Page 1 of My Devoted Viscount (Brazen Bluestockings #2)

London

Vincent, Viscount Fairfax, reached for the door handle as the carriage rolled to a stop, and nearly tumbled into the arms of the burly groom who suddenly swung the door open.

“One moment, my lord,” the lad in royal livery said, his voice pitched so low Vincent barely heard him over the singing.

His best friend Matthew had passed out an hour ago, resting his head on His Highness’s shoulder, but the remaining occupants were on the third verse of the current song, and the fifth bottle of wine since they’d left the inn this morning.

Probably the twelfth bottle since they left Brighton yesterday.

As soon as the groom let down the step, he reached up a hand to help Vincent alight from the carriage, as he was none too light on his feet.

The townhouse before him didn’t waver but Vincent still felt he was in motion.

Once he had both feet firmly on the ground and felt confident he wouldn’t fall on his arse, he glanced back at Matthew, his brow furrowed.

Matthew let out a snore.

“We’ll see he gets home safely, Fairfax,” Prinny said, giving Matthew an indulgent smile before waggling his beringed fingers at Vincent. “Off you go.” Without missing a beat, he joined his voice with the others on the chorus.

“Won’t be the first cup-shot gent I’ve carried to his bed,” the groom assured him with a wry grin.

Given that his shoulders were as broad as Vincent’s and he stood at least as tall as him, Vincent gave him a nod of thanks and stumbled his way toward the townhouse. Odd. He didn’t remember the cobblestones being this uneven.

The front door swung open as the postillion gave the command to set off, and the elegant carriage rolled away, the occupants now singing the fourth verse. Two of the outriders gave Vincent a jaunty wave as they passed, singing.

“Where have you been for the past fortnight?” his father demanded from the top step. Quietly though, and with a pleasant expression plastered to his face for the benefit of any nosy neighbors.

Vincent gestured at the departing coach and outriders, then wobbled because waving his arm upset his balance. “Command performance.” Having figured out once more how to navigate cobblestones, he managed the feat of then climbing steps into the townhouse and strode past his father.

The marquess watched the departing coach with its six outriders, his mouth agape. “Was that…”

“Yes.” Vincent started to nod but realized he might not be able to stop, so he checked his chin by pretending to adjust his cravat. “Brighton Pavilion is everything you’ve heard about it.”

Should he go up to his room? Order a meal in the breakfast room? Or confront his father now and get it out of the way? He really should move into bachelor quarters. While he dithered, he leafed through the calling cards and mail on the hall table addressed to him.

Invitations to balls and routs. Congratulations on second place and sympathy on losing this year’s Noblemen and Gentlemen’s Catch Club competition to his longtime friend and rival, the Earl of Ravencroft.

Invitation to Ravencroft’s wedding ceremony and breakfast. “You certainly wasted no time, old chum,” Vincent murmured, recalling the besotted look on Ravencroft’s face as he sang his winning composition to his intended bride.

“Once you’ve had a chance to make yourself presentable, see me in my study,” Father said after he finished watching the Prince’s carriage disappear from sight in the late afternoon London traffic.

He pointed at the remaining letter in Vincent’s hand, from Nonna Vincenza in Naples. “We need to discuss that.”

* * *

“It’s unlike you to get drunk during the day,” Father said by way of greeting an hour later as Vincent entered the study.

“It’s unlike me to be abducted by the Prince Regent.

Yet here we are.” Ever since his height had exceeded that of his father’s by the time he turned sixteen, Vincent would give him respect due the title, but he took a chair across from the desk rather than standing beside it like a naughty schoolboy awaiting punishment.

He shook his long hair out of his face and crossed one ankle over his knee, trying to appear a gentleman at his ease despite the headache building behind his eyes.

It might take him days to recover from drinking with the Prince Regent.

“It did sound much like a note from a kidnapper,” Father said, pulling a folded note from a drawer. He slid the parchment across the desk.

