The Duke Dilemma (18 page)

Even before they all had taken the time to observe the niceties of proper introductions, the lady in blue turned toward Louise and Augusta, who stood in center of the room, and inquired with great feeling, “Do tell, Lady Augusta, is your father at home?”

Edward followed Lord Rutherford into White’s Club for an afternoon’s respite from Parliament. They handed their hats, canes, gloves, and coats to the footmen. One of them held a note for Lord Rutherford.

“Thank you.” Rutherford took hold of his message and paused at the portal of the morning room.

“Safe enough in here with Brummell gone,” he commented to Edward and veered left instead of continuing on to the first floor.

It was a well-known fact to Edward that Rutherford did not wish to make the trek to the upper floor, the large club room, simply because it was the
upper
floor; he detested the effort. They passed several groups of members seated at the tables next to the windows and eschewed the ones lining the wall for what Rutherford would consider the prime spot before the warm hearth at the far end of the room.

“Nothing has changed, has it? Corn Laws, Corn Laws, Corn Laws. Will we never hear the end of it?” Rutherford collapsed into one of the chairs and rubbed his thighs.

“It is a continual problem, and it’s getting worse, not better.” Edward eased into the chair next to his friend.

“I understand the importance. What you say is true, no doubt, but—odds fish, man…enough is enough!” He leaned over the arm of the chair and motioned for a waiter. “Bring a glass of claret for me and my friend the Duke, will you?”

The waiter moved away with all alacrity.

Rutherford returned to his position. “Where were you yesterday, Faraday?”

“I spent the afternoon with my daughter Charlotte. Despite also being in the company of her husband’s relatives, it was a fairly pleasant day at Somerset House.”

“You attended the Art Exhibition? Gracious!” thundered Rutherford in such a booming voice it rattled the display over the mantel. “Couldn’t drag me there if you promised me a beefsteak served on a silver platter with the best bottle of port in Town!” He fumbled to open the note he held and coughed away his prior outburst. “Let’s see what this is, then.”

Edward chuckled, then glanced up at his friend who, at the moment, perused the message the footman had handed him.

“Anything important?”

“Lady R has a mind to have you over for supper again.” Rutherford folded the paper until it was small enough to be tucked into one of his vest pockets.

“I’d be delighted. However, I must check with Frederick first.” Edward steepled his fingers, weighing the mounting time constraints of his social obligations. “May I remind you my time is not my own.”

“By all means, bring him along if you must.” Rutherford claimed a glass of claret from the waiter who appeared at his side. Edward took the other.

“I think that might be a very good idea.” His friend’s granddaughter might appeal to Frederick. It occurred to Edward that an alliance with Rutherford would be far preferable to any
connection his son might arrange himself. Actually, a union between their families would do quite nicely. It appeared he was not the only one thinking that an appealing possibility.

“If we make an effort, we might discover some beneficial arrangement which would be to our mutual advantage, eh?” Rutherford smiled, winked, lifted his glass, and drank.

Edward raised his glass, taking part in the toast. However, introducing the young people and seeing them engaged and subsequently wed was, as of now, a very remote possibility. Still it couldn’t hurt to make the attempt.

“I believe Elizabeth would welcome the attention.” Rutherford never was one for outward displays of emotion, but at this moment he wore a broad smile, looking as delighted as Edward had ever seen him.

“I thought her name was Jane.” The Duke held the rim of the glass from his lips and narrowed his eyes, wondering how he could have misunderstood.

“Oh, my granddaughter, yes, her name is Jane,” Rutherford concurred. “I was speaking of a match with my daughter.”

“Is not
Mrs.
Jeffries a bit”—Edward did not wish to appear indelicate, and he chose his words carefully—“
mature
for Frederick?” He sipped his wine, watching Rutherford for his reply.

“Heavens, Faraday!” Rutherford sat forward, straightening. The wine from his glass sloshed over the edge. “Not for Brent, for you!”

“Me?” Edward choked, nearly spitting his claret. He set his glass on the small table between them before he dropped it. “What the devil?”

“Ain’t you looking for a wife, Faraday?”

“No, I—” Edward was struck momentarily speechless. “No. That is emphatically not true. Why would you…” Where would
Rutherford get that ridiculous idea? Edward stood and walked around his chair, glancing at those seated around him. Of course they had overheard, but they had the good manners not to react as if they had.

“I thought…well, I had heard you’d been thinking ’bout remarrying.” Rutherford put forth as if he had not heard Edward’s denial. “It would make a good match, the two of you.”

Edward did not wish to offend his friend and answered, “Walter, Elizabeth is a fine woman. Any man would be most fortunate to win her as his own, but I am
not
that man.” He rubbed his hands together, trying to restore the circulation to his fingers, which had turned ice cold. “I am in no mind to marry.”

