"Ah, well if it isn't my favorite murderous Duke," Raphael grinned as the butler announced him and granted him entry to the Duke's office. He executed a mocking bow, dropping far lower than necessary before he dropped a lingering kiss on the Duchess's hand until he heard the Duke make a snarling noise. Rothbury and his wife watched him warily as he seated himself without permission, putting his feet up on the table in front of the sofa. "Your Graces. Please do have a seat."

He did this partly because this irreverence was part of the man he used to be, but mostly because it pissed his companion off. Lord Benedict William Montgomery, seventh Duke of Rothbury, was a stickler for propriety and decorum, and the fact that he could not tell Raphael to go fuck himself truly did grate on the man. Rothbury glared at Raphael with apprehension and distaste. And yes, a good bit of fear. Raphael's grin only widened.

"You are a vision, Lady Rothbury," he shot a wink at the Duchess, letting an appreciative gaze roam down her figure. Though she seemed somewhat more plump than the last time Carlisle had seen her, she was still undoubtedly a very attractive woman. Raphael had never been too particular, he liked a curvaceous woman as much as he enjoyed a slim one. Rothbury looked fit to kill him and he was relishing every second. "Have you grown bored of this stodgy arse, yet?"

When the Duke and Duchess had been estranged, Raphael had made an attempt or two to end up in her bed, but the Duchess had been selective about such a thing.

Shame, for she was an incredibly attractive lady and Raphael had never had an American before.

"I'm quite pleased with his arse, thank you very much," she replied cheekily as her husband buried his face in his hand.

"Wife," he said in a hopeless tone.

"Oh please, the man is here to blackmail us, must I be overly concerned with propriety?"

"Oh, come now, I have no business with you Lady Rothbury. You never used my services, after all." Nearly five years ago, the Duke of Rothbury had been complicit in the murder of the man who had abused his sister. Raphael had helped him evade discovery or arrest using his connections in return for a favor collected at his time of choosing. In other words, Raphael owned Rothbury and he was finally ready to collect.

"Get to the point, Carlisle," He rose from his place behind his desk to join him on the sofa across from him, that was when Raphael noticed that Her Grace's plumpness was because she was with child.

"What do you want from us?" Rothbury asked, keeping a protective arm around his wife.

"You're having another one?" Raphael asked in surprise, his eyes on the rounded stomach of the Duchess. "Isn't this your third in five years? Good God, man, have some restraint and stay off that poor woman! What are you, rabbits? And really, who makes a pregnant woman involved in this sort of business."

The Duke scowled at Raphael, "Not that it is any of your business, but I was the one who wanted to wait! Though I am in agreement with you on your latter point; I wish my wife would go and rest, for she hardly slept last night. For all she likes to accuse me of being a coddler, she gets lightheaded without enough sleep."

"Oh nonsense, I am here for moral support," She patted his arm as she turned a determined gaze to Raphael. "I am expecting, and not for the first time, one would think His Grace would be used to it by now."

"Yes, well, any wonder that my children are somewhat of a handful? Their mother is far too headstrong."

"Your children? A handful? I thought they would have come out of the womb saying Please and Thank you, madam." Raphael raised an amused eyebrow.

"You forget that they are also my wife's children," The Duke's mouth turned up into a smile as he grazed a loving thumb across his wife's hand. Raphael tracked that movement with a strangely thick throat as his own body remembered the sensation of when he, too, had touched someone like this. When he had kissed her and she had promised him that she wouldn't let him die.

Raphael's hands tightened into fists.

He had no business craving Sylvia Heartwood. Blast his father for bringing her to the forefront of his mind.

"Enough of the idle chatter," Raphael said a little more sharply than necessary. "As you recall, you owe me a favor."

"Not exactly the sort of thing someone forgets," Rothbury muttered.

After Raphael was done making his demands, the Duke and Duchess observed him in disbelieving silence.

"That's it?" The Duchess finally exclaimed before turning to her equally befuddled husband. "Really, Ben, you made it sound as if it was going to be some dangerous, illicit task! You mean to tell me that all this fuss was kicked up for a house party?"

