Page 4 of My Disastrous Duchess (The Untamed Ladies #2)

Bastian nodded, obviously not believing him. He was kind enough not to say anything. The same could not be said for Simon.

“So clucks the chicken. I agree with Bastian that this is most unusual. Last I heard, you had planned to spend some time on the continent,” Simon said, artfully clipping his cigar and returning it to its traveling case.

“Thought maybe you had wanted to honor that mother of yours in some way by going there. More fool me. However, rarely does the Duke of Langley fail to follow through with a plan. So, was it to be a trip of business or leisure?”

“Do you know me to be a leisurely fellow?” Alexander sighed discretely, recalling his later letter from the investigator.

“The idea ceased to appeal to me. There is nothing more to it than that...” He paused, disquieted by the proceeding silence.

Those two were never quiet. “By Jove, do you plan to interrogate me all evening? How often do we find ourselves returning to our home county at the same time? You are no better gossips than the Salisbury folk you despise.”

“Alright, alright. So defensive, so mysterious. Drives the gentler sex mad, I’m sure,” Simon teased, taking Alexander by the shoulder.

He was a rake to the bone and proud of it, grinning at Alexander now that he had made him uncomfortable.

“Come then. Let us return inside and see what has become of this cesspit in our absence.”

Alexander had little patience for balls, and the assembly rooms that evening were fit to burst with local faces.

He had tried to keep his presence in the country a secret, but Simon had spotted him on a ride.

He couldn’t deny the invitation to attend that evening without arousing more suspicion.

Simon may have been a fool, but he was a clever fool.

And like a dog with a bone, he wouldn’t leave Alexander in peace if he thought there was something he was hiding.

Bastian was a simpler, laid-back man with a talent for making friends.

But that night, he descended the stairs to the Herbert Room with a slump in his shoulders.

Alexander had heard the news about Bastian’s recent heartbreak – they all had – but they hadn’t discussed it yet.

That was just their way. The young woman Bastian had been courting, the daughter of some marquess, had chosen another gentleman over him.

It wasn’t the first time Bastian had been jilted.

He was too kind for his own good and had unfortunately been born the second son of the Earl of Salisbury instead of the first.

A riot of sound greeted them as they entered, the music from the string quartet competing with the braying and barking of happy Salisburyans.

Most of the local Wiltshire families would soon be making their way to London.

Evidently, they had all had the same idea: to congregate one last time before the social season began to bid their farewells, organize their calendars, and potentially strike up some early matches.

It didn’t take long for Alexander and his friends to be cornered. With a feather sticking out of her hair like a ship’s mast, Mrs. Dudley pushed through the crowds and intercepted them immediately.

“Your lordships, Your Grace,” she cooed, dropping into a curtsey. “We have been awaiting your arrivals most excitedly.”

Alexander didn’t doubt that was true. Mrs. Dudley, who he assumed had spearheaded the gathering that night, was a local menace.

She had six daughters, two of them still unwed, and a dithering old husband who was absurdly rich and generally well-liked.

Of the two of them, she was known as The Dudley – had a man’s essence, a commander’s spirit.

Between the three friends who were there that night, two of them could be spared.

A man didn’t refuse a Dudley girl a dance if he knew what was good for him.

Mrs. Dudley had known them all since they were in leading strings and liked to remind them of it with every breath.

He blinked, so preoccupied with his thoughts that he had missed the start of the Dudley-Stockton sparing match. Simon had a way of making everything sound like a joke, and Mrs. Dudley was laughing but not deterred by his efforts.

“I will not be so easily satisfied, Viscount Stockton. Your honeyed words may work wonders for you in London, but I know a thing or two about gentlemen of your caliber. What you believe you want, and what you truly want, are much different in your heart,” Dudley was saying, taking Simon by the arm.

“Just look at that friend of yours, the Duke of Wells. We’ve all read about him.

Swore he was an eternal bachelor one moment and was signing a marriage contract the next. ”

Simon groaned, shaking his head. “That is one such madness that I cannot defend, and an affliction that is not contagious, regardless of what you think. You are barking up the wrong tree, Dudley. You will not make a dancer out of me tonight. Take Bastian, I beg of you. Just look at him. He is desperate for a dance.”

Bastian took a step back, but it was too late.

