Three

The next evening, Devonworth arrived at Heathercote, the family seat of the Duke of Strathmore. Devonworth was there to see the duke’s brother and his close friend, Lord David Felding. Caffrey, the butler, had taken his coat and hat and cordially asked him to wait in the drawing room, but Devonworth didn’t have time for that.

“Where is he?” he asked.

Not that he didn’t have a guess. All of London was wagering on the activity in which his friend was currently engaged. He’d been told a bet had been entered in the ledger at White’s.

The butler actually flushed. “My lord, if you will but wait, I can get him.”

Devonworth sighed and charged upstairs. Caffrey rarely blushed, so it could only mean his master was occupied with her. He should have known. That damned woman and David’s reprobate tendencies were going to get him in trouble.

“I will find him. Thank you, Caffrey.” He didn’t pause to hear if the man replied as he took the stairs two at a time.

He had met David back in their schoolboy days and had spent countless summers and holidays roaming the vast estate. He knew every room as if it were his own home. He also knew that his friend had disappeared from London and would likely be found entertaining the wife of a man in the Prussian ambassador’s entourage who had gone missing around the same time.

The stairs led to a lavish but tasteful landing on the first floor with statuary set into built-in nooks framed by Ionic pilasters. Gaslight sconces flickered with subdued light that made the Greek gods appear particularly menacing, or perhaps that was Devonworth’s mood.

The door to David’s suite loomed before him at the end of the corridor. Devonworth managed to keep his anger in check as his strides ate up the distance. Knocking briskly on the door, he said, “David, I need to talk to you.” He waited precisely five seconds for a response before he pounded again. “David!” His knuckles smarted from the impact. Five seconds passed. “Damn you, come out now or I will come in there.”

He reached to take hold of the doorknob, but a muffled sound from within checked his hand. Footsteps followed by curses that gradually got louder came from inside the room before the door opened to reveal his friend, bedraggled and in need of a shave. He wore a hastily donned dressing gown, and his dark hair was sticking up in all directions. His normally tanned skin had a bit of a sallowness to it.

“Fucking hell, man,” David said, glaring at him through slitted eyes. “What?”

“I’d like a word.” It was too dark to see anything in the room beyond vague, furniture-shaped shadows. A rustling sound came from farther in the suite, and a cloyingly sweet perfume wafted out into the corridor. He didn’t have to ask to know the missing woman was in there. “Downstairs in the study. I’ll have Caffrey send supper in while we talk.”

David stared at him as if he’d lost his mind.

“You look like you haven’t eaten,” Devonworth continued. The alcoholic vapors were practically leaching off him. “A quarter hour, say?”

Devonworth walked away while David stared after him. By the time he reached the stairs, the door had slammed behind him. Devonworth should feel badly for interrupting them, but the truth was that simply laying eyes on his friend had made him feel better. The idea of marrying one of the Americans had rattled him more than he wanted to admit. He kept second-guessing the decision, which was a rare occurrence for him. Once he made up his mind on something, he always followed through with it and rarely ruminated over it.

But this was different. This felt more profound. That was the problem. He was typically able to remove his emotions from the equation and make decisions guided by logic and reason. Yet this situation involved a wife and probably children in the future. The near future. There would be no turning back from this. His entire life would change, and he was having trouble grappling with that. He’d already made the wrong choice with a woman once; he didn’t trust himself not to do it again.

After relaying the request for supper trays, Devonworth settled himself in the study with a scotch. The fire was starting to blaze cheerfully when David swaggered into the room like a petulant child. The dressing gown he wore was buttoned tight. He’d donned trousers and slippers, and his hair had been combed. He wore the forlorn expression of someone who found himself greatly put-upon.

“That was faster than expected,” Devonworth said, tipping the cut-crystal glass to him. He’d half expected to return to the suite’s door at least once.

David glared at him as he poured his own scotch and then slouched into the chair across from him. The fire in his eyes didn’t diminish as he took a drink and rolled it around his mouth before swallowing. Finally, he leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, the glass held loosely between them. “Why in bloody hell are you here?”

“I’m getting married.” He said it with the cool assurance that he was nowhere near feeling.

David stared at him. The words took a moment to penetrate the hedonistic fog he was laboring under. When they finally did, he said, “Fuck off.”

Devonworth wished he were joking. “It has been brought to my attention that perhaps a wife is in order.”

David laughed. “A wife?”

Devonworth shifted. “A wife. We all knew it was bound to happen one day.”

“It doesn’t have to.” David sat back in his seat. “You could leave it all for Harry to figure out.” There was the teeniest bit of resentment in his voice.

David’s older brother, the Duke of Strathmore, was a confirmed bachelor who had on numerous occasions let it be known that he intended never to marry so that the dukedom would pass to David. This was gradually accepted because Strathmore lived and traveled with his close friend, Christopher Warwick, and most suspected the relationship was much more than friendship. Strathmore had declared David his heir, and eventually, families had stopped pushing their daughters at him and had turned to the younger brother. This was the main reason David also eschewed the London Season and preferred married women. He knew he had to marry but would take his time in doing so. Devonworth had felt the same, but it seemed his time had come to an end.

After explaining the situation with Harry, he said, “I cannot see any other way forward than marriage. The estate is insolvent, and Harry is an idiot. I love him dearly, but he has to be brought to heel.”

David was too quiet, his face a mask of concern. “Strathmore could loan you—”

“No. I won’t take another loan. God knows I couldn’t pay it back before I’m dead. I won’t leave my children with such debt.”

