Page 12

CHAPTER 11

“W ell, well, well... Look who finally brought himself to leave the house.” Matthew Leeson—the Duke of Fairhaven—puffed through his pipe.

Duncan retrieved his own pipe from his coat before handing it to the servant. “At least I go home every once in a while,” he retorted, accepting a lit match from the servant to start his pipe. “You, on the other hand, have practically melted into that armchair.”

Duncan thought the lads should consider themselves rather fortunate that Gillingham’s still tolerated them after all the stunts they pulled—collectively and individually—within it. And something about the air in this particular gentlemen’s club always made it stick to you.

As a result, when Duncan was younger, one of the easiest ways for his parents to tell whether he had snuck out during the night or hadn’t been carrying out his errands would be to smell his hair—and if it smelled like rosemary and cigars, well, it could only mean Gillingham’s.

His friend exhaled deeply, dangling his free arm over the chair’s side. “What do you expect, old bean? When one’s heart is broken, even standing upright feels impossible!”

“Or apparently, even sitting upright,” Duncan retorted, nodding to his friend’s slumped posture. “So which unwilling lady have you imposed your heart on this time?” He blew out a puff of smoke.

“Hmph! As usual, you display no sympathy for my plight!” his friend lamented.

“That’s because most of your ‘plights’ are self-inflicted.” Duncan rolled his eyes, taking the armchair next to him.

“Someone without a sliver of romance in his bones couldn’t possibly understand,” the red-haired duke huffed. “And for your information, I really did love Lady Beatrice.”

“Just as much as you ‘loved’ Lady Augusta?”

“That was different!” Fairhaven snapped. “We had a rather unfortunate series of irreconcilable differences in-”

“Her father asked you if and when you were going to propose and you took offense ,” Duncan reminded him. “While she was also present and while you were in their house, mind you.”

“If he hadn’t rushed me, I would have proposed... eventually,” his friend returned. “But no, his impatience ruined everything!”

Duncan opened his mouth to protest his friend’s skewed reasoning but decided against it in the end.

After all, there’s only so many times we can have the same conversation—albeit in slightly different variations.

“Has Harlington arrived yet?” Duncan asked, changing the subject.

“Billiards,” mumbled the other duke. “He too had no sympathy to spare for my anguish.”

Duncan sarcastically bowed his head. “O Caesar, forgive our transgression! We were but fools to assume the world revolves around anything or anyone other than your resplendent self!”

“If I’m Caesar, then that makes the pair of you Brutus and- who was the other main fellow that led that dastardly ploy?” inquired his friend.

“Why would I aid you in insulting us?” Duncan chuckled, signaling for the servants to bring them a fresh teapot. “And speaking of fellows who don't get along, is Steepwharf in today?”

This question was apparently intriguing enough to finally get Fairhaven to straighten up in his chair. “I think I saw him in the Upper East lounge when I passed it earlier.” he answered. “Why? Does he owe you or something?”

“Nothing like that.” Duncan scanned their surroundings before leaning in. “I presume Harlington filled you in on my latest quest on Lady Penelope’s behalf.”

“He did, indeed.” Fairhaven nodded, leaning forward to grab a tart. “Are you looking for Steepwharf to take the fall, then?”

Duncan began to answer, but froze—after twenty odd years of friendship, Duncan knew better than to ignore an askew remark from Fairhaven, no matter how small.

Slowly turning his head towards his friend, “What exactly do you mean, Fairhaven?”

“You know,” his friend lowered his voice, “Steepwharf shall marry Lady Penelope at once and no one need ever find out that you er,” he looked down at the pastry in his hand, “put a bun in her oven.”

Duncan lightly slapped a hand across Fairhaven’s forehead, eliciting a surprised yelp in return.

“Lady Penelope isn’t that sort of woman,” he hissed, “nor am I that empty-headed or depraved!”

“You’re dead, Blackmoore!” roared his friend, jumping onto his armchair with so much force it fell backward and took both of them with it. As they rolled onto the floor, Duncan spit out his pipe, lest it cause some damage to the roof of his mouth during this scuffle—he remembered something similar happened to the Marquess of Southvale a few years prior.

“Get off of me, you fool!” Duncan called out, prying his hot-headed friend’s hands off his collar. “Don’t make me hit you! Or else you shan't be able to show your face to Lady Beatrice for the next month!” he warned.

But his friend only proceeded to tighten his grip and shake him even harder. “You’ll be sorry for that you-”

Suddenly, Duncan felt Fairhaven’s weight lift. He raised his head to see Harlington with his hands in his pockets, wearing a wide grin after having kicked their friend off of him. “After all these years, I still can’t trust you morons to go ten minutes without my oversight.”

Duncan rolled his eyes, but accepted Harlington’s hand to help him get up. “How was your billiards match?” he asked.

“How do you think?” Harlington replied with a glint in his eye as he waved his coin purse in the air triumphantly.

