Page 7 of Duke with a Debt (Wicked Dukes Society #2)

CHAPTER 7

“ Y ou look disgustingly happy, particularly for a man wearing such a dreadful coat,” King observed, making a moue of distaste as he passed a glance over Stuart’s well-worn lounge suit.

He had been poring over The Times , seeking the announcement of his engagement to Rosamund, when his friend, the Duke of Kingham, had sauntered into his study, unannounced, as was often King’s preference. King liked the element of surprise, or so he claimed. Now, they were seated before the fire in the hearth on chairs that were likely as threadbare as Stuart’s coat was. But he didn’t care about his friend’s good-natured taunts. For just as King had crossed the room, Stuart had seen the words proclaiming to society that he and Miss Rosamund Payne were to be married. An intense rush of relief had washed over him.

“I thought you found it bourgeois to wake before noon,” Stuart offered mildly, impervious to his friend’s criticism.

The suit was several years old and undoubtedly outmoded by King’s exacting standards. But when one was perilously low on funds, one didn’t concern oneself with such trivialities. It was clean and pressed, which was the best Stuart was going to manage until he married. King, by comparison, wore a dark-blue velvet coat with a cobalt cravat, a buff silk waistcoat, and fawn trousers that looked as if they had been sewn onto him that very morning. Nary a stain, a wrinkle, nor a hair out of place atop his head.

“I couldn’t sleep,” King drawled. “It’s the devil of a thing.”

“No cure to be found? Not even in one of your potions?”

“I’m rather persuaded that the concoction I enjoyed before bed was the reason I couldn’t sleep,” his friend admitted wryly.

“And I’m the one you sought out for company this morning?” Stuart pressed a hand to his heart in dramatic fashion. “I’m touched.”

“Ha! If you must know, Brandon wasn’t at home.”

“There goes my poor conceit.”

“Also, I read the notice in The Times . You’re actually marrying her, then, old chap?”

What now seemed a lifetime ago, Stuart and his friends, the fellow founding members of their club, had pledged to see the ignominious legacies of their collective fathers rot. Stuart had meant that wine-soaked vow. He’d never expected to marry. But much had happened to alter the course of his life.

He nodded. “I am indeed.”

“First Brandon with all this talk of bloody marriage, and now you.” King shuddered. “I can only pray the rest of us remain unscathed.”

Stuart chuckled. “You make marriage sound like going to war.”

“Both are deadly entrapments,” King said, somber, shaking his head.

But Stuart didn’t feel the same. For the first time in years, Stuart was at ease. He felt a lightness in his chest that had been long absent. But more than that, a keen sense of anticipation coiled inside him, tighter than a watch spring. It was because of her, all of it.

Because of Rosamund, he possessed a sense of palpable relief that he would soon be able to regain control over his funds and his brother. That he would be able to spare Mother and save his family’s sordid secrets. And also—he could not lie to himself—that he would soon have Rosamund in his bed.

Their marriage may have begun as one of convenience, but he had been able to think of precious little else ever since that day in Brandon’s carriage when Stuart had buried his face between her legs and pleasured her until she had come on his tongue. Her taste, her scent, sweet God, her responsiveness… He had intended to prove to her just how compatible they were, and in the end, he had only succeeded in proving to himself how much he wanted her.

But he had to stop thinking of such things in the company of his friend. King was too damned perceptive by far.

He cleared his throat and shifted in his chair, trying to find a more comfortable position. “As I told you all, I need to marry.”

What he hadn’t revealed to his friends was that he was being blackmailed. He alone knew about the letters that had come in rapid succession, always demanding more money, that first shocking missive still making impotent fury rage through him every time he recalled the words that had been scrawled in slanted black ink. Words conveying a secret he had believed no one knew. A secret he couldn’t allow to be revealed.

“Your worthless brother and wastrel father have left you in straits that dire?” King probed.

“Wesley is doing his damnedest to make certain he bleeds me dry,” he affirmed, guilt slicing through him for not being completely honest, even if he knew he couldn’t. “He is hell-bent upon spending every last farthing in my possession.”

“Why not cut him off?” King asked. “I know it isn’t my business and Wesley is your brother, but good Christ, Cam. No one would blame you for ridding yourself of the plague of a brother determined to whore and gamble his way to oblivion.”

“My mother would, however,” he said, thinking of the beloved woman he had almost lost. “She is intent upon believing the best of him, and with her infirmity, the doctor has been insistent that she isn’t to suffer any upset. It could drive her to her grave. How can I, in good faith, cast her son into the streets knowing this?”

“It’s said that a mother’s love can see no faults,” King drawled. “Having had a mother who didn’t give a damn if I lived or died, I never experienced that firsthand.”

Stuart sighed. “I’m sorry for that.”