Caffrey entered the room with a footman trailing behind him. They each carried a tray laden with what looked to be pheasant, roasted potatoes, and brussels sprouts, with compote of fruit and vanilla cream. The room fell quiet as they laid out the supper on the table with surgical precision, complete with linen and a cabernet. Devonworth’s stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since midday.

“Will there be anything else, my lord?” Caffrey asked as he poured them each a glass of wine.

When David didn’t answer, Devonworth said, “Please send a tray up to . . .” He didn’t know how David had introduced the woman to the servants. “To Lord David’s guest.”

The butler waited a full second for David to intervene, and when he merely took another sip of his scotch, he said, “Very well, my lord,” and gave an efficient bow.

“Thank you, Caffrey.” After the door closed behind the servants, Devonworth asked, “You have been feeding her, haven’t you?”

“Of course.” David had the gall to appear offended at the suggestion, until he thought about it. “I assume so. I’m very nearly certain there was food yesterday. Caffrey is good about that sort of thing.”

Devonworth took up a knife and fork. Everything smelled delicious. “It sounds as if you’ve gone beyond vodka. Not opium?”

They had tried the stuff in their youth and, aside from a couple of weeks that had been completely wiped from Devonworth’s memory, had come out unscathed.

“God, no. Makes me nauseated to even think of it.” David perused the selection of food. He popped a sliver of potato into his mouth. “She brought along a bottle of Vin Mariani. We fucked for eight hours straight, and that’s the last thing I remember until you knocked on the door.”

“Christ. Eight hours? You exaggerate.” The drink was a concoction of coca leaves soaked in wine and touted for its ability to increase stamina in all things. Scholars used it to further their concentration in their studies. The pope swore that it brought him closer to God in prayer. Devonworth had tried it once but hadn’t appreciated the nervous energy it caused.

“I wish it were an exaggeration. My bollocks have yet to recover.”

“That’s more detail than I needed.”

“Then don’t ask questions.” David smirked. “Tell me more about this wife. Do you have someone in mind or is this a more general statement?”

An image of the redhead came to mind.

“Camille, Dowager Duchess of Hereford, is hosting Americans at her country home. Young women. They are sisters looking for husbands. One assumes they are heiresses.” Though, after talking with Vining, he worried that all was not as it seemed with them.

David laughed. “Ah yes, the young women from New York.” He rose and walked to a cabinet behind the desk. Opening one of the small drawers, he pulled out a thick piece of creamy parchment that looked suspiciously like the one in Devonworth’s desk.

“You received an invitation, as well?” Devonworth asked.

“Yes, but I hadn’t planned to go, obviously. Isn’t it this week?” David glanced down at the date written in Camille’s hand.

“Yes.” Apprehension drove him to his feet and to the scotch. “I’ve made up my mind to go, but . . .”

“But you don’t really want a wife?”

“I don’t want . . .” He took a drink and savored how the liquor burned across his tongue. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he understood that he’d been drinking too much of the stuff lately, but he liked the way the burn and the accompanying numbness took his mind off things, however brief the respite. “I don’t want to wed a stranger,” he admitted.

There was a brief quiet, heavy with the memory of his past. “Perhaps a stranger is best. Strangers rarely hurt us.” David’s tone was thick with meaning.

Devonworth managed not to wince. He had tried everything to deny that Sofia was at least partially responsible for how he was feeling. Whenever the idea of a wife had crossed his thoughts, she had been that woman. Though that had been before she had married someone else.

“You’re right.” He was surprised at how resolute he sounded. A lifetime spent avoiding the traps that came along with his title and he’d managed to fall into the biggest one. Still, he bolstered the thread of steel in his voice until even he believed it when he said, “It will be a transactional marriage. Who better than a stranger to carry out such an arrangement with?”

“Precisely,” David agreed.

But even that wasn’t the entire truth. Devonworth didn’t want to marry a stranger, because even a stranger would eventually become someone he knew. Someone he might potentially grow to care about. It was inevitable in such an intimate relationship. He’d chosen Sofia and been utterly wrong about her. He didn’t want to be wrong again.

“I’d like it if you would go with me,” he said.

“You want me to go to a party filled with husband hunters?”

The image that conjured of David surrounded by women intent on forcibly dragging him to the altar made Devonworth choke on scotch as he laughed. “You don’t have to marry one of them. You’ll go for moral support and to make certain I choose wisely.”

His friend shifted uncomfortably. “How many are there?”

“Three.”

“That’s a good number. There’s bound to be an acceptable one.”

“So you’ll come?”

“I’ll come,” David said, and Devonworth relaxed immediately. “We simply need to find out how much they are offering. Titles don’t come cheap these days. We’ve all learned from Churchill’s debacle.” Lord Randolph Churchill had married an American heiress a handful of years earlier and was still in debt.

Devonworth nodded. “Assuming their funds are adequate, my plan is to marry the one named Cora. She isn’t quite a complete stranger. I met her once.”

“Really?”

“I have reason to believe she was at the football match.” He relayed the tale. David was a teammate and had played in the game.

“Intriguing. I faintly remember her. She was pretty in a very proper sort of way.”

“Yes.” Not that her looks mattered to him in the least.

“Strathmore will probably want to come, as well.”

“Your brother will want to go to a house party?”

“No, but he’ll want to see you betrothed to someone who meets with his approval.” When Devonworth simply stared at him in shock, David rolled his eyes. “You know you’re like a son to him. He won’t stand for you to be married poorly.”

He hadn’t known that. Strathmore’s manner was unreadable at best. It was why most of Parliament was terrified of him. “Fine, we’ll go up at the end of the week.” The idea of spending an entire week at the gathering was abhorrent, but he could manage one evening.