Page 5 of Unmasking the Diamond
Luca’s irritation eased. “Have you spoken with a physician?”
The duke frowned, looking older than his years. “There is no point. I have not slept soundly since your mother died. Every night I wake and reach for her, and every night she is not there.”
The rawness in his voice twisted something deep inside Luca’s chest. “Have you considered remarrying?” he asked cautiously.
That earned a derisive snort. “Absolutely not. I am far too old. Besides, I loved your mother too well to settle for some ambitious lady who cares for nothing but my title.”
“You are not old,” Jude attempted.
“I am nearly sixty.” The duke reached for his fork as a footman set a plate before him. His words were simple, but the weight of them lingered.
Luca glanced down at his own untouched plate, appetite gone. His father’s grief was a shadow in the room, and Luca understood it too well. Their home had once been filled with laughter, with warmth, with love. He wanted that same kind of marriage for himself—not one of convenience or title, but something real. Something worth waiting for.
The pleasant clink of silver against porcelain was suddenly pierced by the sharp rustle of newssheets. A slow grin tugged at Jude’s mouth as he lifted the newssheets higher with deliberate flourish. “You were mentioned in Mr. Fairchild’s article.”
Luca arched a brow. “Is that so?”
“It is not flattering,” Jude remarked with a grin. “I daresay Mr. Fairchild is not overly fond of you.”
That caught Luca’s full attention. He extended his hand, palm up. “Let me see.”
With evident relish, Jude surrendered the newssheets. Luca’s eyes scanned the Society column, his practiced gaze devouring the tidy lines of print until his name leapt out at him in stark black ink:Lord Luca Dexter looked like a preening peacock at the ball, no doubt searching for his next dull, uninspired article.
Luca stared at the words, heat prickling his collar. A preening peacock? His jaw tightened. What had he done—merely observed, merely existed—to earn Fairchild’s scorn? And worse, in a rival’s column, no less.
The newssheets crackled under his grip as his hand clenched.
“Careful,” Jude warned lightly, reaching as though the newssheets were precious. “I still want to finish reading that.”
With deliberate disdain, Luca tossed the offending newssheets onto the table. Jude wasted no time in snatching them up again, his grin widening. “Now that I think of it, you do rather resemble a peacock, especially when you enter a room with that chest lifted and eyes scanning as if the world were your stage.”
Luca shot him a glare, but Jude only laughed.
Their father’s voice intervened, calm but commanding. “Do not let Mr. Fairchild’s words trouble you. He merely writes for the newssheets.”
Luca straightened at that. “As do I,” he reminded firmly.
“Yes,” his father replied, “but you are also a son of a duke. There is a difference.”
The sting of that subtle dismissal settled heavily in Luca’s chest. A son of a duke. As though that made his work a mere pastime rather than an endeavor worthy of respect.
At that moment, the door opened and Alfrey, their solemn, long-faced butler, stepped into the room. His presence was as unbending as his posture, his voice pitched with quiet formality. “A Mr. Cloward is here to see you, my lord. He claims to be a Bow Street Runner.”
Luca pushed back from the table, rising with purpose. Finally—progress. “Inform Mr. Cloward that I will join him shortly.”
The butler inclined his head and withdrew.
“Who is Mr. Cloward?” the duke asked, his brows furrowing.
Before Luca could answer, Jude spoke with infuriating nonchalance. “He is the Bow Street Runner that Luca hired to help him poach Mr. Fairchild fromThe Morning Post.”
“Poaching?” Their father’s lip curled, his voice dripping with disapproval. “That is a rather distasteful practice.”
Luca drew a steadying breath. This was why he worked as he did. To prove, to himself and to them, that words mattered. That influence wielded by a quill could be as powerful as any dukedom.
And if it meant luring Mr. Fairchild from the shadows? So be it.
“Excuse me,” Luca said, not bothering to linger for his father’s inevitable disapproval or Jude’s amusement. He left the dining room with long strides, pulse ticking quickly in his throat. Cloward had better not come empty-handed again. His patience, though broad when chasing a story, was wearing thin when it came to this particular hunt.