"You misunderstand, Your Grace, I am charging your husband and his mother with the task of making my father respectable. After the house party, your mother, who is an influential figure in her own right, shall be taking my father everywhere. By the time the season rolls around, I want people begging to have him at their dinner tables. I want him invited to so many balls and soirees and garden parties that he will have to hire a secretary just to keep his engagements straight. I want mothers throwing their unwed daughters at him by the dozen."

"Your father is a Marquess," she deadpanned. Though the American Duchess had been part of English High Society for over a decade now, she was still perhaps a little underestimating of just how judgmental and close-minded the aristocracy could be. "Surely, there are people who would be interested in him just by virtue of his wealth and title?"

"A divorced Marquess who has spent the last thirty years shunned by society. People give him the cut direct to this day. I've said this before but, respectability and reputation are the true currency of our society, though a title and money do help. Divorce is about as unrespectable as it gets. It's the equivalent of advertising the fact that you got cuckolded," Rothbury reclined in the seat, passing a hand through his hair. "Damn you, Carlisle, but you've given me a real bastard of a task."

"Tch, tch, such language in front of a Lady? Poor showing indeed Rothbury," Raphael chuckled as he got to his feet. And then he let his expression turn somber. "Now, just so we're clear: until my father has become the toast of the season, you all are to be his personal retinue. Whatever he wants done, you and your mother will accomplish. Whoever he wants to meet, you will find a way to make introductions. In short, if he says jump, you ask how high? Any questions?"

"If your father's reputation proves irreparable?" The Duke arched an impetuous eyebrow.

"That, Your Grace, is simply not an option. If you fail to comply, you will regret it.  You must keep in mind, Rothbury, that problems are just as easy to manufacture as they are made to disappear. Witnesses can be found just as easily as they can be bribed to keep quiet," Raphael let his words settle like the threat they were intended to be and slipped out the door.

Raphael paced his study in a strange state of anxiety. Every instinct inside him warning him that something was about to go very, very wrong.

Thomas was spiraling again, as evidenced by the note that was sitting on his desk. 

He was having one of his breakdowns again if the sloppy handwriting and the hastily sent note were any clue. The last time Thomas had gotten like this was when his wife had died. Sylvie had found him with a pistol in his hands, drunk out of his mind. Jane hadn't been fed or changed in an entire day. That was when Sylvia had taken Jane back to Carlisle. 

It had taken Thomas two entire weeks to even remember that he had a daughter and that he had not seen her.

Swearing, Raphael shrugged on his coat, hurrying toward Thomas' home. 

Before he knew it, he was sprinting down the streets. It went against his very training, attracting notice like this, but the sense of foreboding would not let him rest until he saw for himself that Thomas was well. 

He reached Thomas' home, busting the door open without knocking or waiting for staff to open it; Thomas had ceased keeping servants long ago, convinced that they were spying on him. Which was actually the truth; they were Raphael's spies he had kept close to Thomas in case he attempted to take his life again.

Something was wrong. Something was very very wrong. 

 Raphael aimed for the study, calling out for him but received no response in return. His blood ran cold.

What if he hurt himself again? I need to get there before he does something that cannot be fixed. I need to find Thomas.

And find Thomas he did.

With a pistol in his right hand and a bullet blown through the side of his skull.

No. Oh, Thomas. What have you done?

The scene was such a visceral shock to his system that Raphael let out a cry of anguish and fell to his knees. His breathing came in short, hard rasps. He took in air, unable to breathe, his heart tearing, his entire body hurting. 

Breathe. Breathe. Be calm. 

Think.

Raphael got up on his feet, his eyes already cataloging everything in the room.

Not a thing was out of place. 

There was even a note on his desk that read: I'm sorry. I do not have the will to keep fighting.

The handwriting was a perfect match for Thomas's, right down to the very curves of the gs.

The scene was flawless, convincing, and utterly unimpeachable.

Except for the fact that the note, the pen, and the pistol were all on Thomas' right. 

Thomas had been left-handed.