Nothing, to Hugh's mind at least, could be more horrifying than waking up next to the Prince Regent, who could be counted upon to overstay his welcome before asking for a loan on his way out the door.
"So, there was no talk of rebellion?" Orsino continued, ignoring the banter between his two friends. Jack, who had returned from war the previous year, following his brother's death, still had much of the military man about him. He, like Hugh and Robert, worked as a gatherer of intelligence for Whitehall and took his duties to the Crown very seriously indeed.
Hugh, meanwhile, had been inspired to offer his services as a way of showing solidarity with his brother, who served as a Captain under Wellington. He was as invested as Orsino in his work, but he often felt a stab of guilt when he saw just how seriously Orsino took his duties.
Only a man who has fought knows what it is we are working for, Hugh thought, with a stab of guilt as his mind wandered toward Leo.
"Oh, there was plenty of talk," Hugh shrugged, eager to banish the feeling of unease that had crept over him—as it always did—when his mind turned to Leo. "But I wouldn't worry too much about that lot taking up arms against the Crown. They could hardly listen to five minutes of speeches before they descended into a brawl. All brawn and no brains, I'm glad to say."
"Sir Francis doesn't usually inspire a mob mentality," Orsino interjected thoughtfully.
"Sir Francis was not there," Hugh scowled, "I fear that whoever organised that particular gathering had used his name to add an air of respectability to the affair."
Hugh, though a Tory, held a grudging admiration for Sir Francis and agreed with him on many points. The current government had imposed stifling taxes upon the nation, which had led to suffering and discontent amongst the poor. Discontent led, as it always did, to sedition and talk of rebellion, and whilst the war with France was now at an end, agitation by certain political groups meant that the country was still in peril.
"I suppose the room was full of Whigs thinking it a Hampden Club," Orsino said, with a rather amused laugh.
Hugh grunted noncommittally in reply; he was certain that the red-haired thorn in his side had thought that very thing. He had not, for one minute, bought her tall tale about confusing the meeting of radicals with a gathering of crochet-enthusiasts—even if her silly maid had.
Hugh allowed himself a moment to think again of the young lady, who had possessed the look and manner of a lady of breeding. Her clipped accent and expensive clothing had hinted at a moneyed, perhaps even aristocratic, upbringing, but most ladies of Hugh's acquaintance would not bother themselves with matters political. Politics was far from fashionable.
Which could mean only one thing; his red-haired vixen was a bluestocking. There were few things that Hugh despised more than virtue-signalling ladies who could not see the hypocrisy of their homilies when they were delivered from a position of wealth. Even if they did have bewitching, mocking eyes...
Hugh allowed himself a few moments of indulgent reverie, as Orsino and Montague chatted between themselves, before pulling his attention back to his friends, who had become rather animated.
"Almack's?" Orsino hooted, in response to something that Montague had said, "I would not set foot in there unless someone had a Flintlock held to my temple."
"That can be arranged," Montague replied, with a wide, boyish grin which took the menace from his words.
"Are you thinking of getting leg-shackled?" Hugh asked, glancing at the erstwhile committed bachelor with surprise. A man did not set foot in the fusty rooms of Almack's unless they were of a matrimonial mindset; for there was little else to recommend the place, apart from it being the only venue where one might find a suitable wife. People certainly did not attend for the food, which was notoriously poor, or alcohol, for they served none. Dry cake and bitter lemonade was the order of the day, all to be consumed under the strict gaze of the assembly room's lady patronesses.
"I am not thinking of it at all," Montague replied, a frown furrowing his handsome brow, "But in order to appease my father, I must give the impression that I am."
Ah. Hugh's father had been prudent enough to produce an heir and a spare. Leo was a good five years younger than Hugh and away with the army, but he took away any immediate urgency Penrith might feel to procreate for the sake of the line. Montague was not so lucky; as the only child and heir apparent, his formidable father, the Duke of Staffordshire, thought of little else than his son marrying and producing a brace of brats.
"You'll come with me, Penrith, won't you?" Montague cadged, his expression hopeful.
