Page 24 of Last Duke Standing

WILLIAMWASDEADASLEEPwhen Ewan made a terrible decision to draw open the drapes and did so with a godawful racket, which he capped by then tripping over the rug. A very large man made a very large noise.

William was facedown on the bed, buried in a valley of pillows. He was fairly certain he had on the same clothes he’d worn the night before. Either that, or someone had tied a noose around his neck. He opened one eye and glared at his valet. “Damn Beckett Hawke, then, Ewan. Do you hear me? Damn him all the way to hell.”

“Aye, milord.” Ewan advanced carefully toward the bed as if he intended to cage a wild animal and expected it to attack. William managed to dig his arm out from under him—scraping past buttons and wool on its way to freedom—and felt the bit of silk around his neck. Neck cloth. Not a noose, then.

He’d happened upon Beck at Brook’s Gentlemen’s Club on St. James Street last night. Beck had been playing cards and had invited William to sit in a game of whist. He’d enticed him by announcing he’d discovered a new drink. It was called aLadies’ Blush, and had come to him by way of America, although how it had come to him all the way from America, Beck failed to illuminate. All William remembered was that the drink was sweet and made of gin, and then someone he didn’t know, but whom Beck had enthusiastically recommended, brought him home. William vaguely remembered arguing with Ewan about removing his clothes.

He held up a single finger in the direction of Ewan, whom he could no longer see, what with his face returned to his pillow. “Lord Iddesleigh is not to be admitted to this house. He is not allowed to as much as darken the threshold. Shoot him if he lifts his arm to knock.”

“Aye, milord.”

William dropped his hand. He waited to hear Ewan retreat, but there was only silence. “Why are you still here?” he demanded into his pillow.

“A letter has come, milord. A right proper one, by the look of it.”

“A right proper letter.” William pushed himself up and swiped away a thick lock of hair that had fallen over his eyes. “What does that mean, Ewan? Are no’ all letters right and proper simply by virtue ofbeinga letter?”

“That I donna know, milord.”

“How can you no’ know, MacDuff? You donna know if letters are letters merely by being letters, but yet, you know that it requires my immediate attention at this ungodly hour.”

“It is half past one, milord.”

“Bloody hell, why did you no’ wake me, then?” William groused. He sighed and rolled onto his back. “I’ll have tea, if you please. No—make it coffee. The Turkish sort. Aye, I’ll have coffee—and a side of beef if you can manage it.”

“Aye, milord.”

And yet, Ewan did not move, still held out the blasted letter on his little silver tray. “Holy hell,” William muttered and pushed himself up to sitting, his back against the headboard. He dragged his fingers through his hair. “I mean what I say, then, Ewan. Iddesleigh is no’ welcome here. When he talks, I can no’ seem to say no.” He could only marginally be blamed for his current state—Beck could be very persuasive when he was of a mind.

William rubbed his face with his hands, then looked at Ewan. The man was determined to hand that letter to him. He stretched out his arm and wiggled his fingers. “All right. Give it to me.”

Ewan gingerly placed the letter onto William’s palm. William squinted at it. He didn’t recognize the handwriting, so he turned it over to look at the wax seal. The letter had come from Prescott Hall. He groaned. “Of all the days to have this to bother with,” he complained, then broke the seal and unfolded the letter.

My Lord Douglas,

Greetings and salutations from HRH Princess Justine. She bids me accept your gracious invitation to view the picture gallery at Stafford House. She and HRH Princess Amelia look forward to your escort Thursday at three o’clock. If you cannot provide the necessary conveyance for the princesses, one will be provided for you.

Sincerely,

Gregor Bardaline, Earl of Talin, Master of the Chamber, duly appointed to serveHRH Princess Justine

William crumpled the letter in his fist and glared in the direction of the window. Tomorrow was Thursday.

He didn’t want to go. He regretted ever making the offer. He was in a foul mood, and the thought of interacting with the duke and his cloying minions made his stomach roil worse than drink. He knew the sort of people that would attend—the sort to throng the princesses and press for introductions. Which meant he’d have to remain upright and alert as her escort. He would much prefer to remain here, with his feet propped on a stool and nothing more than a newspaper to burden him. But that stubborn princess had changed her wee mind and wanted to see the picture gallery.

William’s head throbbed.

He flung the letter toward Ewan and watched it fall to the ground between them. “God save me, MacDuff. I’ve a picture gallery reception to attend tomorrow. Bring the coffee, will you?”

“Aye, milord,” Ewan said. He retrieved the letter and went out. William sank back into his bed with a groan.

He’d managed to forget Her Royally Smug Highness in the days since his visit to Prescott Hall. Or rather, he’d forgotten her as much as a man could forget meeting a princess on the verge of becoming queen. But when he didn’t hear a word from her, no yay or nay to his invitation, he’d convinced himself he’d acquitted his duty. But here she was, creeping back into his thoughts with her last-minute acceptance of his invitation.

It was annoying...but maybe after a cup of coffee or two, it wouldn’t seem entirely awful.

SUTHERLANDHAPPENEDTOBEa neighbor to William, a short walk down the street or through Green Park as the spirit moved you. So William called on his fellow Scotsman to inform him he’d be escorting the princesses to the picture gallery viewing. “If you donna mind,” he said.

“Mind?” Sutherland was beside himself with joy. “Argyll will certainly take note, will he no’?” he’d said gleefully, referring to another Scottish duke with whom he had a rivalry.

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