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  “On the contrary, my dear, we should be interfering. I shant name my source, nevertheless rumor has it, he has his sights set on our very own Emily.”

  Emily gasped, cutlery slipping out of her hand and clamoring to the floor. “I have no idea what would have given you that impression, Isabel, but surely you are mistaken. I would never marry such an unfeeling clout.”

  “And you, my dear sister, do not understand the power Mother wields when it comes to making deals with the devil. She is, after all, your legal guardian.” Nathaniel tossed his napkin onto the table.

  Emily gazed at her brother with a pensive expression for a brief moment then she looked down, cleared her throat, and ran from the room. Her sobs echoed down the hall.

  Avonlea could not blame her for losing her composure, for surely, if he was in her situation, he would most certainly find it grave. He could not think of a single female who would want a cold and unfeeling duke to prevail upon them. She pulled at his heart. Something in her blue eyes called to him.

  Charles quietly observed the usually upbeat family dynamic suddenly change into something mournful and serious. He could not recall a single time when he had seen them all this distressed, other than many months back. “Now, now, there is no need to spoil what was a cheerful evening. My lady, dinner was outstanding, but I do regret I should depart. There is a young lady in need of consoling. I should hate to impose further.”

  “My lord, you would not be imposing, as I was the one who invited you. And do not worry a moment over Emily. The silly gel is worrying over nothing, and I shall soon ease her anxiety. Besides, I am sure the marquess would not mind time alone with you.” The marchioness gazed kindly at her husband while she pulled away from the table. “Excuse me, my lords, I have a young lady to console.”

  Avonlea nodded and turned to face his host. “Honestly, Nathaniel, I do not want to keep you from explaining further to your sister on what your wife’s meaning was.”

  “It is no trouble at all, old friend. Let us move into the library and get more comfortable.”

  Avonlea followed the marquess, his nerves frayed and sanity questionable. He paced by the fire, feeling more on edge than ever before. Nathaniel poured them some port. He reached out and took the glass. “Thank you.”

  “I have been meaning to address some concerns, Avonlea. Up until that nasty business with Downsbury, we had not had a chance to discuss your return from the continent, nor mine. I imagine you completed your assignments? You returned to London at least a month before me. You were not hurt, were you?”

  Avonlea chose his next words wisely. Here he stood with one of the only men he trusted with his life. What would he do with the information about Celine, the baby, the opium? Would he expose himself for the true cad he was?

  Somehow, he doubted it, but that same feeling that the ground would disappear from beneath him loomed again, just as when his mother and aunt had berated him for not having found a wife yet. Only this time, he sat on the floor trying to regain his senses whilst the world tipped on its axis.

  He looked up to find Nathaniel on his haunches before him. “Are you all right, Charles?”

  He sighed, and with resignation, told his story to the bitter end. “So now, do you comprehend why I stayed away? If the war office knew that I never completed my assignment, I would be finished.”

  “Not necessarily, old friend. To some degree, in your circumstances, some would have considered you unfit to complete the mission, and they would have retracted you immediately. If it had come to the question of your honesty, I would have gladly stood by you. But sadly, we were not on the same assignment.”

  A pity that. But mayhap, it was for the better. “’Tis a good thing to know you still value our friendship.” But would the rest of society understand? His mother and aunt could not begin to comprehend the complex emotions he kept hidden, and he certainly could not expect another woman to feel second rate, either. There simply was not an easy answer on how to move forward.

  Nathaniel rose and squeezed his shoulder. “And you, my friend, were at my side during one of the most difficult times of my life. I will stand by yours, if there ever is a need.”

  Avonlea eased back into his chair. Relief washed over him, and with comfort finally settling him, he swallowed the remainder of his drink. “What other concerns do you have, Nathaniel?”

  “Lord Wycliffe, in particular. I am not quite sure as to how deep his attachment with the former Duchess of Downsbury goes, but what I do know is, in his present state of madness, he’ll soon no longer be permitted into White’s if he cannot get his drinking under control.”