Mrs. Dudley reached forward and cooed, “Sweet Little Bastian, always a welcome sight,” and grabbed him, exchanging Simon for someone more pliable.

She shot a look in Alexander’s way, and he bristled.

Simon took that as his opportunity to leave, laughing.

Scoundrel, Alexander thought.

“I have another girl with a vacant space on her dance card,” Mrs. Dudley said with a pleading look.

She stroked his arm with her free hand, a gesture only someone of Dudley’s renown could permit herself, though Alexander wished his acquaintances would all stop touching him.

Such a lack of etiquette was a result of living in the country.

“And you are such a tremendous dancer, Your Grace. Why, I remember how wonderfully you danced at my last midsummer ball.”

“You spiked my drinks and took advantage,” Alexander replied, wagging his finger. “I have my wits about me now, Dudley. I will not be duped twice.”

“So, it is Your Grace for Alexander, but Little Bastian for me?” Bastian interjected, appalled.

He seemed to sense Alexander’s reluctance and, good friend that he was, shrugged in defeat.

“Let us leave His Grace in peace. I have another poor soul I can introduce you to – who will not need to be tricked into anything.”

Clapping in delight, Mrs. Dudley allowed herself to be dragged away.

Alexander had barely caught his breath when Simon sidled up beside him with two drinks, leaning in conspiratorially.

The Claret in their glasses glittered red under the light of the chandeliers overhead, thinner than usual, likely watered down.

“Don’t look now,” Simon said, “but Lord Harding is glancing your way. No doubt wants a word about Pembroke since the two of you were such good friends.”

“You are more deluded than even Dudley,” Alexander riposted, taking a sip of wine. He usually refrained from drinking at public venues. The night was already wearing on him. “Pembroke and I are no more connected than a bishop and a bottle of brandy.”

Simon arched a brow. “Surely you are not forgetting your little mine...”

The little mine had been nothing but trouble.

Alexander had been displeased but not surprised when he had heard of William Pembroke’s sudden disappearance.

For the time being, he hadn’t sold William’s shares in the quarry – hadn't found time to meet with whatever poor soul was managing William’s affairs in his absence.

The gentlemen who had been scammed by William, Harding among them, seemed to believe that half the quarry was their due.

“Harding will be one of many to try to bargain with me and receive nothing but my abject disapproval in return,” Alexander said, angling himself away from the baron.

“It had not occurred to me to avoid Salisbury on account of Pembroke’s antics, but now I fear I have made a grave mistake by returning.

Are they still hanging on to the stories? ”

“Oh, with every word. It’s all anyone can talk about,” Simon said with levity, like this wasn’t a man’s total ruin they were discussing.

“Can you blame them? I can’t think of a scandal quite like this since.

.. since...” He shook his head. “Aye, there has never been one so great in our corner of the woods. A cack-handed affair to be sure. What do you suspect?”

“I suspect the man is dead,” Alexander replied.

It was the only practical response. “He has not been seen in – what – six months? Likely rode himself to the sea, like they said, loaded his pockets with stones, and started a long walk toward France. It wasn’t a great loss, was it?

Pembroke had been spelling his own ruin for years. ”

Against his better judgment, Alexander looked up and met Harding’s eye.

The baron was determined to get his attention, and now Alexander had just given him what he wanted.

Alexander cursed under his breath, looking for an exit.

He turned sharply to the side, determined to remove himself from the mindless parade of Pembroke’s enemies and find some quiet corner to retire into until they were all too inebriated to bother him.

He didn’t make it two steps before trouble found him.

There was a sudden impact of bodies, soft and then jarring, followed by a startled gasp.

His glass crashed into his chest, then down to the floor, where it splintered into pieces at his feet.

A splash of chilled wine bloomed down his front like a bloodstain, wine dripping off his fingers.

This was an embarrassment he would not brook.

He looked down, aghast, breath leaving him in a sharp hiss, before turning his gaze up at the perpetrator of the crime. She was staring at him with wide eyes. Her rosebud mouth had contorted in shock, but also in anger.

Anger... ? Alexander almost laughed at the thought.

She was the one who’d walked into him , and from the look of things, was none the worse for wear despite the violence of her mistake.

He looked at her through the cloud of his annoyance, feeling the eyes of nearby guests fix on them.

But her eyes that concerned him most of all: blue-grey, familiar. ..

Too familiar.