"Why should I?" he asked, and his wife gaped at him as though he had uttered something truly outrageous.
"Do you truly hate your son so much that you don’t see the problem here?"
William responded to his wife’s outrage by reaching for his cup. He took a slow sip of its contents before setting it down once more, completely unmoved by the accusation.
"From what I have seen, she has done quite well for herself."
John’s fingers tightened around his fork.
William continued without any awareness of the wound he was opening, without any concern for it. "I have never been friends with Montague. We have different views on politics and frequently clash in Parliament. But he is a duke, and from what I know of his family, the match appears perfectly sound." His gaze shifted toward John. "Indeed, I always thought Cassandra was capable of doing better."
The fork slipped from John’s hand. It struck the porcelain with a sharp clatter that startled his mother.
John pushed himself to his feet. His chair scraped noisily across the floor, the harsh sound drawing the attention of everyone else at the table.
William did not flinch. He remained perfectly calm in the face of his son’s discontent.
𝗳𝚛𝗲𝕖𝚠𝚎𝚋𝗻𝗼𝕧𝗲𝐥.𝚌𝚘𝐦
John stared at him, fury burning through the restraint he had struggled to maintain throughout breakfast. His father’s words had not merely insulted him. They had confirmed every miserable suspicion John carried from childhood.
William was willing to take the side of an outsider he was not even related to over his own son.
Capable of doing better.
The words seemed to echo inside his head.
His own father believed Cassandra could have done better than him.
John turned toward the door that led out of the dining room.
Behind him, William’s wry voice sounded loud and clear enough for him to hear.
"You see the temper. Perhaps Cassandra was right to prefer a man with greater composure."
John walked out. He did not slam the door. The effort required to refrain from doing so was considerable, but he managed it.
His anger followed him upstairs.
It beat against his skin while he strode down the corridor, while he entered his chambers, and while his valet helped him exchange his morning clothes for something more suitable for an outing.
A fresh waistcoat, a dark tailcoat, polished boots, gloves, and a hat transformed him into the presentable young gentleman society expected him to be, though none of the finery did anything to improve his mood. He studied his reflection briefly before looking away.
He glanced down at his gold pocket watch before promptly shoving it back into his coat. His father’s words remained lodged in his mind.
She has done quite well for herself.
The implication was impossible to miss.
He had failed. Cassandra had not.
She had found herself a duke to marry, one who was young and still had all his teeth, while John was being replaced as heir.
He clenched his jaw hard.
His valet finished helping him knot his cravat and stepped back.
John dismissed him with a curt gesture. When he left his chambers, Agnes was waiting near the staircase.
She looked at him closely, her brows furrowing as she studied him.
"Where are you going?" she asked.
"To attend to my affairs," John answered as he descended the first stair.
"What affairs?" She kept pace with him, following him down each stair.
"The sort I shall apparently have to manage without Father’s assistance."
Agnes frowned. "John."
He noticed that she paused, but it did not stop his progress. He continued down the stairs without her.
"If Father has decided to stand with Cassandra, then I shall have to fend for myself," he said.
Something was amiss. She could guess it from the tone of his voice alone. There was something cold beneath his anger that unsettled her more than an outright outburst would have.
"What are you going to do?" she asked, a note of concern creeping into her voice.
John did not even look back at her as he responded. "Whatever is necessary."
"That is not an answer."
"It is the only one I have at present."
He descended the remaining steps and swept toward the entrance.
Just as he disappeared from view, something within Agnes compelled her to follow after him.
"Son, do not do anything foolish."
He turned then.
There was a look on his face that made her steps halt.
"I hate him," he said simply. "A line has been drawn in the sand, and he has picked what side he prefers. I will make sure he regrets it."
He left before she could muster a response.
Outside, a footman was already bringing the post chaise around. The horses shifted impatiently as the wheels rolled over the gravel, their breath faintly visible in the cool morning air.
John stepped inside without looking back at the house.
He had no intention of tolerating another second in his father’s presence. If William meant to strip him of the future he was raised to expect, John would find someone else willing to fight for him.
Thomas Fairmont came to mind. It was not a pleasant thought.
Fairmont had never been a man John particularly liked. He was calculating, difficult to impress, and far too accustomed to wielding his power over others.
He made a study of people’s desires, dangling them just beyond reach to keep them dependent, while their deepest secrets and fears ensured their obedience.
Much like John, he was adept at concealing the ugliness beneath the surface. Only those unfortunate enough to enter his world ever learned what he was truly capable of.
Fairmont had never employed those tactics against John, but John had never mistaken that for kindness. He knew perfectly well that the moment the Lord Chancellor’s opinion of him changed, he would be treated like everyone else beneath his notice—useful until he was no longer of any value, and then easily discarded.
That was why John had always made a point of keeping his distance.
Yet now, he was seeking Fairmont out because the man possessed something John desperately needed: influence. Influence that John would need in his fight against his father.
It was only fair. John had helped him before, and now it was Fairmont’s turn to return the favor.
The post chaise carried him to Fairmont’s residence, a massive house of pale stone with tall windows and a broad entrance framed by imposing carved pillars. The grounds were well kept, the gravel drive freshly swept.
"John Ravenshire. I am here to see Fairmont," John said as the front door swung open, announcing his arrival.
The butler met him at the entrance, admitting him without delay.
"Of course, my lord." The butler bowed. "I shall inform the master."
A different servant ushered John toward the drawing room and opened the door to let him in.
John took only a single step inside before halting completely.
Three men were already seated there, no doubt waiting for the Lord Chancellor.
He recognized Fairmont’s secretary immediately. The second was a political intermediary whose face John had encountered often enough in certain government circles to know that the man possessed connections far beyond his official position.
The third man was unfamiliar.
He was older, expensively dressed, and carried himself confidently.
John searched his memory but couldn’t recall anything about the man. He didn’t think they had ever been formally introduced.
He had no time to wonder why those men had gathered in Fairmont’s house when the door opened again and Fairmont entered.