Chapter twenty seven
Lord Roothewell stared down at the knife on his throat, gasping fearfully before he finally looked up at them again, "What do you want from me?"
The Duke studied him silently for a while before he sighed. Approaching him, he lowered his height in a squat for better scrutiny. "How well do you know my father?"
The Baron seemed to have frowned a bit, they noticed. Still, he clammed up, reluctant to speak.
Philip glanced at Monica with narrowed eyes, speaking a language with the stare only she was able to understand.
Then, she obeyed.
The lady pushed the blade closer through the Baron's skin, slightly piercing it and threatening to go deeper.
With a groan, he grimaced at the sight of his own blood sipping down his clothes, "Fine!" Then he felt the weapon pressing his skin shift away as well…just a bit.
"I'm listening," Philip pushed his stand even more.
After drawing shaky breaths for something that looked like strength, Roothewell sighed in frustration and let out just a tip of the iceberg, "I introduced him to Maitland Avani, her father." He tipped his head backwards at Monica and continued, "Maitland pleaded for an acquaintance with him and that's where I came into the story. That is all I can say."
A smile crossed the Duke's lips, making the older man realize he was not satisfied with the answer. Philip stretched a hand out to Monica, and soon after, she placed the knife into it and drew back, leaving the Baron in the mercy of the cruel Duke.
Without warning, Philip pricked the tip of the blade through the already bleeding wound on his throat. When the man groaned again, he raised his chin and teased, "In case you are oblivious, let me fill you in." He took an intentional but essential pause, "I run my father's office now, giving me access to all my father's letters and documents. And as much as I hated it, I had to read them. Every single line."
Philip pushed the blade deeper, yet cautiously, "You do not think my father will keep accounts of people in lower nobility if there was not something striking about them."
As if the Duke of Anfield was not angry enough, Roothewell Henchele's next words dropped the vibe of patience in the entire room, "You little… you may be the Duke of Anfield but I am old enough to have given birth to you."
Contrary to what anyone would have expected, Philip gave a tiny laugh and returned his gaze to him. The smile he showed reached his eyes genuinely, "You do not seem to know me too well, do you. As you can see, I have no regards for filthy, pervetive rags like you, be you the oldest man alive. You have one more chance to speak."
The Baron looked around the room and back to Philip casually, releasing regular, fearful gasps. His attackers seemed more than likely to cut him into meat pieces without a second thought, especially that tall, built military man that seemed to have been killing all his life. As though Nax read his mind, he returned a small smirk.
"Fine. I'll talk," the Baron declared just when he found a small trace of impatient frown on the Duke's forehead.
The lad's grin came back on and he came up to his feet. Tossing the knife away, he gestured with both his hands, "Be my guest. How do you know him? That has been my question from the start but you seem to avoid it."
After a moment or two, the Baron shook his head while confessing, "Okay I was in charge of all his dirty work. We met many years ago in Edinburgh and it happened he had a job I could take care of."
The Earl of Vetcom had a smile on while he listened for some strange reason. When Roothwell was through with the sentence, he couldn't help but spit, "So you're just a pawn. I figured you didn't worth more."
The man on the floor was seemingly losing his temper, realising the youths around him had tongues too loose for their ages. "Just listen to me," he almost scolded, taking his gaze to Philip again, "Whenever His Majesty or your father had some rival into no good, I came in the picture. And then Maitland graced my abode with his presence one day, seeking for acquaintance with your father. I organized it for him. If there's anything you're looking for, ask the ones leading the ton, not me. I am like the steam here used for cooking up the plans."
Monica halted him and tilted her head in confusion, a frown on, "Why in the world would my father want to so badly be friends with his ?"
Roothewell had that  pose of frustration again. With fear gnawing at every bit of his body, he answered her question blatantly, "By God, I am not in the know. One thing I know is his intentions might not have been good." He realized the gravity of what he'd said after he said it. And fearfully, he glanced at Monica with a gasp.
