Catterick’s, which he had forbade his cousin, a gaming hell of infamous renown.
The club had provision for all manner of gambling games, and a supper room, as well as an upstairs chamber reserved for the sole use of gentlemen. Conversation there ranged from the pilfered antiquities found aboard the French ships captured by Admiral Nelson to a recent concert heard at the Pump Room, and en route flirte with politics and opera dancers and horseflesh.
It was a relief to hear no female voices. Justin requested a glass of claret from a hovering waiter and walked toward the fireplace, where Nigel was sprawled in a comfortable chair drawn up to the hearth. He was dressed in solid black. “I take it Lady Ysabella has arrived,” the duke remarked.
Nigel grimaced. “The whole household is in a flutter. Cook has already threatened to quit twice. What brings you here? That’s a good girl you married, Saint. And no, I don’t want one myself.”
Justin sipped his claret. “Do you think I’m a coxcomb?”
Mr. Slyte didn’t make the mistake of asking what had given his companion this odd notion. “Sometimes I’m grateful to be a younger son. No title and no prospects. Except from Aunt Syb, who’ll probably outlive us both.”
The duke could sympathize. There had been a time when he longed to be a younger son himself. “How is Lady Syb?”
“In prime twig. I left her sitting in bed drinking a concoction of primrose wine mixed up with honey, brandy, and white of egg; and ordering the servants around. Fortunate it is I ain’t in the petticoat line, the way Aunt Syb has me dangling on her string.” Nigel’s shrewd eyes rested on his friend. “I probably shouldn’t mention it, but it seems to me you may be dangling yourself, Saint.”
“You are correct. You shouldn’t have mentioned it.” Justin’s tone was so savage that Nigel cocked his bright head to one side.
“Ain’t you devilish out of humor. I’m not sure I want to know why. Don’t go getting your hackles up! Tell you what, I’ll loan you some of Aunt Syb’s leeches if you decide to purge yourself.”
“It’s not purging I need.” Justin swirled the ruby liquid in his glass. “I think she means to drive me mad.”
“Which one?” inquired Nigel. “You have a flock of females in your house. All you need now is for Lady Ratchett to come to town. If she does, you can come stay with me. Aunt Syb would like the company.”
Would Lady Syb tell him whether he was a coxcomb? “Elizabeth,” Justin said, and paused. How to best broach so delicate a subject? “Is, ah, innocent.”
Nigel brightened. There was no better cure for a fit of the doldrums than to encounter someone worse off. “Of course she is an innocent. God’s teeth, Saint, the girl is your wife.”
Reminded of teeth, Justin gritted his. “I mean that she is still innocent. Don’t make me spell it out.”
Nigel would have loved to prolong the moment. However, St. Clair was his friend. “Well now, this is extraordinary! Never tell me that you are, uh, sleeping by yourself? Ah, I see from your expression that you are.” He beckoned a waiter. “Another bottle of claret. Or maybe you should make it three!”
Chapter 11
“Towns are the destroyer of feminine virtue. Women are particularly susceptible to the fashionable fripperies and time-wasting amusement found there.” —Lady Ratchett
While the Duke of Charnwood was being advised by his oldest friend on the ins and outs of courtship—Mr. Slyte might not be in the petticoat line, but he did have a gaggle of sisters, not to mention a worldly aunt, and therefore deemed himself something of an expert on feminine likes and dislikes—the ladies of his household were embarked upon an expedition to the shops. The chill weather did not deter them; they simply bundled up. Lady Augusta fetched a cloak of velvet trimmed with swansdown, and a cottage hat. Elizabeth donned a pelisse of fawn-colored sarsenet trimmed with mohair
The club had provision for all manner of gambling games, and a supper room, as well as an upstairs chamber reserved for the sole use of gentlemen. Conversation there ranged from the pilfered antiquities found aboard the French ships captured by Admiral Nelson to a recent concert heard at the Pump Room, and en route flirte with politics and opera dancers and horseflesh.
It was a relief to hear no female voices. Justin requested a glass of claret from a hovering waiter and walked toward the fireplace, where Nigel was sprawled in a comfortable chair drawn up to the hearth. He was dressed in solid black. “I take it Lady Ysabella has arrived,” the duke remarked.
Nigel grimaced. “The whole household is in a flutter. Cook has already threatened to quit twice. What brings you here? That’s a good girl you married, Saint. And no, I don’t want one myself.”
Justin sipped his claret. “Do you think I’m a coxcomb?”
Mr. Slyte didn’t make the mistake of asking what had given his companion this odd notion. “Sometimes I’m grateful to be a younger son. No title and no prospects. Except from Aunt Syb, who’ll probably outlive us both.”
The duke could sympathize. There had been a time when he longed to be a younger son himself. “How is Lady Syb?”
“In prime twig. I left her sitting in bed drinking a concoction of primrose wine mixed up with honey, brandy, and white of egg; and ordering the servants around. Fortunate it is I ain’t in the petticoat line, the way Aunt Syb has me dangling on her string.” Nigel’s shrewd eyes rested on his friend. “I probably shouldn’t mention it, but it seems to me you may be dangling yourself, Saint.”
“You are correct. You shouldn’t have mentioned it.” Justin’s tone was so savage that Nigel cocked his bright head to one side.
“Ain’t you devilish out of humor. I’m not sure I want to know why. Don’t go getting your hackles up! Tell you what, I’ll loan you some of Aunt Syb’s leeches if you decide to purge yourself.”
“It’s not purging I need.” Justin swirled the ruby liquid in his glass. “I think she means to drive me mad.”
“Which one?” inquired Nigel. “You have a flock of females in your house. All you need now is for Lady Ratchett to come to town. If she does, you can come stay with me. Aunt Syb would like the company.”
Would Lady Syb tell him whether he was a coxcomb? “Elizabeth,” Justin said, and paused. How to best broach so delicate a subject? “Is, ah, innocent.”
Nigel brightened. There was no better cure for a fit of the doldrums than to encounter someone worse off. “Of course she is an innocent. God’s teeth, Saint, the girl is your wife.”
Reminded of teeth, Justin gritted his. “I mean that she is still innocent. Don’t make me spell it out.”
Nigel would have loved to prolong the moment. However, St. Clair was his friend. “Well now, this is extraordinary! Never tell me that you are, uh, sleeping by yourself? Ah, I see from your expression that you are.” He beckoned a waiter. “Another bottle of claret. Or maybe you should make it three!”
Chapter 11
“Towns are the destroyer of feminine virtue. Women are particularly susceptible to the fashionable fripperies and time-wasting amusement found there.” —Lady Ratchett
While the Duke of Charnwood was being advised by his oldest friend on the ins and outs of courtship—Mr. Slyte might not be in the petticoat line, but he did have a gaggle of sisters, not to mention a worldly aunt, and therefore deemed himself something of an expert on feminine likes and dislikes—the ladies of his household were embarked upon an expedition to the shops. The chill weather did not deter them; they simply bundled up. Lady Augusta fetched a cloak of velvet trimmed with swansdown, and a cottage hat. Elizabeth donned a pelisse of fawn-colored sarsenet trimmed with mohair
Similar Books
