Page 24 of To Defend a Damaged Duke (Regency Rossingley #2)
NOBODY REVELLED IN a full-bodied scandal as much as the collective ton , but they’d have to hoist their skirts and tailcoats over Tommy Squire’s dead body before the Duke of Ashington would be the subject of it.
And when Tommy Squire made up his mind to do something, then, as a string of blackleg stands and gaming hells could attest, it was already done.
Cyprians, mollies, macaronis, catamites—call them what you will—there were as many bashful euphemisms for men such as Tommy and the duke as there were pretty boys flashing their come-hither pouts in the back streets of St Paul’s every Sunday afternoon.
And, though everyone turned a blind eye, plenty swanning around the court of King George, too, flagrantly sashaying amongst the highest of society, safe in the knowledge they held the King’s favour.
But a plethora of quiet and unassuming bachelors also walked amongst everyday folk.
The comfortable Albany residences, for instance, were home to plenty of unremarkable souls, inconspicuously going about their business much like every other man whilst occasionally making the most of discreet opportunities whenever they presented.
As far as Tommy was concerned, if the fourteenth Duke of Ashington wished to live his existence passing as a man such as that, then it was entirely his affair.
Having experienced the sharp end of the law himself—thanks to his own appetites—Tommy was of the same mind.
Not every man could be Rossingley, slippery enough to straddle both worlds.
Tommy lacked the wealthy earl’s good standing, for a start, whilst the duke lacked the courage.
Though the more time he spent with the duke, the more Tommy wondered whether it was simply that the man had never learned the skills to protect himself.
At least Ashington could rely on Tommy and Rossingley fighting in his corner.
Lord Francis, too, as it happened. His robust support came as huge surprise.
Between the three of them, Tommy felt confident they should be able to nip Lord Lyndon’s plans in the bud before Sidney and an axe were called for.
A couple of days passed before they assembled in the duke’s well-proportioned drawing room—the duke, Tommy, Lord Francis, and Rossingley. Rossingley had brought Mr Angel along, too, and he sat quietly, his handsome face impenetrable.
Rossingley cut straight to pouring brandy, an excellent vintage at that.
As he accepted a snifter, Tommy noted the deep circles cupping Ashington’s dark eyes.
The duke’s countenance was austere at the best of times.
This evening, dressed in his usual sombre attire and sharing a chintz settee with flamboyant Rossingley, he was positively Spartan.
The low lamplight did the rest, stealing all the remnants of colour from his features.
True to form, Rossingley took centre stage.
“The Rossingley’s and Ashington’s have been friends and neighbours for nigh on three hundred years,” he began.
“Ever since the seventh Earl of Rossingley dug up a patch of dandelions, brewed them with burdock and nettle, and fed the concoction to his chum, the eighth duke, to cure his gout. Which it did, within minutes. Doubled his sexual appetite too. Legend has it he took on three mistresses the following month.”
Tommy would wager his gambling hells that Rossingley was talking nonsense, but it brought the tension in Ashington’s shoulders down a notch.
“Thus, when somebody mounts an unjustified personal attack on my fellow peer and old friend, it is an affront to me and mine.” His pale gaze briefly flicked in Angel’s direction, who nodded almost imperceptibly.
“Even if the perpetrator himself is a close relative of my good and blameless friend, Ashington.”
“Hear, hear,” cried Lord Francis, beaming. “United we stand, bothersome brother be damned.”
Why the man sometimes played the role of buffoon was anyone’s guess. Underneath, Tommy thought he was sharp as a pin.
“The vital question,” continued Rossingley, “is when and where will the hammer fall? Will Lord Lyndon attempt an exposé in one of the gossip columns? Or will he crave a more public shaming? For instance, at one of the clubs? Or, as the rumourmongers are hinting, will he bide his time until a grand soirée? Such as the Horton ball, marking the end of the season?”
Tommy only half-listened to Rossingley’s speculation; his attention drawn by Mr Angel idly rolling a thrupenny bit across the knuckles of his right fist. He’d seen him perform this nimble sleight of hand before, other little supper party tricks too.
His favourite involved claret glasses and vanishing farthings.
Tommy would try his utmost never to let his eyes stray from the coins, but somehow, the blasted things would wink up at him one second and be gone the next.
The man could have his own stage show, he mused, as Rossingley nattered on. He could wow the ton with all kinds of outlandish tricks. His skills were wasted on a handful of foxed chaps at dinner. The ladies would be enthrall—
With a burst of clarity, Tommy cut Rossingley off. “I believe Lord Lyndon will make a performance of it,” he declared. “Most definitely. The bigger his audience, the better. Especially now he’s received a dressing down in public himself.”