The Scottish flinched at his words and pulled out Earl's pistol from where she knew he would put it. The lass began taking slow stalks towards him with the gun aimed, "Any word more against my father will surely land you in hell sooner than you expected My Lord."
"Drop the gun Monica," she suddenly heard Philip command from where he stood.
She hesitated, the finger upon the trigger shaking, stubbornly, unflinchingly. Then her eyes fell on her favorite lad again. He narrowed his eyes at her, pleading silently with a frown. Now she concluded being vulnerable to this young man was going to strike a big problem for her future plans. Slowly, she lowered the gun.
Although his words now were stuttered, the Baron went on to speak, "He soon joined the King's inner circle of favorite Monarchs, despite his Scot origin. And not long after, he and your father were like hair and skin."
"Oh really," Earl snickered softly, "Then what would have made Maitland dislike the last Duke."
Roothewell stammered as his mind searched for answers. His eyes were still on the gun in Monica's clutch, "Uh uh... Yes! Miriam Maitland once had an interest in your father." His gaze travelled to Philip now.
Everybody else in the room now had a frown on, either out of confusion…or just plain shock. Well except for Monica of course. She rolled her eyes and looked away. That woman was the only person in the world she hated more than Elizabeth, "She turned out to just be a whore didn't she?"
"She sighted Forland in one of those waltz parties and just caught an inkling of interest," the man explained. "And given the friendship between her brother, the last Viscount of Mareda and him, she grew instantly closer."
Monica could not help but smile. She wouldn't blame her mother on that one. It seemed the adage of "Like father like son" took its stand right here. As much as Philip caught her interest, his father caught her mother's. What an excellent twist in the story.
She found herself smirking at the Duke again with the dirtiest thoughts running through her mind.
But the men had a completely different thing they were thinking of. They all seemed to gawk at her with their eyes wide.
She frowned and wondered what was happening. But then she realized she was the one not paying attention before. After a little recap on the man's words, she sighed and realized why they were staring, "As much as it is true, I hate to admit to how the relationship disgusts me. Yes I am Elizabeth's cousin."
It took a while for them to digest that and go on with their interrogation.
But no one was half as determined as Roothewell to leave the tower and the company of these maddened, insolent people. He began to rush his words, "We all understood that Lord Forland picked Rebecca over Miriam in the end. Yet Miriam still wanted him, even after her marriage to Maitland.
That was good enough reason for Maitland to dislike your father."
Even with the Duke's order, the urge to kill this man returned to Monica's mind. It was obvious to the Marquess beside her as he saw her finger upon the trigger shiver slightly.
Cautiously, he placed a hand above hers in a comfortable grip and pulled the gun out slowly, urging her to be calm.
And she did. She forced a nod and swallowed, "So how did this lead to my father being killed."
Her voice sounded evidently shaky and brutal, something everyone present noticed.
As much as the younger Prince was surprised, he was uncomfortable with the possible outcome of this if she wasn't stopped.
"Monica. Calm down…" he tried to say before she shrieked an order at the Baron to interrupt him.
"Let him answer my question!"
To Roothewell, this maiden was twice as daring as the men. And as much as he wondered why, he was afraid of her. When he realized he was shivering, he bowed his head again and forced control, "Forland killed your father when he realized the hatred, trying to avoid all threats."
The news dropped as a bombshell to every lad in the room with her. And while Monica had known about this before, it just seemed to sound more intoxicating.
Without any further restraint, she made a move to pounce on the man. Halfway there, a tight grip came around her to hold her back. She did not need to turn around to realize it was Timothy.
She fought hard to get loose, but with his entire strength channeled into that grip, she was not going anywhere.
Finally, she released a groan of surrender and buried her face in the arch of the Prince's shoulder, drenching his cravat with her tears. His strong grip finally loosened to something more comforting as he rubbed her hair.
There was Philip, still shocked and frozen. Somehow, the shame he felt kept him from looking up at the lady. Realising his father was the cause of all of Monica's pain was not an easy thing to swallow.
His friends around also had a similar dazed feeling, especially Jason and Earl who fought the new found eagerness to put a bullet through the Baron's head.