Good Dukes Wear Black (2 page)

“I might have done so,” Freddy told her with a wink, “but Mainwaring and I had to stay by Trent here and give him some tips. I hear rag manners run in his family.”

“Freddy,” Leonora chided, “don't tease. There's nothing wrong with Trent's social graces. He simply isn't as much of a butterfly as you are. Which is not altogether a bad thing.”

“Butterfly, eh?” Freddy frowned at his wife. “And here I thought I'd settled down with one beautiful flower in particular. I promise I'll sip nectar from no other, my dear. Which means no wallflowers. But Trent is free to flit among them.”

“Yes, Trent,” Mainwaring said archly, “why don't you go find some winsome wallflower to bestow your … er—”

This line of metaphor could get ribald quickly, Trent thought wryly, interrupting his friend before he went too far. “I do not need permission from either of you to dance. I simply wanted to ensure that things were going smoothly.”

“It's not as if you're the only man in the room on the lookout for a wife, Trent,” Leonora said, interpreting his diffidence as shyness. “Besides, I don't think the horde of mothers with marriageable daughters are paying attention to our conversation just now. Not when that particular argument is taking place.”

Following the direction of her gaze, he saw that there was indeed a quarrel going on.

One of the newest club members, and a fellow army veteran, George Grayson, was engaged in a heated discussion with a blond lady Trent assumed was the fellow's wife. They were standing just to the side of the doorway leading into the main hall, so only this side of the room was privy to their conversation.

“I asked you not to see that fellow anymore, Maggie,” growled Grayson, gripping his wife's arm tightly.

“Let go of me, George,” she hissed. “You're drunk. And you're embarrassing me.”

“You're embarrassing yourself,” Grayson said bluntly. “Chasing after a man so far below you.”

“If anyone is bringing embarrassment on this family,” she retorted hotly, finally pulling away, “it's you. Thank you for ruining the first night's entertainment I've had in months. I'm going home now.”

As they looked on, Maggie Grayson stalked toward the cloakroom and away from the assembled company while her husband stared after her, his jaw set, his expression bleak.

Excusing himself to his guests, Trent threaded his way through the crowd that, now that the show was over, had turned away again.

When he reached Grayson's side, he laid a calming hand on the other man's arm. When Grayson turned with a growl, Trent held up his hands. “Easy, old man, I'm just here to see if there is aught I can do to help.”

His response delayed a bit by the amount of alcohol he'd consumed, Grayson looked thunderous, but when he finally realized who it was who dared speak, his shoulders slumped. “Sh-sh-sorry, your g-grace,” he slurred. “Fight with m'wife, don't y'know. D-damned headstrong woman.”

“Refusing to cut a man who poses no threat to her husband does not make Maggie headstrong, Mr. Grayson,” interjected an angry young woman who approached the drunk man from the other side. “She has done nothing wrong yet you continue to accuse her. You'll ruin both of them before you're through. Not to mention your marriage.”

Trent was well acquainted with Miss Ophelia Dauntry, who as a dear friend of both Leonora Lisle and the Countess of Mainwaring was often in attendance at the same small parties of those couples as he was. Even so, he hadn't really expected her to be the sort who would accost a man in an open ballroom for mistreating his wife.

Grayson, it would seem, also knew Miss Dauntry. “Psh, you're just as bad as she is. Hoydens with no self-control, the pair of you.”

Realizing that he needed to get Grayson out of the room as quickly as possible, Trent took the man by the arm and marched him past Miss Dauntry toward the same hallway through which Mrs. Grayson had just departed.

*   *   *

“Where're we goin'?” Grayson demanded blearily. “Got t' find m'wife.”

“After you've sobered up a little, I think,” Trent told the other man.

Miss Ophelia Dauntry followed as closely behind the Duke of Trent and George Grayson as she could without calling attention to herself.