  “And that is just the beginning.” Charles snorted and stood to help himself to another port. “Can I get you another? For I am sure we will be needing a few more before we are finished.”

  “Certainly.”

  Avonlea set the decanter down and walked toward the marquess with their glasses. Whatever troubled the earl would soon pass, or so he hoped.

  * * * *

  Avonlea groaned at the sight before him.

  Lord Rutledge and a few others sat amused, watching a member of their circle make a total and utter fool of himself. The server attempted to leave a drink on the table for Wycliffe, but the clout kept reaching for the other glasses on the tray.

  “My lord, those aren’t for you”, the scrawny young man said, holding back the plate. “Those belong to other patrons. If you would like, I will drop by again in a few moments with another for yourself.”

  Wycliffe mumbled an obscenity and went back to his own beverage.

  Avonlea reached over the table and swiped the Earl of Wycliffe’s scotch. The man had clearly imbibed enough already. And he suspected it had to do with the former Duchess of Downsbury’s untimely death.

  “Give me my blasted drink back!” Wycliffe hiccupped.

  He simply shook his head. “I will not. Get a grip of yourself, man. I understand you are mourning, but enough is enough.” Avonlea swirled the contents, eliciting a groan from Wycliffe. “This will not bring her back. It is time to move on.”

  Wycliffe snorted. “I cannot simply go and find someone to replace her. You would not understand. I have needs, and only she knew exactly what I required.”

  This surely could not be all about bedding a woman. Just what exactly is he in to?

  His comment had garnered some attention, the other gents chuckling in their seats.

  “I assure you, if you take the time to visit Madame Martine’s establishment, you would be pleasantly surprised at how accommodating her ladies are,” the earl quipped.

  The drunkard grunted in disgust. “If you won’t give me my drink, and the staff here at White’s won’t serve me, I will find myself a hovel. Luckily for me, London has many.”

  He rose, knocking over his chair, and ran into a server, sending his tray clattering to the floor. The contents spilled and stained his pants. “Ugh! Get out of my way.” Wycliffe growled, staggering out the door.

  “Well, that was a joy. When do you suppose the Earl of Wycliffe will get his head out of the bottle and heed his father’s wishes?” Lord Rutledge asked while taking the glass from Avonlea’s hand.

  “Never, at the rate he is going. Wycliffe has a duty, and the only way he can get out of this mess is with help.”

  “Help? Stop being ludacris, Avonlea. You should know it is every man to his own at this point. There is too much going on right now, none would dare meddle in personal affairs.”

  “What are you afraid of, Rutledge? That your own skeletons will come tumbling out of the servant’s quarters?”

  Rutledge, whose portly belly stuck out more than a woman in confinement, stood and wagged a fat finger in his face. “Listen here, you impertinent fool, I will not tolerate your insolence.”

  “Insolence? You, my fat friend, will be one of the first pigs to be roasted on an open spit for your negligence. Quite frankly, I think I will follow Wycliffe’s direction and have a swig of some cheap vile from
a hovel in one of London’s finest.” Avonlea departed, leaving Rutledge and the other gentlemen to wager and gossip like women.

  Why does life have to be so black and white? He had heard of Wycliffe’s attachment to the duchess, as others did, but to think there really was more to the association. What if he and Emily were in that situation? Married to other partners, but visiting each other secretly. What a ruinous conundrum in which to be. To be besotted with someone who happens to be married to another.

  Not too long ago, he had assisted Nathaniel, and now he would do the same for Wycliffe. Why does it always fall on me?

  He walked down the cobblestone street until he reached a young lad in cut-off pants. “I have a guinea with your name on it if you’ will tell me what direction a tall, muscular man passed by. He has dark hair, though I doubt anyone would notice given the hour it is. He is also wearing gentlemen’s clothing much like myself, and he might have been mumbling. Did you see any man of the sort?”