Hugh was just about to thoroughly abuse his friend for even thinking that he might step within three leagues of Almack's when the arrival of a familiar face to the table halted him.
"Dubarry," Hugh smiled at the sight of his cousin.
Augustus Dubarry was a young man of five and twenty, with an affable, if slightly bumbling, manner which matched his haphazard appearance. Dubarry had a shock of blonde hair, which was always messy and tousled, and he could be counted upon to regularly forget an integral part of dressing.
Today, it was his waistcoat—a painful mustard brocade—which was buttoned up incorrectly, so that portions of Dubarry's white shirt were poking out at odd places.
Hugh, who could not give a fig for appearances, felt a stab of affection for his younger cousin, who though forgetful, was in possession of a musical talent most men would kill for.
"I'm not interrupting a meeting of the Upstarts, am I?" Dubarry asked, with a nervous glance to Orsino and Montague.
"I ruddy hate that name," Orsino grumbled, though Hugh rather thought he looked quite pleased with the idea of notoriety so great that it warranted an appellation. The trio of dukes, or rather the two dukes and the duke in waiting, had been dubbed the Ducal Upstarts by the ton, given that, despite their young ages, they were three of the wealthiest and most powerful men in England.
"' Tis better than Disastrous Dubs," Dubarry commented with a wry smile, as he slipped into the chair that Hugh had pulled across for him.
Hugh winced slightly as he heard his cousin repeat his dubious moniker; he had not realised that Dubarry still thought on the cruel nickname he had earned himself in Eton. Hugh, who was five years his cousin's senior, had always thought of Dubarry as a younger brother of sorts and had spent his last years in school defending the lad from the taunts of the other pupils.
Unfortunately, once Hugh had left for Oxford, Dubarry had been left alone, and had been somewhat prone to walking himself into trouble, and equally as woeful at talking himself out of it. Thus, Disastrous Dubs had become his reluctant epithet, which had followed him from Eton to Oxford, and now town.
"I haven't heard anyone call you that for years," Hugh said, with a bracing smile.
"Really?" his cousin raised a disbelieving eyebrow, "Because I heard it just moments ago from Lord Lucas and Lord Horace."
Hugh glanced across the crowded dining room of White's at the two lords his cousin had just mentioned. Both young men were braying with laughter—in a manner that put one to mind of horses—and drinking deeply from their wine glasses.
"I wouldn't pay any mind to what those unlicked cubs have to say," Hugh said, dismissively.
"And I have been called worse," Montague added cheerfully, "In fact, just last night my beloved Rosaline called me an addle pate and declared that she could never love a puff guts such as I."
"Really?"
"Really," Montague smiled proudly, "And that is just what she has said to my face; heaven knows what she calls me when my back is turned."
Hugh gave a bark of laughter at his friend's pragmatic assessment of Rosaline Bower's feelings for him. The beautiful courtesan, who was under the care of the elderly, but extremely wealthy, Earl of Snowdon, had been repelling Montague's overtures for nearly a month now. Her scornful replies to his suit seemed only to spur Montague on to ever greater declarations of love, though Hugh did not worry for his friend's feelings. Montague was merely bor
ed and seeking to entertain himself, as far as Hugh could see.
"I don't care what others think of me," Dubarry said, as the footman set down a fourth glass of brandy for the new arrival, "Even I know that I can be somewhat clumsy—the only thing I worry about is that my reputation might damage my chances with—"
Dubarry halted his speech and nervously took a large sip of his brandy, though evidentially he took too much, for he coughed and spluttered for a full minute before Hugh could question him further.
"Your chances with who?" he asked. He had not thought that his young cousin held any interest in marrying, consumed as he was by his love of music.
"You will think me foolish," Dubarry cast a glum figure, "For she is already the object of many men's attention, even though she is not yet out. A man of my standing has no hope of securing her hand."
"Lud, man," Orsino grumbled, impatient as ever, "Don't make us guess her name, spit it out."
"Miss Bianca Drew," Dubarry offered, as his cheeks stained pink.
"Never heard of her," Orsino shrugged, "You may strike me from your list of competitors."
