The screech of whistles pierced his senses, but his sights were set on Caro’s stripe-clad debaucher, who had rallied (or bribed) a beefy bruiser as his companion in a new offensive. He kept his fists up and shook off a restraining feminine hand on his shoulder.
“Castleton!” His name, Caro’s voice. “Castleton, we must leave. The management has summoned the watch.”
Distracted for a moment, he lowered his guard but was saved by a new ally, a tall, slim, black-haired figure. “Get Caro away,” Denford shouted, planting a right-handed punch squarely on Beefy’s jaw.
“The striped fellow is mine,” Thomas yelled back.
Denford ignored him and landed a vicious left in Stripes’s stomach. “Get out. I’ll hold off the watch while you and Caro escape.”
A glimmer of sanity tempered his frenzy, and it occurred to him that, as the man who’d started the fight, however righteous the cause, he might be taken up by the law. And though he could doubtless argue or buy his way out of trouble, it would be, to say the least, embarrassing to have to do so. Not to mention how the episode would look when it was known he had a lady with him. Caro Townsend tugged at his shoulder. His sense of propriety returning, he firmly placed her hand on his arm and drew her close for protection. For her sake, even more than his, he prayed the fight would be regarded as all in a night’s work at a public masquerade and not draw the attention of Grub Street. Mrs. Townsend’s involvement in a scandal would affect her cousin.
Her cousin.
Thomas’s heart sank. He stopped abruptly, jerking Caro to stand with him. He’d never even given a thought to the fact that he’d left Miss Brotherton all alone when he’d thrown himself into the melee. He craned his neck to the spot under the gallery where he’d abandoned the heiress. No sign.
“Your cousin. We must find her.”
Denford noticed his hesitation. “Go!” he urged.
“I must find Miss Brotherton.” He hated having to shout out her name in this company, but the noise was too loud for discreet communication.
“Bream has her,” the other duke yelled back. “They’ll meet us in the street.”
Thomas still wavered. “Should we help Denford?” he asked Caro.
She grinned up at him, eyes sparkling. Her white gown was a little creased, but otherwise she appeared unharmed. “Julian can look after himself. He’s been in far worse fixes than this.”
Thomas could well believe it. “Very well. Let’s go.”
He thrust his way through a teeming mob, with her clinging to his arm and positively skipping along beside him. “You were absolutely splendid! I wouldn’t have guessed you for a warrior.”
His chest swelled with pride, struggling with the distressing knowledge that public brawling was no suitable activity for a gentleman, or a lady. Propriety won when he thought of Miss Brotherton.
“Let’s hurry. I don’t have much faith in Bream’s powers of protection.”
“She’ll be fine. I expect Cynthia is with them too.”
“Lady Windermere?”
“She came with Julian.”
A married woman, attending such an affair with a man of Denford’s reputation! Thomas’s exhilaration faded speedily, and he was left to coldly face the absolute proof that his hoped-for bride had fallen into most undesirable company.
“I hope, Mrs. Townsend, that this unseemly brawl makes you regret your rash behavior in coming to this place.” They had reached the relative calm of the street.
She pulled away and faced him, folding her arms in front of her. “That is too much!” Her enchanting face displayed a blend of amusement and annoyance. “Who started the unseemly brawl? Not I! I didn’t hit Sir Bernard Horner.”
“If you mean the fellow in the striped coat, he was pawing you in the most disgusting fashion. I came to the rescue of a lady.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“You appeared in distress. Not surprising for a lady alone in such a place.”
“So it’s my fault?” Amusement had fled, leaving nothing but outrage. “I’d appreciate your keeping out of my affairs. I have no wish to be at odds with Sir Bernard.”
“I do beg your pardon,” he said, angry and mortified. He’d rushed in like a foolish knight-errant, but apparently the lady didn’t wish to be saved. He’d misinterpreted the situation between Mrs. Townsend and the man in the striped coat—Horner she’d called him. For all he knew, she was encouraging him, indulging in flirtatious byplay he’d failed to understand. Good Lord, perhaps the pair of them were lovers. His cheeks heated as she glared up at him, her lips pursed. Their gazes clashed for some seconds, and he felt a tightening in his chest, a compound of irritation and something more, something he couldn’t name. Then her mood shifted, her expression softened.