  “’e went that way, sir. He was grumbling like a mad man, something ’bout being gipped a scotch at White’s and ‘eaded in the direction of them fancy ladies. I think the establishment is called Martine’s.”

  So the bloke was headed for Martine’s place after all. It would not hurt to keep an eye on him. The man clearly needed a release in the worst sort of way. Well, so do I, but every time I close my bloody peepers, all I can see is Emily.

  The earl reached into his pocket and handed the lost child his compensation. “Now, run along home. There is no need for you to be out here for the rest of the week with that sum.”

  Beneath scraggly hair kept untidily under a dingy cap, dark eyes peered back at him. “You are mistaken, sir. My mum needs more than this to keep out of debtor’s prison. But if you ever need anything else, this ’ould be my corner.”

  “Pray tell, what is your name, child?”

  “M’name is Percy.”

  “After your father, no doubt?”

  The child snorted. “M’father ran off with a whore in Whitechapel, and his name sure as hell ain’t Percy. He took off before I was born.”

  Avonlea surmised this was a common story from the slums of London. A tragedy really. Children were the future of this country, and sadly, this one would be lucky if he made it to twenty. “Either way, lad, stay out of trouble. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  He treaded through the gaslit, cobblestone street until he happened upon the tallest house in the lane. He approached the door when a lone, burly guard, who wore the stench of piss and ale, blocked his entry.

  “There be a fee for late entry into this evening’s festivities, guvnor.”

  “And what would that be, sir?”

  “A guinea for entry and another for my silence.”

  He pondered a moment what the gent meant. If the oaf thought Charles was shackled by marriage, then he was sadly mistaken. The day he took a wife was the day he ensured the woman could handle him in every single way. “I will give you the guinea for entry, sir, but nothing more.”

  The idiot grunted and held out his grimy hand while Avonlea dropped the note, pushing him out of the way to enter the establishment. For a bawdy house, Martine had gone out of her way to make the surroundings more like home. Men were seated in lavish chairs, decorated in the finest fabric, while some of the girls sat on their laps in nothing more than a silk robe, loosening their cravats.

  There was a time in his life where the sight of women dressed as such would have excited him, but the mere spectacle of them made him flaccid as the day he was born. He only wanted one woman, and she happened to be the redheaded miss that would land him in a heap of trouble, and irritate his mother so.

  A serving girl handed him a tankard, and another, the one topless, led him into a parlor already buzzing with activity.

  “My dear, while I am thankful for the drink, that is not why I am here. Where is your mistress? I wish to speak with her.”

  She blushed and stared at him blankly. “She is with a client, sir.”

  “Then interrupt her, please. I have need to speak with her.”

  The wench bowed and looked displeased at his words. “If you would not mind waiting here then. I doubt the parlor would suit the mood you are in.”

  A few minutes later, the girl returned with a very annoyed and disheveled Madame Martine. Her corset had been done up roughly, so that even more of her generous cleavage stuck out, and her flaxen hair was mussed. Apparently, whatever client she was entertaining at that moment was not in the mood either. “You requested my presence, my lord?”

  Her hands wandered aimlessly down his chest and straight toward the band of his pants. “Leave it be, Martine. I came here for Wycliffe. Now, where is he?”

  “Surely, you do not mean the useless and drunken clod I just left?”

  “Considering he left White’s in that condition, then I imagine we speak of the same gent.”

  “Ugh. Take him out of here. I no longer want him to visit this establishment.”

  “And why is that?”

  She scowled and made an unladylike gesture of disgust. “That man is not right in the head. Have you any idea what he likes to do? None of my girls take any interest in being abused in such a manner.”

  “Other than drink, Madame, I assure you, I have no interest in learning about his past time with the ladies. In or out of the bed. What he does in his own time is of his own affair. Now, if I may.”

  “He’s right through there, in Daisy’s room.” She pointed to the room she had vacated. “I will not issue a refund, either. He’s been more trouble than he’s worth. See that he is removed, immediately. I have other clients who would appreciate our services this evening.”