"Nor I," Hugh added, as he wracked his brains to try and recall if he had ever heard mention of the girl.
"I have," Montague added, though seeing the startled look on Dubarry's face, he quickly clarified matters, "Her name was on one of the lists my father made up for me."
"Is he drawing up lists of marriageable chits now?" Orsino queried, drawing two dark eyebrows together in amusement.
"He's been writing them for years," Montague replied, ever cheerful, "One would think he'd have given up by now. They come in useful for kindling if nothing else."
"You see," Hugh interrupted his friends, who were inclined toward lengthy tangents if left unchecked. "There is not a queue of men waiting to claim this Miss Drew's hand. You have every chance with her."
"Lord Horace and Lord Lucas are quite determined to pursue her once she's out," Dubarry said mournfully, "Though, perhaps, she might never be presented at court. She told me just today that her father has stipulated that she cannot make her come out unless her elder sister proves herself capable of securing a husband."
"How do you know this?" Hugh raised an eyebrow.
"I have been giving Miss Bianca lessons on the pianoforte," Dubarry mumbled, tugging at the collar of his shirt, as though it were too tight.
Lessons? Hugh frowned; his cousin, though the younger son, was not so hard up for money that he needed to supplement his income with music lessons. There was more to Dubarry's tale than met the eye.
"You must be quite the teacher, to have inspired such confidence from your pupil," Hugh drawled, and again Dubarry flushed.
"Well..." he mumbled, slightly shamefaced, "Perhaps our relationship is stronger than that of master and student."
"Lud. I hope you haven't been taking liberties with the girl," Hugh groused, though he did not honestly think his soft-hearted cousin had anything of the rake about him.
"Liberties?" Dubarry was suitably scandalised at the very idea, "I would not dream of taking liberties with Miss Bianca, or any woman for that matter. Please drag your thoughts from the gutter, dear cousin, what I feel for Bianca is something beautiful. One might even call it sacred."
Dubarry paused as Montague hastily tried to disguise a snort of laughter as a cough. Even sombre Orsino appeared to be struggling to conceal his amusement at Dubarry's declaration that his love transcended any base urges.
"Does Miss Bianca feel the same?" Hugh queried, rubbing a hand against his chin, where he could feel the beginnings of a five o'clock shadow sprouting.
"I think," Dubarry looked hopeful, "That she does. We are quite stricken, though, for our love has no chance of progressing if her sister does not prove herself capable of securing a husband. Their father has declared that if the elder Miss Drew fails to attract the attention of any ranking lower than a duke, that Miss Bianca will not be allowed make her come out."
Suspicion niggled at Hugh, as his cousin finished speaking, his blue eyes gazing mournfully around the table at the trio.
"So," Orsino, as usual, seemed to have grasped the matter at hand before anyone else, "You have come to see if you can persuade a duke to dance attendance on this Miss Drew?"
"Well," Dubarry shifted uncomfortably in his seat, "Yes."
"Don't look to me," Montague cast a smug smile toward his friends, "I'm merely a marquess."
"Nor I," Orsino grunted, "I have no time for chasing after chits in white dresses and, besides, I have Lady Olivia to think of."
He did? Hugh raised a surprised eyebrow at this declaration; Lady Olivia had been engaged to Orsino's late brother. Orsino, ever honourable, must have decided that upon his brother's untimely death, that he had inherited the fiancée as well as the title. Though most women would jump at the chance to become a duchess, Hugh was wont to wonder if his friend had told Lady Olivia of his decision. Orsino, having spent years as a high-ranking general, was the type of man who gave orders and expected them to be followed. Except a woman was not an underling in the army...
Hugh was so lost in pondering on Orsino's marriage problems, that he did not note the three expectant pairs of eyes watching him for some time.
"What?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder to see if someone was standing behind him.
"You're a duke," Montague said helpfully.
"And you're related," Orsino added, his green eyes dancing wickedly. "Blood is thicker than water, and all that."
