Page 45 of My Dark Duke

“I’ll need another duke, if I am to remain in this coveted spot,” Barty answered, his cheer likely attributed to the half-bottle they had put-away. “Until next time, Sebastian. Try not to leave it so long, eh? I know you’re not one for sentiment, but when you’re not here, you are missed.”

“You’d best slow your pace, old boy,” Sebastian replied, gruffly. “Or you risk becoming mawkish.”

He slapped Barty heartily on the shoulder, to express his own affection, and quickly took his leave. Barty was prone to excessive bouts of misty-eyed sentimentality when in his cups, and when he reached that stage, he was also liable to burst into song - Sebastian had the patience for neither.

He swept from the drawing room, surprisingly steady on his feet, despite the alcohol he had consumed. Outside in the hallway, his composure came undone, as he walked straight into another man seeking to enter the drawing room.

“Excuse me,” Sebastian said, politely.

“No harm done, no harm done, Your Grace,” a whiny voice answered from a foot beneath him.

Sebastian looked down and found it was Lord Bailey whom he had collided with. He stifled the epithet which tickled his tongue - after all, he had said he would speak with the baron when fate deigned to divine it.

“I hear you have been seeking me out, high and low,” Sebastian drawled, moving aside so they no longer blocked the door.

Lord Bailey nodded, nervously licking his thin lips. He could not be more than thirty years, Sebastian deduced, but he looked far older. What hair he had was heavily oiled with pomade, and a few longer strands had been swept across his scalp, in an effort to disguise his bald pate. His thin face was long and drawn, and gave way to a decidedly weak chin. The only redeeming feature was his eyes. A vivid green, putting Sebastian somewhat to mind of Mary - though he quickly pushed that thought aside.

“I have, Your Grace,” the baron answered, rubbing at the back of his neck as though it ached. “I wished to make an inquiry.”

“Yes?” Sebastian prompted, impatiently.

“It’s rather delicate…”

“Then, perhaps you might wish to think on whether it is wise to voice whatever it is running through your mind,” Sebastian’s patience was at breaking point. “After all, we do not share an acquaintance, Lord Bailey. Delicate inquiries are usually made of friends.”

Perhaps sensing Sebastian was on the verge of leaving, Lord Bailey began to stutter.

“The woman I saw you with at Vauxhall,” he said, his words so rushed they were almost joined together, “What is her name?”

Sebastian, who had expected to be petitioned financially or politically, was momentarily lost for words.

“Have you known her for long?” Lord Bailey continued, fatally misreading Sebastian’s silence as permission to continue. “Where did you meet? Perchance, is she working in a doxy-house of some sort. If so, I would ask you to furnish me with the details and-”

Lord Bailey was unable to finish his sentence, for Sebastian’s fist had made contact with his jaw. The baron staggered backwards, clutching his face, his eyes wide and fearful.

“You are lucky I do not carry a weapon,” Sebastian panted, his blood roaring in his ears. “For you would not be alive right now, if I did.”

“I meant no disrespect, Your Grace,” Lord Bailey sniveled. “I did not realise the woman was a respectable.”

The foolish baron was fishing for another box, with a comment like that. Luckily for him, the door to the drawing room opened, and a startled footman looked out.

A man caught in a bout of fisticuffs might find his membership revoked. A duke, on the other hand, might have such a transgression overlooked, provided he did not step too far over the line.

“Good evening, Lord Bailey,” Sebastian said coolly. “I hope I have been of some assistance to you. If I might offer another suggestion - purchase yourself a book on manners and etiquette, yours are sorely lacking.”

Sebastian offered the footman a stiff nod and swept from the club, out to St James’ Street. His carriage was parked within view, on the other side of the road, and rather than wait for the formality of having it called, Sebastian made his own way to it.

“Berkeley Square,” he called to Higgins, who was huddled together with the driver, on the driver’s bench.

“Yes, Your Grace,” the lad answered, throwing off the coaching rug which covered his knees. “Let me get the door for you.”

“I’ll get it myself, just make haste,” Sebastian answered, struggling to control his rage.

It would not do to take his anger out on his staff, for it would be sorely unfair; it was Lord Bailey who deserved his ire. The gall of the man, to imply Mary was a lightskirt, with whom he could also take a tumble, for the right price.

As the carriage made its way through London’s dark streets, Sebastian seethed in rage. His anger was complicated by a sense of guilt; before her chance meeting with him, no one would ever have assumed Mary to be anything less than a decorous young lady, of upstanding morals. His company had corrupted her in the eyes of the world; thank goodness they had not ventured out in public together since, so more people could not condemn her.

Alongside his guilt, something else had irritated him too.

---