“You ain’t, you say? Everyone says otherwise.” Rutherford stood to face him, stepping before the hearth. “I can see why you hesitate. Want your pick, eh? And why not? You’ve got position, looks, and the blunt.”

“
Everyone?
What the deuce do you mean
everyone
?” Edward took up his glass from the small side table, swallowed the contents, and took another glance about the room.

“Lady R’s told me the ladies are all atwitter over your arrival into the Marriage Mart.” Rutherford drained his glass, then laughed. “I see.” He must have realized his error. “I don’t suppose you are looking for a wife, then. The thing is…a good number of mothers want you for their daughters, and all the widows want you for themselves!” He laughed again.

“This cannot be.” Edward failed to see the humor in this. “It is an unmitigated falsehood. I can assure you I have not—”

Well, if this was a rumor as Rutherford suggested…there was nothing for it. Edward would need to go to the highest source and verify this for himself.

“If you will excuse me.” He handed his glass to Rutherford before striding toward the entrance hall. He approached
swift-moving waiters, who scrambled out of his path. Other club members smartly avoided him, not even making eye contact. The footmen stationed on duty stepped back, allowing the majordomo to approach.

“May I be of assistance?” he inquired with all due decorum.

“I would like to see the betting book, if you please.” Edward kept the volume of his voice low.

“At once, Your Grace.” The majordomo retreated into the office with a footman who had been alerted to accompany him. Edward had no wish to be observed and followed the staff.

“Bring the light!” the majordomo barked to the footman. A book was set upon the desk and opened to the last written page. “Do you wish to enter a wager?”

“Not at this time,” Edward replied with equanimity. The majordomo stepped back when the Duke moved forward to gaze at the wagers on the page. He read:

Lord M wagers Mr. L twenty guineas that Mrs. B will be the lucky widow the Duke of F chooses as the new Duchess.

The entry before that said:

Mr. F promises to pay forty guineas to Lord C when the D—of F—becomes engaged to Lady D-H.

Edward glanced to the first wager at the top of the previous page:

Mr. T bets a certain gentleman a certain sum that a certain duke will not become engaged to Lady D-H.
Then a notation in a different hand:
The gentleman has paid.

Because Lady Davies-Holmes was now already engaged to Lord Ormesby. Edward turned back a page, noting that the subject of the recorded wagers remained constant, then flipped another page back, then another before choosing a random entry:

Lord G bets Lord P twenty-five guineas that a certain duke will wed before the end of the Season.

At the top of that page, the first line read:

Sir N P—endorses Lady T as the new Duchess of F—betting odds three to one.

Names of those accepting this wager were squeezed in below:
Lord T F
,
Mr. H B
,
Lord C
and
Mr. D M
. Edward could easily guess the identity of each club member, not to mention the obvious:
Sir N P—, Nicholas Petersham
. That good-for-nothing bounder had once again cast the Duke up into the boughs with his confounded involvement. Was there no end to his plaguesome involvement in Edward’s life?

There were more than three pages that had been devoted to the outcome. The very idea of wagering on the course of his life disgusted him. Rutherford had the right of it. The fictitious tale was very well known to everyone except Edward.

Anger welled inside him. If he did not remove himself from the premises at once, he would not be held accountable for his actions. Edward slammed shut the book and left.

The Duke’s rage finally subsided some time later—several hours, perhaps more. He’d been walking, just walking without thinking of his direction. When he had come to his senses and could observe his surroundings, he recognized the green of ivy crawling along the familiar rock wall, which lent relief to the harsh surface and hinted to the comfort that lay inside.

At the moment he felt as if the Town, all of Society, had turned on him. His life was some trivial game on which wagers were made. He hated the very idea of it. He wanted none of that and none of them. What he wanted was peace.

He needed to go inside. His hand grasped the bars at the upper part of an iron gate in an attempt to gain entry in his desperation.

“Sir?” A familiar woman’s voice called from the other side of the gate to him.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

What was he doing here?

The golden flash of a signet ring upon his hand attracted Louise’s attention. She had recognized the Duke of Faraday even through the limited view her iron gate provided. Before her arrival, she pulled her scarf over the lower half of her face, concealing her identity as she had the first time they’d met. She unlocked the gate straightaway and drew it open. The hinges made their customary creak, an imperfection she would never repair. The noise served as an alarm of sorts, alerting her to anyone who entered from the street.

Opening the gate revealed the Duke, without a smile, without the spark of any sort of recognition or expectation. He gazed upon Louise the gardener.

“I beg you do not stand in the street,
sir
. You will call undo attention to yourself.” She could not incorrectly call him
my lord
, nor correctly address him by
Your Grace
, which would let on that she knew his identity. “Is there something I can do for you?”

The Duke entered and pulled his hat from his head. “I’m afraid I’ve made a bad habit of dropping by unannounced.” He rotated the hat by its brim, inch by inch, in what Louise considered a nervous gesture.