The friends helped the servants re-erect the fallen armchair. And Duncan thanked one of the men for returning his pipe to him and apologized for the commotion. “Next time, I’ll be sure to sit as far away from Fairhaven as possible,” he joked, fishing out his handkerchief to wipe down his pipe.

A chorus of lighthearted chuckles and “It’s all right, Your Grace’s” rang out before the servants dispersed. In truth, given Fairhaven’s foul mood and Duncan’s stubbornness, they had probably been expecting something like this to erupt.

At least now Fairhaven had gotten it out of his system, they could finally enjoy the rest of their stay in peace—or so Duncan thought.

Presently, Fairhaven was quickly striding towards the door.

“Where do you think you’re going, Lees?” Duncan called after him.

“Wherever you’re not!” he angrily declared.

Once Duncan had explained to a confused Harlington everything that had transpired in his absence, the marquess could do nothing but shake his head and sigh,

“I meant to warn you that Fairhaven hasn’t been acting like himself lately either.”

Duncan raised an eyebrow in surprise, “How could you possibly tell when even Fairhaven barely understands what ‘acting like himself’ even is?”

“I can tell because I don’t spend every waking second endeavoring to rile him up.” Harlington rolled his eyes. “He says it’s because of Lady Beatrice, but I’d bet good money that there’s much more to it than that.”

“You better go make sure he doesn’t find a way to get himself thrown out—even Gillingham’s patience has its limits.” Duncan suggested, “I’ll come find you once I’ve spoken to Steepwharf.”

“Perhaps I should accompany you firs-”

“No need,” Duncan assured him. “He’s less likely to be hostile if I approach him alone.”

With that, the friends went their separate ways for the time being.

As Duncan ascended the steps to the next floor, he passed one of the servants who confirmed what Fairhaven had claimed earlier—the Viscount Steepwharf was indeed in the Upper East Lounge.

“Is he with anyone else?” Duncan asked.

“I believe he was discussing matters of business with Lords Penswaithe and Tresney,” replied the servant.

Duncan swore under his breath.

Wonderful… he sighed to himself. Each of them is barely tolerable on their own, but together, they’re utterly insufferable.

But Duncan reminded himself that the success of Lady Penelope’s quest for a husband depended on this, so for her sake, he would stomach their company.

Even as he entered the room, he could already feel the wretched party’s eyes on him.

He approached their cluster of armchairs with the most convincing smile he could muster. “Good afternoon, gents. I trust all is well,” he greeted cordially.

“Did you hit your head, Blackmoore?” Penswaithe immediately taunted, “Or has your eyesight become so bad that you’re mistaking Tresney’s red hair for Fairhaven’s?”

“Come now, lads.” Duncan felt his smile constrict. “I know everyone says that Louxbridge and Midlington graduates don’t mix, but such conflicts have always consisted of nothing more than good-natured—albeit somewhat spirited—jabs.”

Naturally, Duncan was addressing the table, but his eyes remained trained on Steepwharf, who took a big gulp of his coffee before finally breaking his stony silence,

“What do you want, Your Grace ?” his tone dripping with venom.

Seeing that his audience’s patience was somehow already wearing thin, Duncan cut straight to the point. “I heard you were having a garden party this Saturday and was wondering if you had space on your guest list.”

“Not a chance,” the viscount scoffed. “Why would you even care to come anyway? I don't know what you and your debased friends are planning, but there’s absolutely no room for your sort of-”

Duncan raised a hand to stop him. “Actually, I’m asking on behalf of my mother and her goddaughter,” he clarified. “Why on God’s green earth would Fairhaven and Harlington be so desperate to get into a garden party of all things?”

“The dowager duchess wishes to come?” Steepwharf raised a skeptical eyebrow. “But why?”

“Why else?” Duncan shrugged—feeling a twinge of guilt for using his mother as an excuse. “You know how she is, always endeavoring to keep up with everyone—that’s why there isn’t a soul in the world that wishes her ill.”

“Which is more than can be said for her rake of a son,” Lord Tresney chimed in.

But Duncan held his tongue, he wanted Steepwharf to say yes.

“It’s true that I hold nothing against Her Grace,” Lord Steepwharf contemplated out loud, tapping his chin as he did so. “In fact, I’d go so far as to say that I’m still rather fond of her, so for her sake, it would be-”

He raised his eyes towards Duncan, “And you shan’t be bringing any of your wretched bedfellows with you?”

“Not at all,” Duncan assured him. “Just my mother and the goddaughter that she’s endeavoring to cheer up. She’s just lost her father you see.”

Duncan silently apologized to Penelope for using her as an excuse as well.

“Yes, but what exactly are you trying to do, Your Grace?” The Marquess of Penswaithe eyed him up and down. “You aren’t really known for your noble intentions.”

Duncan let out a deep exhale. “Gentlemen, I promise you that you’re reading far too much into this. How am I supposed to prove that to you?”

Lord Tresney’s eyes suddenly lit up. “That’s a wonderful question, Your Grace. Now that you’ve mentioned it, I might know just the thing.”