To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke #8)(88)

Marcus swallowed back the impatient retort on his lips. It wouldn’t do to lash out at the one man who could help him in this moment. “A book,” he repeated impatiently. “You are rumored to keep a book of men indebted to you. There is one gentleman who is within those pages.” Fury thrumming inside him, Marcus snapped. “And I would have that man’s name. I would own his debt.”

Lord Rutland took another sip of his brandy and then cradled the glass in his large hands. “What business do you have with this man?”

The sole reason for Marcus’ happiness, Eleanor, was what would make Marcus humble himself this minute, and yet he could not share that with this ruthless stranger. “It is not your business.” The marquess lowered his eyes and Marcus turned his palms up. “But I have funds and will pay you whatever amount you name for the transfer of this gentleman’s weakness and debt.”

Rutland took another sip. And then, “I cannot help you.” There was a gruff quality to the man’s tone that hinted at a man who spoke to few.

Marcus sprung from his chair. “Whatever amount you name,” he rasped. He planted his palms on the surface of the desk and leaned across the impeccable surface, shrinking the space between them. “Any amount,” he repeated, forcing a calmness into that promise, when inside, his heart was thundering painfully in his chest.

The marquess stared at him for a long while, until Marcus reclaimed his seat. His skin flushed with embarrassment. But then, when a man loved a woman he would humble himself before a ruthless stranger.

Rutland rolled his snifter back and forth between his hands. “At one time, I would have gladly helped you, Wessex. I would have helped you because it would have strengthened my power and influence, and I reveled in that.” He shook his head. “But I am no longer that man.”

Marcus sank back in his chair. Married several months earlier, little was heard from the marquess, and now Marcus knew why. He swiped a hand over his face, a mirthless laugh lodged in his throat. The rogue, rake, and scoundrel had been reformed. Bloody hell. He let his hand fall to his side. “Do you love your wife?” he asked with a bluntness that earned him a lethal stare.

“Say what it is you’d say, Wessex, and get the hell out,” the other man commanded on a silken whisper that promised retribution should Marcus in any way threaten those he loved.

Marcus gave his head a clearing shake. “I am bungling this,” he muttered. “Do you love your wife?” he asked once more, his tone quiet and incessant.

Still, Rutland said nothing.

“I suspect your silence is your answer,” Marcus predicted and the vein pulsing above his eye indicated Marcus was one wrong word away from the other man charging over and pummeling him with his powerful fists. “I suspect you love her and you would do anything for her.” He spread his hands out. “There is a woman whom I am in love with.” Lord Rutland went still. “I would do anything for her.” He held the marquess’ impregnable stare. “Including humbling myself before you, a stranger.” Marcus dropped his gaze to the desk and his eyes collided with that half-empty brandy.

He stank of brandy…

For the knowing of Atbrooke’s identity made Eleanor’s agonizing telling, all the more real. Bile climbed up his throat and he choked it down. He wrenched his gaze away from that glass and found the marquess staring at him.

“The Marquess of Atbrooke would hurt her.” Hurt Eleanor when he’d already stolen so much from her. Marcus’ throat worked and, uncomfortable with that show of emotion, he coughed into his hand. “If I do not destroy the gentleman, he will destroy her, and she is all that is good and kind, and she is a mother, and…” He buried his head into his hands, helpless and unable to save her just as before. Suddenly, the futility in being here assaulted him and he jumped to his feet. “Forgive me for wasting your time with the affairs of those who do not concern you,” he said stiffly. Dropping a bow, he started for the door.

“Wessex,” Lord Rutland called out, bringing him back around. He motioned him forward. “Please,” he said quietly, gone was all earlier vestige of frigid guardedness.

Marcus hesitated and then as hope mixed with wariness, he reclaimed his earlier seat.

“I do not have a book.”

And with those words, Lord Rutland killed that hope. The marquess gave his entire focus to his glass. “Not any longer. Had you paid me a visit one year ago, I would have pulled out that tome, scratched your name inside, and handed over the information you wanted in return. I resolved to not be the man I had been and some of that,” he grimaced and yanked at his cravat. “All of that is because of the woman I married.”

By God, the speculative whispers about London proved true. The Marquess of Rutland truly loved his wife. Loved her enough that he wished to be more than the ruthless scoundrel he’d been. Then, wasn’t that the power of a woman’s hold? She made a man wish to be better than the person he was. “I am sorry I have wasted your time,” he said tersely. “If you will forgive me?” He made to rise, when Lord Rutland held a finger up.

“I did not say I would not help you.” His heart stilled. “I just will not help you in the way you believe. I want nothing from you,” the marquess said, his tone gruff. “I’ve no need for money or power, and nothing of the material which you may give. Atbrooke is an evil bastard.” A sardonic grin formed on the hard lips of Society’s most dreaded scoundrel. “And it is, indeed, quite a day when I identify others as such.” He smoothed his lips, killing all earlier hint of weakening. “I am not unfamiliar with his proclivities.” Had the man’s proclivities included forcing other young women as he’d done to Eleanor?