Having captured everyone’s notice, Tommy became surer of himself. “Tit for tat. I wager he’ll wait until the Horton’s ball, the last hurrah of the season. Everyone who’s anyone will be there—it follows on after Ladies Day at Ascot.”
“His bruising will have healed by then,” Rossingley pointed out, nodding.
“And, correct me if I’m wrong,” Tommy continued, “not having ever been on the invitation list, but I believe it’s the biggest event of the society calendar? From what I’ve witnessed, Lord Lyndon has a flair for the dramatic, does he not?”
“Quite possibly,” the duke agreed miserably. “He most certainly never does anything by halves.”
Francis frowned. “That’s all very well, but bar kidnapping him and preventing him from attending any more social events this year, we can’t stop him.”
“No,” Rossingley agreed. “So, we must think cleverly.”
The duke held up his hands. “Not my forte, I’m afraid.”
Tommy didn’t think it possible for him look any more despondent, but somehow, he managed it.
“I’ve told you before that you’re too hard on yourself,” admonished Francis, adding a smile. “In everything.”
As the room fell silent, except for the sound of minds at work, Mr Angel resumed his idle coin flipping.
Watching him made Tommy feel decidedly unclever, too, especially as he’d missed the moment the farthing magically switched to a ha’penny.
He could only conclude it must have happened when Francis finished speaking; Angel reached for his glass, then seemed to change his mind, and Tommy had been fleetingly distracted.
And suddenly again, just like that, he could see a way through.
“Let us allow him to make his big announcement.” The plan unspooled in his mind. “Let him attempt to disgrace the duke. And then, we must ensure no one believes a word of what they are hearing.”
“How the devil do you propose we do that, Mr L’Esquire?” mocked Francis pleasantly. “Are we going to cover their ears with mufflers? Wave a wand and cry abracadabra ?”
“I don’t know yet.” Tommy felt slightly foolish. “But somehow, we need the ton to find the idea so preposterous they discard it immediately. Even if what he tells everyone is well presented and credible.”
Tucking his coins away, Angel offered Tommy a benign smile. The two hadn’t always seen eye to eye. Tommy hadn’t been sure of the man when he’d first captured the earl’s attention, and Angel hadn’t taken to Tommy either. But he’d more than proved his worth since.
“L’Esquire might be onto something.” Angel shifted in his seat. “ Abracadabra indeed, except a wand won’t be necessary. ‘Misdirection’ is the term you are grasping for, I believe.”
Tommy was unfamiliar with the word. “Er…possibly?”
Mr Angel nodded. “Misdirection is the cornerstone of any magic trick. What the eyes see, and the ear hears, the mind believes. Skilled magicians give everybody something to look at whilst the real activity is happening elsewhere.”
“You’ll have to explain a bit more,” said the duke. “I’m a little slow.”
“I mean that when Lyndon makes his big announcement, such a stir is being created elsewhere that his words are treated with the disdain and incredulity they deserve.”
“That certainly has merit,” mused Rossingley, nodding in thought. “Politicians do it all the time, slipping a piece of bad news in amongst the good.”
“But how?” queried the duke. “Once the ton has its teeth into juicy tittle-tattle, it’s like a dog with a bone.”
“Very true,” Rossingley conceded. “The misdirection must be truly spectacular if it’s to distract them.” He grinned impishly. “Any volunteers to set fire to the window drapes? My dearest Uncle Edmund did that as a boy to avoid broad beans at supper. The entire east wing required a rebuild.”
Mr Angel smiled at him. “Perhaps we could dribble a few drops of arsenic in the ratafia. There are a few chaps I wouldn’t mind losing as collateral damage.”
“Ooh! Good lord! Ooh!” Francis clapped his hands together. “I think I have it! An excellent idea! Foolproof, in fact. Goodness, yes! I don’t know why we didn’t think of it immediately.”
With a triumphant grin, he regarded the others as if the answer stared them in the face.
“What we need is to convince everybody that my dearest brother Benedict is the least likely chap in the entire ton to ever have enjoyed the pleasures of a molly house. So that when Lyndon suggests it, everybody will think he must be insane.”
“I’m not entering holy orders, if that’s what you’re suggesting.” Benedict shook his head. “Speaking in front of an entire congregation? Absolutely not.”