“I’m being unjust,” she said. “You meant well, and you weren’t to know that you interfered where you weren’t needed.” A hint of distress flickered across her mobile features. He wanted to press her, to ask how he could help. He also wanted to run away as far as he could. Mrs. Townsend was the kind of overly dramatic, emotional woman who came to a bad end.
Her melancholy, if that was it, passed quickly. The smile that had bewitched him earlier made its reappearance. “You must admit,” she said, “it was the most magnificent fight. I don’t know when I’ve enjoyed myself more.”
He had his defenses mounted against her charm. “A fracas in a public place, or anywhere else for that matter, is no place for a lady.”
She laughed aloud. “Don’t be stuffy, Castleton. You know you enjoyed it.”
To his shame—and he had no intention of owning it—she was right. In the small hours, after he’d seen the ladies bestowed safely in Conduit Street, he walked to Piccadilly through the cool, quiet streets. Too tired for thought, he let his mind roam aimlessly and found himself humming.
He never hummed. And he certainly had no reason for frivolous gaiety. His neckcloth was a mess, his waistcoat buttonless, and his shirt torn. His hands were sore from punching, his chest and shoulders stiff from received blows, and he knew beyond doubt that in the morning he’d be sporting a black eye.
Barely acknowledged, shoved into the back corner of his mind, was the fact that he’d never had so much fun in all his twenty-nine years. He’d never felt more alive.
Chapter 6
After the birth of his twin sisters, Thomas’s mother no longer made her annual visit to London. The inconvenient house in Whitehall built by the first duke was let, and his father rented rooms when he spent a few weeks in the capital to attend Parliament. After his death, Thomas made a quick trip on business and discovered Nerot’s, comfortable, conveniently located, and reasonably priced—at least by ducal standards.
He enjoyed hotel living for its informality and privacy. Two rooms, in addition to a dressing closet and a room for a servant, were quite adequate to his needs. He relished the unwonted isolation, almost anonymity, without the mother, sisters, and huge domestic staff who inhabited Castleton House. In these modest quarters, he felt a freedom that as the heir and now owner of a ducal estate he could never experience. If he needed a drink, a meal, hot water, or a carriage, all he had to do was ring the bell, and his needs were met quickly, without fuss or reference to the convenience of others.
The morning after the masquerade, dressed only in his banyan, he tucked into a hearty breakfast. To the comfort of lounging en deshabille, was added the pleasure of eating beefsteak and eggs piping hot from the hotel kitchen. At home, the food was generally tepid after being carried from distant offices along miles of ancestral passages. Under his father’s strict rule, attendance at an early breakfast, in the dining room, had been obligatory.
During his postmeal shave, he sensed the disapproval of his valet though you’d think he would be pleased not to have to get up at the crack of dawn. Minchin, a middle-aged man of silent efficiency and rectitude, was a legacy from the late duke. It hadn’t seemed fair to dismiss so senior a servant. Not until Thomas’s chin w
as smooth and the razors set aside did Minchin bring up the state of his eye.
“An accident, Your Grace?”
“I walked into a lamppost on my way home last night.”
“Indeed, sir. Very painful. Might I suggest a slice of raw beef to reduce the swelling.”
Thomas walked over to the full-length mirror that was one of the hotel’s amenities. It wasn’t as bad as he feared, but he sported a dark bruise above his right cheekbone. It itched.
“If you think it will help.”
“Better not to alarm the ladies.” Minchin knew why he was in London.
The ladies, of course, knew exactly how he’d acquired the shameful evidence of his unseemly behavior. Not that they’d seemed shocked by it. Mrs. Townsend and Lady Windermere had exhibited a cheerfulness bordering on hysterical delight at the adventure. Their laughter had shaken the carriage all the way home. If Miss Brotherton expressed herself more quietly, it was only because that was her nature. Thomas had little doubt that his future bride had been as amused as her more vocal companions.
No, he didn’t need to worry that they would be repelled by a black eye. On the other hand, now he’d been in London for several days, he perceived that his garments were quite out of fashion. Sensible, good-quality clothing made by the best tailor in Winchester, but not in the least tonnish.
