Sin. He had broken into a run when the news reached him, so desperate had he been to reach her.
“You believe I have somehow done my wife ill?” he asked, doing his best to quell his inner fury and failing. “What is it you think I have done to her? Have I poisoned her? Pushed her down the stairs? Good Christ, man. I was not even near her when she grew ill. If anyone should be asking questions, it should be me. I left her alone with you for scarcely any time at all, and suddenly I need to summon the physician.”
Westmorland was pale. He stalked toward Sin, and Sin held his ground, remaining where he was, refusing to back down. The duke’s eyes were wild, his upper lip curved into an unforgiving sneer. “Do not think I will not kill you because you are a peer, Sinclair. Or because you have somehow ingratiated yourself to my sister, and cast your spell over her. She is too kindhearted to know what manner of snake she has married.”
He had never had any quarrels with the duke before now.
“What manner of snake am I, hmm?” he asked. “You seemed happy enough to receive me on prior occasions when I visited you at Westmorland House.”
That was true enough, but he had known quite well that the duke was merely tolerating him, not that he liked him. Sin had been so caught up in his desire to gain proof against Callie that he had not given a damn. His call had not been a social one. Rather, it had been the means by which he had sealed Callie’s fate.
And his own.
How long ago that seemed, almost a lifetime. So much had altered between then and now.
“That was before you blackmailed my sister into becoming your wife, you bastard,” Westmorland growled. “You are a rakehell and a scoundrel. Do you deny being a member of the Black Souls?”
Sin refused to flinch or retreat. “No. Of course not. I have never made false claims about myself. Not to your sister, and not to anyone. I am a member of the Black Souls club. I have been for years. It hardly signifies.”
The Black Souls was a private club. Their reputation for depravity and licentiousness had been well-earned by some members, it was true. But the club was not solely a bastion of sin and wicked excess as all the rumors suggested. Rather, it was also a safe haven for lords with dark souls to convene. There was no judgment within the walls of that club.
And Sin had been grateful for that. He had done some things of which he was not proud, none of which had anything to do with the Black Souls. They had rescued him from his lowest depths. He could not lay the blame for his sins upon the Black Souls. Some of his best and oldest friends were members. Men he would trust with his very life. Decker, among them, who owned the club itself.
“Everyone knows the members of the Black Souls are depraved,” Westmorland insisted, his nostrils flaring as if he scented something unsavory. “If you have harmed my sister in any way, I will not hesitate to end you.”
Westmorland was lethal. He had killed two Fenians. Sin did not discount the danger his new brother-in-law presented. He had no doubt that the duke meant every word he said. His devotion to Callie had been apparent, and surprisingly comforting to Sin. His loathing of Sin—that was another matter entirely.
However, he could not entirely blame Westmorland. Had their situations been reversed, Sin had to admit that he would likely feel the same.
He met his brother-in-law’s gaze unflinchingly. “If I ever harm your sister in any fashion, I will end myself first. I have no intention of hurting Callie. Ever. She is my wife, and I will do everything in my power to keep her happy and well.”
The duke’s eyes narrowed into icy slits of disbelief. “I do not trust you, Sinclair. Not one whit.”
Sin almost chuckled. Instead, he raised a brow. “I never asked you to trust me.”
“Why did you marry my sister?” Westmorland asked.
“Because she owed me,” he answered honestly. “She ruined me, quite intentionally. I had no recourse. I am being utterly honest with you, Westmorland. If you think I have anything to hide, you are wrong.”
“Your first wife,” the duke said slowly, “what happened to her?”
“Bloody hell,” he muttered, disgusted. “If I had wanted to murder Celeste, I would have