Page 28 of My Dark Duke

“Thorncastle,” Bertie, his cousin, called in greeting, as he barreled across the room. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Yes, one does not often sight a man in his club,” Sebastian agreed, though his drollness was lost on poor Bertie. His scowl of annoyance at being interrupted was also missed, for Bertie pulled over a chair and settled himself beside him. The footman got in on the act, materialising with a second tumbler for the interloper. Sebastian supposed the poor man thought he was being helpful.

“How good it is to see you, dear cousin,” Bertie continued, as he poured himself a drink from his decanter. “I have not seen you out much of late. I thought, perhaps, that you might finally have set your cap at a lady, but as the papers have made no mention of you courting, I suppose I was quite wrong.”

“Quite wrong,” Sebastian agreed, stifling an impatient sigh.

Bertie was a romantic, inspired by the works of Byron and chums to believe an ideal love waited for those enlightened enough to search for it. Byron also inspired his sartorial choices, and Sebastian cast a despairing eye over his cousin’s unruly hair and undone collar.

“One day,” Bertie consoled. “You’ll get there one day, Seb.”

“It never fails to astonish me that you seem so determined to do yourself out of a dukedom in the name of love,” Sebastian guffawed. “If I take a wife and beget myself an heir, where does that leave you, eh?”

“In much the same place.” Bertie shrugged. “Heir to my father’s modest estate and fortune, and leading a life of quiet anonymity.”

Sebastian frowned; that did sound more appealing than a life of notoriety - an unfortunate accompaniment to a ducal title.

“You are not your father, Sebastian-” Bertie began, in a lowered voice, but Sebastian quickly cut him off.

“In most ways I am not,” he agreed. “Though much like the late Duke of T, I do like to pull rank when it suits me - and it suits me now to end this conversation.”

Bertie was momentarily stunned into silence, but his amiable nature soon recovered.

“As you wish,” he shrugged, flashing Sebastian a grin. “Far be it for me to insult the man who’s footing the bill. Shall we call for another decanter? I can’t recall the last time I tasted brandy this good.”

“Not since that Corsican Fiend crowned himself emperor, I’d wager,” Sebastian answered, waving down the footman to fetch them another.

Discussion turned then to the war on the continent, the current skirmishes in Parliament, and the ever important issue of horseflesh. As they talked, the drawing room filled with men who had slipped away from whatever ball, musicale, or other dull outing their wives had dragged them to.

“There’s Lord Bailey, he inherited his title just recently,” Bertie noted, with some surprise, as a stocky young man entered the room.

Sebastian cast him a cursory glance, not particularly interested in the newest addition to the aristocracy.

“I’m surprised to see he can afford the membership fees,” Bertie commented, a font of knowledge when it came to the current gossip of the ton, “His predecessor willed everything that was not entailed, to some chit, leaving Bailey with only an impoverished estate in Linton.”

“He has most likely been extended credit,” Sebastian guessed. “Perhaps while he fights the will in the Courts of Chancery. He might try and have it overturned; it’s unusual for a lord to leave a fortune to a mistress, rather than the estate.”

“Not a mistress, an illegitimate brat,” Bertie corrected him, with a wink. “I think you’ll find the courts will have little to say on a man providing for his offspring. By all accounts, the will is decades old, and cannot be contested on the grounds that the baron was of feeble mind.”

“Where do you get all your information from, eh?” Sebastian queried, amused at Bertie’s extensive knowledge of the secrets of the ton.

“People are rather forthcoming when conversing with a friendly face,” Bertie answered, before adding cheekily, “You might try it some time.”

Sebastian did not deign to reply; he was a duke, he was expected to be unfriendly.

And, speaking of unfriendly dukes…

“Falconbridge.” Sebastian stood to greet his peer. “What brings you here?”

Sebastian would not describe Hugh De Wolfe, the Sixth Duke of Falconbridge, as a friendper se, but he was a close acquaintance. Both men were of a similar age, and had attended Eton and then Oxford at the same time.

“I had come in search of Lord Mosely,” Falconbridge replied, casting a lazy glance around the room. “Though it appears he is hiding from me.”

“Lost a fortune to you at the tables?” Sebastian guffawed; Falconbridge was notorious for stripping men of their fortunes at the gaming tables.

“Actually, he lost his daughter,” he replied, offering Sebastian a grin that could only be described as wolfish. “Don’t look so shocked, Thorncastle. I intend to marry the chit, not ruin her.”

His words caused Sebastian a certain amount of shame; he had been about to judge Falconbridge as a cad, but it appeared he was more moral than Sebastian could claim to be. He was the one intent on ruining a woman for his own pleasure, not Falconbridge.

---