Page 10 of Dukes for Dessert

Sophie swallowed, trying to make her nod nonchalant. “As you see me.”

Mr. Fleming peered at her in the blatant way so many gentlemen had once Laurie had destroyed her reputation, no more polite curiosity.

“He wants rid of you?” he demanded. “What the devil is wrong with him? Is he blind? Barking mad? Oh, wait, of course he is. He didn’t gain the name Lackwit Laurie for nothing.”

Mr. Fleming’s reaction was more flattering than most, but Sophie tried not to warm to it. She could trust so very few these days.

“According to his solicitors, I am an adulteress—many times over.” If she said it quickly, like a joke, it didn’t gall so much—almost. “I protested my innocence, but of course, I am a liar as well.”

“What does that matter?” Mr. Fleming said with admiring astonishment. “If you’d paraded an entire acrobat team through his house and amused yourself with each member, he’d still be a damned fool for putting you aside. If I were married to such a lovely woman, I’d look the other away so hard that my head would be on backwards. What sort of poxy bastard would do this to you?” He cut off with an exasperated noise. “Forgive my language—again. I’m not used to guarding my tongue.”

“Obviously,” Sophie said shakily.

Mr. Fleming grabbed Sophie’s trowel and stabbed the dirt repeatedly. “I will just have to speak to Lackwit Laurie.”

“No.”

The word came out more sharply than she meant it. Mr. Fleming stared at her—he hovered too close.

“I mean, please, do not,” Sophie made herself say in a quieter tone. “My name is already in every newspaper, and I’m certain a gentleman dashing in to defend me, however kindly meant, will only make things worse. I would rather remain here at Uncle’s until the divorce is finished.”

“Hiding away?”

“Yes.” Sophie met his gaze. “As you apparently are.”

“Touché.” Mr. Fleming’s lips parted, as though he meant to say more, but he shook his head. “I should have taken him to Regent’s Park,” he muttered.

“Pardon?” Sophie asked, blinking at the non sequitur.

“Nothing.” Mr. Fleming dropped the trowel and climbed to his feet, grabbing the spade. “Shall we give up on this furrow and try the next one?”

David decided to say nothing more to Sophie or Pierson about Sophie’s marriage and apparently insane husband the rest of the morning, but thoughts spun in his head. And schemes. He couldn’t help himself—scheming was his nature.

The day warmed slightly, but not much. The exertion of digging, scrambling up and down mounds, and arguing with Pierson heated David’s blood and burned out the rest of the alcohol. His body wanted more, but he decided to give it tea instead. Mac Mackenzie had managed to clear himself of all drink, and now imbibed fine-tasting teas he had specially blended for him. Perhaps David would take up his habits.

Easy to have grand intentions when the fit first struck. By the time he sat in Pierson’s study that night, Sophie retiring soon after supper, David was happy to accept a goblet of brandy and drink of it deeply.

He regretted the large sip, however, as the sour liquid burned his mouth and choked him on the way to his belly.

“This is foul,” he said to Pierson with a gasp. “You ought to let me send you better.”

“It is good enough for a poor vicar of a country parish,” Pierson answered, taking a modest sip. “Which I am. I like living humbly. A little humility would not go amiss for you, my friend.”

“Not my fault I was born into the gentry and inherited my father’s estates and money.” David took another sip, decided it wasn’t worth it, and set the brandy aside. His cigar, from the case he always carried with him, was of the finest stock, so he lit that instead.

Dr. Pierson deigned to accept a cigar from him, and soon both men were puffing in contented silence.

“Now then,” David said when he couldn’t contain himself any longer. “Your niece. Why didn’t you tell me she was married to Lackwit Laurie Devonport?”

Pierson gave him a sidelong look. “You never asked. Nor was it your business. He’s an earl, so I assumed you knew Devonport. You aristocrats stick together.”

“I’m not a peer, only distantly related to one.” David sat up straighter and laid his cigar in a bowl. “I did go to school with Devonport, when he was the Honorable Mr. Laurie Whitfield, and I loathed him. Most of my circle did. You should have seen the things Hart Mackenzie did to him, or caused to have done to him. Hart ruled a band of reprobates who’d do anything he commanded. I was one them, naturally.”

“Yes, I remember.” Pierson gave him a disapproving frown. “I never liked Devonport, and I did voice objection to the match. But Sophie wanted the marriage, as did her mother and father, and so I kept my peace. I’m not certain Sophie was ever truly in love with the man, but she was young and excited, and in love with the hullabaloo that surrounds weddings. So many get caught up in the wedding plans and the gowns and flowers and all the nonsense that they forget what marriage means. That the vows are just that—vows. Promises that you’ll be true to the other person, their partner in all ways, no betrayals—”

“Yes, yes,” David said hastily. Pierson was apt to go on about the lofty meaning of marriage if one didn’t stop him, an amusing trait in a bachelor. “What happened? Why isn’t Lackwit ecstatically happy that he has a beautiful woman with a saucy tongue and an intellect nurtured by you to go to bed with every night? He objects to her lovers, does he? What reason is that to put aside such a marvelous lady?”

Pierson’s eyes took on a glint of anger. “Sophie has no lovers. She is an honorable young woman. The lovers are an invention of Devonport’s so he can bring a charge of criminal conversation. He’s even persuaded a few of his toady friends to testify in court that they had …” He broke off and cleared his throat. “You know …”