If her mother got wind of her confrontation of Maggie's husband in the Duke of Trent's ballroom, she'd have a conniption fit for certain. But hopefully, Mrs. Dauntry was safely tucked away in the card room losing what was left of her pin money for the month. Safe in the knowledge that her younger daughter was betrothed to the Marquess of Kinston, Ophelia's mother would surely not trouble herself over the behavior of her elder daughter just yet.

At least not until she recalled that she wished for Ophelia to be settled as well as, or better than, Mariah.

Like George Grayson, Mrs. Dauntry didn't approve of the editor of the
Ladies' Gazette
one bit. But rather than fearing Edwin Carrington had designs on Mrs. George Grayson's virtue, Mrs. Dauntry thought his eye was on her daughter Ophelia.

And a newspaper editor was as far below a marquess in rank as a pauper was below a prince.

It mattered not that Ophelia had no interest in Edwin as a husband or anything other than as editor of her short essays for the paper. As Mrs. Dauntry saw things, every unmarried man who came into contact with one of her daughters had designs on them. Especially those who had something to gain from the hypothetical match.

Poor Edwin, Ophelia thought as she kept the top of Trent's head in sight. He likely had no idea what a bone of contention he'd proved to be for his two most popular contributors.

It soon became obvious that Trent was leading Grayson to one of the private family rooms of the large town house. She was aware of the impropriety of her course of action even as she continued to follow them, but she could see no other option.

George Grayson was not only going to ruin his wife's reputation among the
ton,
but he was also going to expose her identity as the author of one of the most popular columns with the ladies of the
ton
. “Ask a Reigning Toast” was an advice column to which the most desperate of society ladies turned when they needed advice on how to climb the ranks of the social ladder. And it had turned the
Ladies' Gazette
into a best seller among the ladies of both the
beau monde
and those who aspired to enter it.

Since the success of Maggie's column also ensured the success of Ophelia's own, lesser known column about needlework, she had a vested interest in keeping Maggie's going.

That meant stopping George Grayson from revealing his wife's identity as well as convincing him to leave her to her own devices.

“I suggest you turn around and go back to the ballroom, Miss Dauntry,” Trent called to her over his shoulder as they neared the door to his study. “I appreciate your need to fight for your friend, but I will manage Grayson from here.”

But she hadn't followed them this far just to turn around and go back to the dancing.

“I can appreciate your concern, your grace,” Ophelia said, rushing forward and slipping into the room just when Trent would have closed the door. “But I must speak privately with Mr. Grayson.”

“Don't have nothin' to say to ye,” that man said from where he'd collapsed into a wing chair. “Damned nuisance. Convincing m'wife to take up w' that newspaperman.”

Glaring at Ophelia in exasperation, Trent sighed deeply and gestured for her to take the seat near Grayson's. “If you insist on being here, then you'd best get on with it before your mother comes searching for you.”

For a moment, Ophelia was flustered. She hadn't thought Trent paid her the least bit of attention. Certainly not enough to note her mother's intentions for her. While they were often in company together, she knew that as a duke and a devilishly handsome one at that, what with his broad shoulders and gleaming dark hair with a tendency to curl if it was left too long, he had no reason to take notice of her at all.

“Do not look so surprised,” he said in answer to her wide eyes. “You are an unmarried young lady out in London society. It's hardly a great leap of logic to guess that your mother has aspirations for you to marry well.”

She closed her mouth, abashed. Of course he'd guessed. It was foolish of her to think he'd been paying close attention to her and her family. He had much better things to do.

“Well,” she said once she'd regained her control. “I think we are safe for a bit since she's in the card room at the moment. And even if she were not, I would risk bringing her wrath down on me in order to speak to Mr. Grayson.”

“Why,” Trent, asked, glancing to where Grayson sat scowling at a fray in his shirt cuff as if it had personally done him a wrong. “You've already scolded the fellow for his mistreatment of his wife. I should think that was a conversation best had when he's sober enough to remember it.”

He had a point there, she thought. Still, she had to try to get through to Grayson now so that he wouldn't speak out again tonight.

Not bothering to respond to Trent, she turned to her friend's husband.