Vincent slipped his finger through the royal seal and read the terse message, which explained his abrupt departure from the Catch Club celebration at the request of His Royal Highness. “No demand for ransom, though. He wanted us to sing for him and his guests.”

“Us?”

“All six of us that Alvanley saw perform the Switch Song a fortnight ago for our old music teacher.” He slid the note back to his father to keep as a memento. “Alvanley thought Prinny would be amused.”

“Ah, the prize-winning Switch Song .” They both glanced at the glass-front bookcase, one shelf of which held ribbons and medals from competitions, including at least two for the musical skit in question.

“Prinny has troubadours aplenty but it entertained him to see peers of the realm behaving in such a silly manner?”

“Apparently.” Vincent returned his father’s grin. “Ravencroft escaped after he told Prinny he’d interrupted his marriage proposal. Prinny sent him off in his personal coach to reunite him with his bride-to-be. The rest of us had to wait until Prinny felt inclined to end the party.”

“And sing for your supper?”

“His table makes you look the veriest miser. Had we stayed much longer, my valet might have to let out my waistcoat and breeches.” Vincent patted his flat stomach.

Watching the play of emotions over his father’s face during their conversation, Vincent looked for any trace of himself, as he had so often.

Father’s light brown hair had a dusting of silver at the temples and a tendency to curl, where Vincent’s black locks were stick straight.

Their facial features had the same similarity as if Vincent had been plucked from a Moses basket in the River Kennet and raised as the marquess’s heir.

He shook himself from useless maudlin thoughts and retrieved the letter from Naples from his coat pocket. “You wanted to discuss Nonna Vincenza?”

Father retrieved a similar letter from the desk, also from Naples but addressed to himself. “No matter how old one gets, you are still your parent’s child.” He tapped the letter on his desk. “Mama has rung a peal over my head for keeping you in England so long.”

Vincent quirked one eyebrow.

“I had good reasons,” Father said, a defensive note creeping into his voice. “You were too young and I could not accompany you. Then it was too dangerous to travel on the Continent.”

“And then you wanted me to win the medal that eluded you.”

They glanced at the shelf of ribbons and medals again. Father let out a gusty sigh. “It wounds my vanity, I admit it. Your voice is better than mine. I had such hopes that you would triumph this year. That we would finally win a medal from the Catch Club.”

We . Vincent wouldn’t let it sting. He was far from the first person whose father wanted to live vicariously through his son, putting so much importance on winning a medal that Vincent hadn’t cared about since he left Oxford.

But for his father, he’d tried. Sung himself hoarse in rehearsal more than once.

“It wasn’t for lack of trying,” Vincent said.

“Who knew Ravencroft would sing with such depth of emotion to spark his creativity?”

“Perhaps if you fell in love and composed a tune for your bride, you could win next year?” Father raised his brows suggestively, humor lighting his blue eyes.

Vincent coughed. “I am going to travel.” He sat forward, resting his palms on his knees.

“I was steeling myself to confront you the morning after the competition. To tell you that I’m going to Italy.

Now.” He took a deep breath, in through the nose and out through the mouth, the same calming technique he used before beginning a performance.

“My investments have done well. Even if you cut me off, I can finance an extended trip myself.” He kept his body still as he braced himself for yet another excuse for Father to attempt to keep him on a short leash.

“Of course I won’t cut you off, and you should certainly go meet your grandmother in person.” Father blithely waved away his concerns. “You two would have met long before now if not for the Bloody Corsican.”

Vincent fell back in his chair, the wind stolen from his sails.

Permission to go, now so easily granted after years of repeated, firm denials.

Perhaps he should have tried to enlist Nonna’s help all along.

She had been hinting in her letters for him to come visit since he had finished at university, as she insisted she was too advanced in years to travel back to England.

But Waterloo had only been fought last summer, and the Continent was still sorting itself out.

“How soon will you depart?”

Nonna Vincenza wasn’t getting any younger. “I’ll stay long enough to see Ravencroft leg-shackled, then leave immediately after the wedding breakfast.”