"The proper saying is that the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb," Hugh corrected his army friend, with no shortness of irritation in his tone. Montague and Orsino were supposed to be his brothers in arms, his covenant, but here they were selling him out to Dubarry for their amusement. The cads.
"You wouldn't have to marry her," Dubarry hastily interjected, as he sensed his opportunity. Convincing Hugh alone was almost impossible, but with two Upstarts on his side, he might stand a chance.
"Oh, well that makes everything all right then, what man could refuse," Hugh replied, sarcasm dripping from his voice.
"I knew I could count on you," Dubarry replied, so earnestly that Hugh could not discern if he was being wilfully ignorant, or if he was so love-addled that his brain had turned to mush.
Glancing at the star-struck lad before him, Hugh sadly reflected that it was probably the latter.
"We must begin at once," Dubarry continued, running a hand through his hair, so that it stood even more on end, "Miss Drew will attend Almack's tomorrow night, and it should not be too difficult to engineer an introduction."
"Blast it, Dubarry," Hugh grumbled, "I was being sarcastic. There is no way that I would agree to such a hare-brained scheme."
"Oh," Montague interrupted, a gleam in his blue eyes, "But you did. I heard you, and I vouch that Orsino did too."
"That I did," Orsino added, offering Hugh a smile of pure wickedness, "And honour forbids a man to go back on his word."
Hugh stared, open-mouthed, at his two supposed friends. They were doing this for their own amusement, but in the process, they were raising poor Dubarry's hopes. His cousin, who lived in a different world to most, had spent a lifetime as a source of amusement for others. Hugh allowed himself a moment of chagrin, as he realised that his conscience—as well as his friends' needling—were pushing him toward accepting the challenge before he gave a rueful sigh of acceptance.
"You're certain that she has no desire to wed?" he clarified; he would hang, draw and quarter Orsino and Montague if he ended up leg-shackled to this chit.
"Gemini, no," Dubarry insisted, "By all accounts, she's quite the determined spinster."
"You're supposed to be selling the girl, Dubs," Montague chortled, "Not putting him off her."
"Oh," Dubarry nervously licked his lips, "I just wanted to assure Hugh that there was no chance, whatsoever, of this ending in matrimony. All he needs to do is call upon Miss Drew, perhaps take her for a ride on Rotten Row, an
d once Miss Bianca's father is convinced of it all, then she will call it off."
"So, I am to suffer the indignity of being jilted, as well as the company of a determined spinster?" Hugh asked irritably. Montague was correct in saying that his cousin needed to polish his proposition; Dubarry was currently offering him the sow's ear instead of the silk purse.
"All in the name of familial bonds," Montague interrupted, "And I am willing to offer my services as your escort to Almack's."
"You were already going," Hugh retorted, unwilling to accept his friend's self-canonisation so easily.
"That's beside the point," Montague shrugged, "As your friend, I could not stand by and let you begin this arduous journey alone."
"And I could not stand by and let Montague witness all the fun," Orsino added, with a grin, "I shall come too."
Lud. Hugh waved for the footman to bring more brandy.
"A bottle, this time," he instructed; his friend's merry-making had left him feeling rather thirsty. He knew that the two bachelors would extract great amusement from his plight over the next few weeks. Hugh was many things, but humble was not one of them, and he loathed the idea of being the butt of their jokes for the foreseeable future.
"So, you will do it?" Dubarry questioned, his eyes alive with hope.
"I shall," Hugh conceded, grudgingly. "Though mark my words, Dubarry, this shan't be a pleasant experience for either party."
"Why is it that this Miss Drew cannot secure a husband on her own?" Montague enquired, once Hugh had made his verbal commitment to the plan.
"Well," Dubarry cast Hugh a nervous glance, "As her sister tells it, she has a reputation as being something of a shrew. Though, Miss Bianca says that her reputation is quite unwarranted; she says that her sister is merely opinionated and headstrong and not shrewish in the least."
"An opinionated spinster—she sounds enchanting," Montague commented, offering Hugh a provocative smile, which he duly ignored. He would not rise to the bait, not this time.
Tamed by a Duke (Wilful Wallflowers Book 1) Page 3