“Mr. Grayson,” she said in a too-loud voice that she knew sounded silly but hoped would seep into his drink-addled brain. “I must remind you not to speak about Maggie's position with The
Ladies' Gazette
in public. She's asked you again and again. You must respect her wishes. Unless you wish to ruin her.”

Grayson made a rude noise in the back of his throat. “Secret,” he muttered. “On'y secret I know of is Carrington's lecher … ism. Should call the bastard out for it.”

As if realizing what a brilliant idea that was, he attempted to stand. But Trent was there with a staying hand on the other man's shoulder. “Not just now, old fellow. Carrington isn't here. And besides, you promised you'd give me your advice about that bay mare I'm thinking of buying.”

Even as he held his friend back from rising, Trent glared at Ophelia and jerked his head in the direction of the door. “Why don't we have a drink and we'll talk,” he told Grayson.

Despite Trent's very obvious desire for her to leave the room, Ophelia pressed on. “I must have your word, Mr. Grayson, that you will stop making a spectacle of your wife. Her position with the
Ladies' Gazette
is sensitive and should not be talked about so openly in public.”

“What's so dashed important about hiding Mrs. Grayson's involvement with the newspaper?” Trent demanded in a low voice that Grayson wouldn't hear. “It's not as if she's writing screeds against the government or scandalous stories. If I recall correctly, her column deals with social niceties. It's hardly the sort of thing to cause scandal.”

“It isn't,” she explained patiently, “but there is still the fact that by calling attention to Maggie's role with the newspaper, and what's worse, accusing her of infidelity with poor Mr. Carrington, it becomes a threat to everyone at the paper.”

A look of disappointment flashed across Trent's face. “So it's really your own reputation you're hoping to save,” he said with a scowl. “I might have known.”

“It's important to me,” she said, holding her head high, not daring to let him see how much his derision stung. “And I won't apologize for trying to protect both mine and Maggie's positions. No one else will do so.”

Their heated discussion was interrupted then by a loud snore. Looking up, Ophelia saw that George Grayson had leaned back in his chair and, his mouth hanging open, was snoring loudly.

“It would seem you've been on a fool's errand, Miss Dauntry,” Trent told her with a barely suppressed grin. “You'll simply have to wait until another time.”

Her hands on her hips, Ophelia scowled at both men. “I should have known this would be pointless. Maggie has tried and tried to convince him that her work for the paper is perfectly innocent, but he refuses to believe her. And he'll doubtless be waking up tomorrow with no recollection of tonight's contretemps. Typical.”

“I think perhaps if you understood just what it is that drives Grayson to drink so deeply,” Trent said pointedly, “then you would have a bit more compassion for the man. He's had a difficult time of it since the war.”

“So have you,” she retorted, “but I don't see you shouting at your wife in ballrooms and accusing an innocent man of debauchery.”

“If I had a wife,” he said, not giving an inch, “I might. Until you've walked a mile in another man's shoes you can have no idea of what presses him to behave as he does.”

Ophelia sighed. She'd heard other such excuses for the bad behavior of both former soldiers and errant husbands, but there was no denying the fact that they were responsible for their own bad behavior. Not some long-ago war experience or being coddled too much as little children. Even so, she wasn't prepared to argue the matter with Trent, who, even if he was pig-headed was the dear friend of her own friend's husband. She would keep the peace for Leonora's sake.

“I thank you for the advice, your grace,” she said to Trent as she took one last look at the still-sleeping Grayson. “Now I suppose I'd better get back before my mother returns from the card room.”

“I'd offer to escort you,” Trent responded with a short bow, “but I don't think you'd wish for the scandal that would ensue from such an arrival after several minutes' absence any more than I would.”

Now that was a dreadful thought. Ophelia shivered a little. “No, no, I quite agree. I'll go back on my own, thank you very much. Good evening, your grace.”

“Good night, Miss Dauntry,” she heard him call to her as she shut the door to his study behind her.

Really, she thought as she headed back to the ballroom, it was too bad that Trent was so high in the instep. For he was as handsome a man as she'd ever met.