Page 2 of The Duke In My Bed (The Heirs’ Club of Scoundrels #1)

Let me embrace thee, sour adversity, For wise men say it is the wisest course.

Bray stood still as stone in his Mayfair town house, staring out the front window.

It was only a couple of hours after the accident, but early morning sun had chased away the misty fog, making way for a bright blue sky.

He had changed his soiled neckcloth, shirt, and waistcoat.

He looked better but he still felt wretched.

How could Wayebury be gone? Damnation, he’d never watched a man die, and hoped he never had to again.

While Bray changed his clothing, his good friend Seaton had gone to the Heirs’ Club to find someone who knew where to reach Wayebury’s uncle.

“Would you like for me to pay a visit to the new viscount and inform him of Lord Wayebury’s death?” Seaton asked as Bray reached for his coat.

Hell yes, Bray thought, but said, “It’s my duty.”

He appreciated Seaton’s offer but couldn’t accept.

John Aldrich Seaton had been his friend and conscience since Bray joined the Heirs’ Club.

At sixty years of age, with a thinning mane of gray hair and swarthy skin, Seaton was the oldest member of the exclusive establishment who hadn’t come into his title.

Seaton’s father, Viscount Fieldington, was still thriving at the ungodly age of eighty-seven.

On the few occasions Seaton had been known to drink too much, he’d joke that his father would outlive him, his many grandsons, and his recently born great-grandson.

“What about Wayebury’s sister?” Seaton asked.

Bray rubbed his temples, willing his head to stop pounding. He’d already vowed never to drink so much again. “What about her?”

“You told him you would marry her.”

Bray moved his hand to the back of his neck and massaged it, wishing he could ease the raw tension that had settled between his shoulder blades. “Only because the man was dying and the crowd demanded it.”

“Precisely.”

“You think I am actually going to wed his sister? He wanted to be reassured before he died, and I did that. I’ll do whatever I can to help the girl, but I’m certainly not going to marry her.”

A frown slowly twisted Seaton’s face, and his small, dark eyes narrowed to slits. “You gave your word.”

Bray gritted his teeth and looked away. “The last thing I need or want is a wife. And I assure you, I am the last man any innocent miss needs as a husband.”

“More than a half dozen gentlemen heard you.”

“You can’t believe for a second that anyone would hold me to that? Hell’s gate, Seaton! Half the men standing around us urged me to show him mercy and I did. How can saying a few words to give a dying man peace be so binding?”

“Because you gave your word. You can’t break it.” Seaton paused. “You wouldn’t, would you?”

Without a moment’s regret, Bray thought, reminded yet again of how he was his father’s son, two men who did what pleased them, consequences be damned.

But then he saw the look of horror on Seaton’s weathered face and decided against saying what he really felt.

He exhaled heavily, not wanting to deal with any of this.

“If she’s of marriageable age, I’ll deal with the spirit of my word and find a man for her to marry. ”

“The spirit of the word?” Seaton’s jaw cemented and his lips formed an expression of disapproval.

“Look, I hardly knew Wayebury, much less did I know he had a sister. We never had a reason to talk about families.”

“Sisters,” Seaton said, putting emphasis on the ending s.

Bray picked up his gloves and slid his hands inside the buttery soft leather. “As in more than one?”

“I believe he has five sisters,” Seaton said.

“The devil take it, what kind of parents have only one son?”

“Obviously, your kind.”

Bray swore and Seaton rolled his eyes. Unlike Bray’s father, who had never put any restraints or condemnation on Bray, Seaton never failed to take him to task if he thought the occasion or the comment warranted it. But it wasn’t in Bray to let the man have the last word.

“At least my parents had the good sense not to have five girls to marry off someday.”

Ignoring his comment, Seaton said, “Her father was a vicar before the title became his, so I’m sure she’s a properly brought up young lady and will be a suitable match for you.”

“Her father was a vicar?”

“Well, up until he inherited the title from his older brother’s son, which was four or five years ago. Remember that’s when Viscount Wayebury became eligible and joined the Heirs’ Club? I think he came into the title himself shortly after that.”

“No, I don’t remember,” Bray admitted, realizing he felt a twinge of sorrow in his heart that the sisters had lost their father and their brother in the span of a few years.

But Bray shook off the unwanted feeling before it had time to worm its way into his soul.

He didn’t need to be reminded of his father’s favorite saying: Emotion is a weak man’s Achilles’ heel, and a woman’s daily sport.

But his father also taught him that a man’s true worth was counted in how he kept his word.

His Grace would not be happy to hear about his son’s latest incident. Bray’s father gave him anything he wanted, allowed him to do anything he wanted, and then wondered why he was London’s most notorious rogue. There was no pleasing the man when it came to Bray.

He ground his teeth, making his head pound harder. “Perhaps I’ll send a letter telling her I’m obligated to offer for her hand and I’ll be around to meet her sometime after she’s had a year of mourning.”

An incredulous gleam lit in Seaton’s eyes. “A whole year to mourn? That’s outrageous.”

“Are you in a hurry to marry me off to a stranger, Seaton?”

“Of course not, but even six months for mourning would be considered overly long to most.”

“With any luck, she’ll find someone else to marry during the year, or with better luck, hopefully there already is someone and she’ll leg-shackle him instead of me. When you were at the club, did you find out anything about the uncle who inherited the title?”

“Nothing other than he is Mr. Willard Prim. He and the viscount’s father were brothers.”

“I’ve never heard of him.”

“No reason for you to. He decided against joining the Heirs’ Club when he became eligible.” Seaton handed Bray a piece of paper. “Directions to the man’s house?”

Bray stared at the writing without making sense of the words. How the hell had he gotten into this mess? “Damnation, I wish I had never gone near Rotten Row tonight,” he said, biting back the real words: He wished Prim hadn’t died.

“Where is Lord Wayebury’s dog?” Seaton asked.

Bray grunted another oath, grabbed his hat, and opened the door. “In the garden, where he belongs. If only dealing with a man’s sister were as easy as dealing with his dog.”