Page 22 of I Never Forget a Duke (The Night Fire Club #1)
Lark pressed his lips together, bothered by the many layers of implication in the question. “Doubtful.”
Anthony winked at Lark and then looked over his shoulder toward Lark’s friends. “You don’t suppose party-averse Hugh would—”
“No.” Lark shook his head. “He’s got his eye on an entirely inappropriate woman, though.”
Anthony clapped his hands in delight. “I love it. Who?”
“The Earl of Canbury’s daughter.”
Anthony’s eyes widened. “There’s no way the dowager duchess would ever let Swynford near anyone even associated with Canbury.”
“I know.”
“The rumors about Canbury wearing women’s clothing in public are falsehoods, but I’ve heard he has a male lover. I actually suspect a spurned lover is responsible for the clothing rumors. And who knows, perhaps Canbury likes to wear a silky chemise in the bedroom.”
“I’d rather not contemplate that,” said Lark, unwillingly allowing a mental picture of the beady-eyed Canbury in a woman’s undergarments.
Anthony chuckled. “All right. I will stop hoarding your time. I need to go out of town for a few days to attend to a tenant issue at my estate in Surrey, but I will be home in time for the Wakefield ball. I shall see you there, yes?”
“I imagine you will.”
As Lark sat down with his friends—from what he could tell, Fletcher was telling a story about a trip to his tailor on Savile Row, one Lark had already heard—he smiled at everyone. When Fletcher wrapped his story and Hugh laughed as he was supposed to, Hugh turned to Lark and asked, “Who was that?”
“Anthony Pearson, the Marquess of Beresford,” said Fletcher, sounding irritated. “He’s been paying you a lot of attention lately, Lark.”
“He snared me on the way back from the retirement room to ask my advice about something,” said Lark, which had been true enough.
Although the question Anthony had asked was, “Do you think anyone would walk into the cloakroom if we spent a few minutes there?” And Lark’s response had been, “Let’s find out. ”
“Is he a friend of yours?” asked Hugh, looking puzzled. “My gut tells me I do not like him. He’s quite… foppish.”
Lark laughed. “He’s a lot to take, that is true. I suppose he has his charms.”
“Lark can be foppish,” said Owen. “And yet we keep him around.”
“That is not precisely what I meant,” said Hugh.
“Even understanding that, my answer does not change,” said Owen.
Lark rolled his eyes and picked up his snifter of whisky. He took a healthy sip and let the liquor burn his throat pleasantly on the way down.
Under different circumstances, Lark would have gleefully related the rumor that Canbury had a male lover because it was just the sort of gossip his friends seemed to eat with a spoon.
But given that Owen seemed to already be implying that he knew Lark and Anthony were lovers, and given that Hugh seemed sweet on Canbury’s daughter, it seemed ill-advised to mention it.
“Beresford told you something, didn’t he?” asked Fletcher. “Some bit of rumor you are reluctant to share for some reason.”
“If you must know, I asked Beresford about Canbury.”
That definitely caught Hugh’s attention.
“I know you are fond of Lady Adele,” Lark said, “but you should know, her father is something of a laughingstock. Beresford thinks someone with ulterior motives is the one spreading rumors and nothing said about Canbury in the scandal sheets is true, but people believe the rumors anyway, so the damage is done.”
“It is true he aspires to a position in the king’s government,” said Owen.
“Oh. Yes,” said Lark. “That is true. The ridiculous rumors about dressing as a woman are pure imagination, however.”
Hugh guffawed. “People are saying that?”
“Everyone in the ton is an unrepentant gossip,” said Fletcher.
“Remember that MP caught up in a similar rumor maybe ten years ago?” asked Lark. “What was his name?”
“Miller, I think,” said Owen. “Ah, Lord Broward.”
“That rumor was also false, as I recall,” said Fletcher.
“No, it wasn’t,” said Lark. “He showed up for that year’s Rutherford ball in a gown. I saw it with my own eyes. He was a hideous woman.”
“Oh,” said Fletcher. “But the Canbury rumors are false?”
“This is only conjecture, but the rumor has two possible sources,” said Lark. “A spurned lover looking for revenge or one of his political rivals who wishes to discredit him so that he does not get a position in His Majesty’s government.”
Hugh had stayed thoughtfully quiet through this conversation. He glanced at Lark as he reached for his whisky. “It is these rumors that make Lady Adele unmarriable, aren’t they?”
“In your mother’s eyes, certainly,” said Lark.
“Lady Adele believes it is because she spent her best years betrothed to a man who died and that she is too old now.”
“Stranger things have happened,” said Fletcher. “Wakefield’s wife was nearly thirty when they married.”
“Well,” said Owen, “she spent a few years in Paris doing God only knows what before returning to England to marry Wakefield. You can’t say that wedding did not raise some eyebrows.”
“But Wakefield is too important to snub,” said Hugh. “As I would be if I married Lady Adele.”
“Hugh, don’t get foolish ideas in your head,” said Owen. “She’s a pretty girl, I agree, and your mother is most eager for a grandchild, but being associated with Canbury will certainly ruin your reputation.”
“To what end?” asked Hugh.
Hugh’s post-amnesia na?veté was only charming to a point. The old Hugh would have understood what his friends were trying to tell him.
“Well,” said Fletcher, “it could limit the number of people willing to do business with you.”
“It would certainly limit the number of social invitations you receive,” said Owen.
“That might be a blessing,” said Hugh. “She is a good woman. Morally upright. Very clever. Her only flaw seems to be that society does not like her father.”
“Your mother would never approve,” said Lark.
Hugh sat back. He’d been back home long enough to learn what a force of nature the Dowager Duchess of Swynford was, even if he could not remember on his own. No one in her orbit did anything without her permission.
“Best to forget all about her, mate,” said Owen.
Hugh did not look convinced.