorated room, passing dark wood panelling and shelves lined with leather-bound books that nobody ever seemed to read.
The air smelled of tobacco, liquor, and the lingering smoke of expensive cigars. Everything about the club looked exactly as it always had, and that was why John had come. He craved the sense of normalcy the club offered.
He settled into the proffered chair, idly tapping a finger against his thigh as he waited to be served. He had frequented the club for years, and the staff knew his habits well enough that he rarely had to ask for anything.
The same server who had served him multiple times approached him and placed a glass of brandy on his table.
"My lord." As the man prepared to leave, his fingers nudged the base of the glass a fraction to the left. He said nothing further and disappeared into the crowd without another glance.
John waited until the server was out of sight before reaching for the glass.
A folded note rested beneath it.
As his fingers closed around the paper, a man seated across the room met his gaze. There was a flicker of recognition between them, but the eye contact lasted no longer than a second before the stranger looked away, directing his attention elsewhere as though nothing had happened.
John lowered his eyes to the note and unfolded it.
Do you think she suspects something?
There was no sender’s name.
There never was.
He read the message twice. The contents themselves didn’t surprise him. The timing did. News of his broken engagement had spread with remarkable speed and his associates clearly weren’t wasting any time.
Movement to his left caught his attention.
The serving girl who had been wiping spilled liquor from the neighboring table only moments earlier had drifted closer without him noticing.
She froze the instant she realized he had caught her staring at the note in his hand. Their eyes met briefly before she looked away in obvious embarrassment.
John continued watching her, eyes narrowing suspiciously.
She had read the note, there was no doubt about it.
A faint blush crept across her face.
"Do you enjoy peeping over people’s shoulders?" John asked.
"I... my apologies, my lord," she stammered, flustered beneath his unwavering stare. "It wasn’t my intention, I promise."
A lie. They both knew it.
Fortunately, the note appeared harmless enough. She could read it a hundred times over and never connect it to anything of consequence.
Even so, it wasn’t like John to let insolence pass unpunished, especially when it came from those he considered beneath him.
He folded the note neatly, slipped it into his pocket, and rose from his chair.
The girl instinctively stepped aside to let him pass. Just as she began to slip away toward the corner, he stopped beside her, blocking her path.
"You have very curious eyes." A smile touched his lips, cold and sharp, a far cry from the charming one he wore whenever he wished to deceive people. Life was a performance, and John had long ago mastered his role. "Be careful where you use them."
There was no reason to pretend here. He could show his true nature to an insignificant serving girl without fearing any consequences.
She lowered her gaze immediately.
"I’m sorry, my lord. It won’t happen again."
"Oh, I’m certain it won’t."
Without another word, he walked away.
The girl remained rooted to the spot for several long moments, her heart still pounding against her ribs. He hadn’t shouted at her or threatened her the way many patrons might have, yet something about the encounter unsettled her far more than she could explain.
She glanced toward the entrance, but John had already disappeared from sight.
Drawing a slow breath, she forced herself back to work, silently scolding herself for her foolishness. Before long, she pushed the entire incident from her mind.
By closing time, she had nearly forgotten it altogether.
She was collecting the last of the dirty glasses from the tables when one of the club’s senior stewards approached her.
"There you are," the man said, noticing the exhaustion written plainly across her face.
"Don’t worry. I’m almost finished," she replied, shifting the heavy tray in her arms as she prepared to walk past him.
"It can wait." He lowered his voice. "Someone wants a word with you."
"With me?"
"So he says."
"Who is he?" The steward smirked. "A gentleman."
She glanced toward the front of the club, where the last remaining members were making their way toward the exit, and told herself it had to be some sort of mistake. Perhaps someone had confused her with one of the other serving girls. It had happened before and it would only take a moment to clear things up.
"Alright." She carefully set the loaded tray on a nearby table and followed the steward toward the rear entrance.
The door closed behind them. When the steward reappeared a few minutes later, he was alone. The serving girl never returned.