Page 94 of The Trouble With Dukes
Westhaven looked resplendent in his evening attire, Rosecroft was intimidating, while Keswick’s expression was unreadable.
Too damned bad.
“If I might interrupt, Your Grace?” Hamish said.
Moreland turned slowly, as if reluctant to acknowledge an unfortunate connection. “Murdoch. One does not attend a ball in less than one’s best finery. Go home and change. Better still, go home and stay there. You are creating a spectacle at my daughter’s ball.”
“I will make a worse spectacle yet if you do not afford me a few minutes of your time, sir. Deny me Miss Megan’s hand if you must, but you will hear what Puget has to say. In private would be best.”
Moreland arched an eyebrow that probably set half the House of Lords atremble when His Grace was displeased.
“You have presumed on my patience for the last time, Murdoch. Be gone.”
Perhaps this was where Megan got her determination. What marvelously stubborn children she and Hamish would have, assuming Moreland didn’t see his prospective nephew-in-law drawn and quartered.
“I will leave,” Hamish said, “once you’ve heard what Puget has to say.”
Westhaven scanned the ballroom, his profile much like his papa’s. “I’d like to hear this tale. One grows bored of waltzing, sipping punch, and chatting over cards.”
“In other words,” Moreland snapped, “we’ve already drawn the notice of every gossip in Mayfair, so I’m to appear graciously entertained rather than outraged by this folly.”
Rosecroft aimed a look at Puget. “You were the regimental scribe in Sir Fletcher’s unit, if I recall correctly. What brings you here?”
Moreland let the question stand, suggesting His Grace had been testing Hamish’s resolve, probably not for the first time.
Puget tugged down his waistcoat. “I was the scribe, but I became the regimental forger. And then I became simply a forger, and worse than that, a fool.”
“Which fate apparently still afflicts you,” Moreland said. “Spare me the dramatics, and get on with the rest of your tale. I have every suspicion it does not end happily.”
“That was the point, Your Grace,” Puget said. “As far as Sir Fletcher was concerned, the only acceptable conclusion to the story was marriage to Miss Megan Windham. The young lady apparently divined that her happiness would be forfeit in that case, and Sir Fletcher used my skills to ensure she was coerced to the altar.”
Moreland appeared to be studying the crowd below, but he’d gone ominously still. “My Megan,coerced?”
Puget’s upper lip was beaded with sweat, his complexion as pale as the duke’s cravat.
“Blackmailed,” Hamish said. “By Sir Fletcher, using letters Megan desperately regrets sending him when he served in Spain. I did not expect you to take my word for it, but Puget has no reason to dissemble.”
“Go on,” the duke said softly. “Leave no detail out, and be very sure of your facts.”
Puget’s tale was simple and sordid, and he’d reached the part about forging a bill for boots when Colin touched Hamish on the arm.
“Megan needs you,” Colin said. “I’ll tend to matters here.”
Puget fell silent as the duke joined Hamish at the rail. “That scoundrel,” Moreland said, gaze focused on Sir Fletcher halfway across the ballroom. “I’ll make him rue the day he stood up with my niece.”
One floor below, with a hundred gossips and tattlers looking on, Sir Fletcher bowed over Megan’s hand. He stood too close to her, he kept hold of her hand, and everything about Megan’s posture confirmed that she loathed his touch.
“Excuse me, Your Grace,” Hamish said as the noise in the ballroom faded. “I have a knight of the realm to call out.”
A circle had formed around Megan and Sir Fletcher, as if a bare-knuckle match were about to start.
Megan broke free of Sir Fletcher’s grasp, by the simple expedient of withdrawing her hand from her evening glove. Sir Fletcher was left holding a length of white kid, while Megan backed up two steps.
“You will leave me alone,” she shouted. “You will leave me alone, and you will leave every decent young woman alone, do you hear me?” She snatched the glove from Sir Fletcher’s grasp, smacked him across the face with it, and tossed it at his slippered feet.
“She’s a Windham,” His Grace said. “By God, she’s every inch a Windham.”
“Your Grace, Megan’s nearly blind in close quarters,” Hamish retorted. “She can’t see that Sir Fletcher’s enjoying her outburst.” Worse, Pilkington walked around Megan in a slow circle, clearly calculating how to use her behavior for his own benefit.