  Avonlea sighed, imagining just how awful he had treated Martine. He reached into his pockets and pulled out another note. “For your trouble, Madame.”

  He stalked into the room and found Wycliffe asleep at the edge of the bed, hanging onto a loosely tied neck cloth at the bedpost.

  What have you gotten yourself into now, Wycliffe?

  For someone intent on trying to move forward, he was doing a smashing job of ruining his reputation. The foolish man would eventually have all of London talking if he did not sober up.

  Avonlea bent down to loosen Wycliffe’s necktie from the bedpost and tucked it into his pocket. He shook the earl until his arms flailed from the disturbance. “Come on, old chap, It has time to catch some air.”

  From the dead weight of Wycliffe, came gurgling and then talking, as if he were dreaming. “She did not want to be bound. She hit me with her fan…”

  “Come on, Wycliffe. Up we go.” There is hope for you, yet. He heaved the man up and walked him over to a chair. The earl opened his eyes as Avonlea splashed some water from a washbasin onto his face.

  Wycliffe waved his hands to keep him from tossing more water and growled. “Enough of that! I am awake, man!”

  Good thing, too. What would the daily say, come morning, if they read about him carrying the earl out of the bawdy house? His dear aunt would have a fit of the vapors. Just what I need.

  * * * *

  Emily pouted from her chaise. Her mother had supported the match since the Duke of Downsbury announced his interest in her at Stoughton Hall, all but nine months previously. “But, Mama, this is utter madness. His grace has not even proposed, and you are already planning a wedding?”

  “Yes, dear, I am planning an extravagent wedding. After all, my only daughter is going to be a duchess.”

  A duchess who will no doubt be terrible at all that will be expected. Releasing an exasperated groan, Emily pulled herself up and righted her gown. “Mama, if you had half a mind, you would know, just as the rest of the ton does, that the duke has only just returned from the continent. In addition to your lunacy, his marriage was recently annulled.”

  Frankly, Emily was surprised and disturbed that Lady Cordelia Waite’s death had not been investigated further. The duke’s lack of emotion when his wife
died certainly perplexed not only her, but many others. If she married him, would he treat her in the same regard, or would he be as doting as her brother and his marchioness?

  To be as happy as Nathaniel and Isabel. Maybe I will be so lucky to find the same thing. “Mama, I would like to go for a ride today. I hope you did not have anything planned?”

  Her mother gave her a bemused glance and tapped her nimble fingers on a silver platter. “Actually, I did have plans for us, my dear. I am expecting some deliveries, and we need time to get you ready.”

  What on earth is she talking about? “Mama, what exactly are you referring to?”

  “There is a formal dinner and ball being held in your honor tonight.”

  “Mama, I do not understand why, though.”

  “The duke, of course. This is our way of a short, but formal courtship.”

  The truth slapped her in the face. How could anyone so shallow and empty want to court her?

  Their portly butler entered the parlor and bowed. “My lady, this just arrived for the youngest Lady Thompson.”

  Emily eyed the large parcel and hesitantly took the package from him. “I wonder who it is from.” She unwrapped the red velvet ribbon, lifted the lid, and gasped. “Good heavens!”

  Sitting in the nearest chair, she extracted the loveliest gown of silk and muslin in the prettiest pink she had ever seen. The sudden need to weep overwhelmed her. “It is…beautiful, Mama!”

  She pressed the dress to her chest as the remainder of the delicate fabric swept across the floor. Its coloring complimented her pale flesh and would go perfectly with the drop pearl necklace her papa had given her a year prior to his passing. Perhaps the ball was not so much a bad idea. If the duke had gone to such lengths to ensure she dressed properly, it could only be a sign of future thoughtfulness.

  “What time is the ball tonight?”

  “His grace informed me seven o’clock sharp. Dear, it appears in your frazzled state, you dropped a card.”

  Butterflies fluttered about in her belly, and she shook from excitement. Emily bent down to pick up the vellum.