“ She wasn’t.” King raised a brow. “She was more concerned with her lovers, I fear. But never mind my sordid upbringing. Let us discuss the most pressing matter, your arsehole brother. I do know some enterprising fellows, Cam. For the proper motivation, it would only require one shove in front of a carriage or a bit of arsenic in his soup…”

“King.”

“Right.” His friend shrugged. “You can’t fault a chap for asking.”

“Murder feels a trifle worse than merely cutting him off and casting him to the streets,” Stuart pointed out dryly.

“Such a strong, hideous word, that,” King said. “I prefer to think of it as an unfortunate mishap facilitated by a helpful criminal.”

“Jesus,” he muttered, scrubbing a hand over his chin. “Please don’t tell me you’ve employed such tactics in the past.”

King held his gaze. “I’ve never employed such tactics in the past,” he said with an innocent air that Stuart couldn’t be entirely certain was genuine. “Feel better now, Cam?”

“No,” Stuart answered with blunt honesty. “I bloody well don’t.”

“Perhaps a drink would assuage your conscience,” King suggested.

“Impossible. I’m afraid my brother has drained the household dry of every last drop of spirits.”

King extracted a small bottle from within his coat. “Fortunately for you, I come prepared.”

Stuart eyed the offering with a raised brow. “A new potion of yours?”

King was known in their circle for his delight in crafting concoctions that were both mysterious and potent. His skill certainly pleased the other members of their club, particularly at the house parties they hosted.

“It is indeed.” King grinned.

“Dare I inquire what it is?” Stuart asked, although he already knew the answer.

“Don’t spoil my fun,” his friend chastised, offering him the bottle. “Have a sip and tell me what you think.”

He extended the bottle to him, and Stuart accepted it. “I’m about to have a very unpleasant conversation with my arsehole of a brother soon, so I’ll need all the fortification I can beg, borrow, or steal.”

Stuart unscrewed the cap on the bottle and brought the slim, tapered neck to his lips. The liquid hit his tongue, smooth and mellow with a hint of sweetness. It was rather good, actually. But that was hardly surprising. King’s potions were infallibly delicious; it was the aftereffects that varied.

“What manner of unpleasant conversation, if I dare ask?” King queried.

Stuart winced, recalling the task awaiting him, one which he had been dreading. “I need to tell him that I’m marrying his former betrothed.”

His friend whistled. “You haven’t told him yet?”

He shook his head. “Theirs was not a love match. At least, it wasn’t on Wesley’s part. I don’t believe him capable of loving anyone, not even himself. But as you can imagine, the circumstances are a trifle unconventional.”

“Ah, damn it all. You had better drink up, my friend,” King advised.

And he thought his friend was not wrong about that. Grimly, Stuart took another pull from the bottle. Warmth coursed through him, the potion already having an effect upon him.

“But not too much,” his friend added. “This potion is decidedly a strong one.”

“Am I going to hallucinate a mermaid and convince myself I’m a fish?” he asked wryly, recalling a past incident concerning one of King’s brews and a particularly inebriated club member.

“God.” King chuckled. “I had forgotten about poor old Lord Roderick. As long as you stay away from water, table legs, and marble statuary, you’ll be fine. But whatever you do, don’t sneeze, walk in a circle, or eat cheese for the next few hours.”

Stuart was mid-sip when his friend issued the alarming—if confusing—instructions. “Are you jesting?”

King grinned. “Of course I am.”

Stuart took another swig.

His evil friend raised a brow. “Or am I?”

“Bastard,” he said without heat, threading the cap back on the bottle and returning it to King. “Here you are. I thank you for the calm before the storm.”

“Any time, old chap,” King said. “I aim to serve.” He tucked the bottle back inside his coat. “I suppose I should be on my way. But do think on what I said. Just a bit of arsenic in the soup ought to do it. All one need do is soak some flypapers.”

They both rose from their chairs, King smoothing every wrinkle from his velvet coat and brushing the sleeves for any hint of lint.

“I’m not sure if I ought to be concerned you possess intimate knowledge on the means of obtaining arsenic for poisoning someone or impressed.”

“Do be impressed.” King winked. “I can assure you that, were I in the mood to murder anyone, you would never be in danger. I cannot, however, say the same for everyone in my acquaintance.”

Bloody hell.

Only King.

His spirits further lifted with the aid of his friend’s latest potion, Stuart saw King off. But when he inquired with Fleetwood about Wesley’s whereabouts, it was to discover that his brother had already skulked from the town house, likely off to lose more money Stuart didn’t have.

Informing Wesley about his impending nuptials would have to wait for another day. He would pay a call on his future duchess instead. They needed to arrange the details of their wedding, and he simply needed to see her again.