“I notice coats are shorter at the front and lapels are wider these days. Do you think I should visit a London tailor?”
“Your Grace’s father never did,” Minchin replied in his usual toneless voice.
“He didn’t set much store by fashion. I believe he wore the same style of coat for twenty years.”
“Indeed, Your Grace. His late Grace could be quite rigid in his attitudes.” Minchin’s lips thinned. Could he actually be displaying a tinge of humor?
“Rigid?”
“His attitude toward dress, I meant, Your Grace.”
“If I had it in mind to buy some new clothes, where should I go?”
The speed of Minchin’s response made it clear this was a question he’d studied. “Your Grace will wish to acquire some of the new pantaloons for daywear. Meyer or Weston are well regarded. For coats, Mr. Brummell favors Schweitzer and Davidson on Cork Street.”
“Who is this Brummell? Never heard of him.”
“He is said to be the best-dressed man in London and sets the example for all others, even the Prince of Wales. On Mr. Brummell’s advice, His Royal Highness has ordered several coats from Schweitzer.”
“My father certainly wouldn’t approve of him.” The former duke had spent much of his last ten years railing against modern immorality as exemplified by the Duchess of Devonshire, Charles James Fox, and, above all, the heir to the throne. It had been a great relief to him when the King dismissed the Whigs for Mr. Pitt. Castleton, scion of generations of Whig dukes, happily joined the mass exodus to the Tories.
The extravagance, depravity, and ingratitude of the Prince of Wales had been a constant refrain. And while the duke never criticized his own son directly, there were times when Thomas had felt obscurely guilty, as though by the mere fact of being a son and heir he shared the Prince’s less desirable traits. Which was truly unjust since Thomas had always been dutiful, never misbehaved.
“Perhaps I’ll call on this Schweitzer. Cork Street did you say?”
“Indeed, Your Grace. Would you like me to arrange an appointment?” Minchin sounded positively eager. Valets, Thomas supposed, must get a vicarious pleasure out of their masters’ new clothes. Miss Brotherton would appreciate them too.
That final thought rang a false note. Nothing in his acquaintance with her indicated the slightest interest in fashion, men’s or women’s. Her cousin, on the other hand, demonstrated a distinct sense of style. He could readily imagine her being attracted to gentlemen of tonnish appearance, like that abominable Horner. He wouldn’t want to look like that blackguard with his wandering hands. Horner was the kind of man Mrs. Townsend admired.
But Mrs. Townsend had considerable influence on her cousin. She thought Thomas a stick-in-the-mud, she’d made that perfectly clear. If he improved his appearance, she might put in a good word for him with Anne. That was, of course, the only reason to impress her. He had no other motive in seeking her approval of his person.
“I daresay London tailors’ prices are excessive,” he remarked.
Minchin looked horrified at the introduction of such a vulgar topic. “Naturally, no reputable tradesman would dun Your Grace.”
Of course not. He could buy half the contents of Bond Street on his credit. But adding to his father’s debts was not his goal in coming to London. His niggling sense of responsibility quashed the fleeting urge to order an entirely new wardrobe. A new coat or two would be quite sufficient for Mrs. Townsend.
For Miss Brotherton, rather.
And they wouldn’t be striped.
Mr. Schweitzer proved accommodating—also persuasive. Thomas assuaged his guilt at ordering so many new garments by calling them an investment. The tailor’s accommodation didn’t extend to an ability to deliver a new coat in less than a fortnight. Thomas escorted Miss Brotherton on an afternoon visit to the British Museum without being able to test the efficacy of his improved wardrobe. His lack of the latest mode mattered not a whit. Compared to the gentlemen patronizing Montagu House that day, he was a dapper monument to the tailor’s art.
It was, undoubtedly, the most tedious three hours he’d ever spent. His companion evinced enormous and interminable enthusiasm for the most appalling lot of rubbish: rusty coins, broken pots and—in particular—tiny square tiles in varying shades of dull.
Things looked up a little in the carriage on the way home, when Miss Brotherton subjected him to a minute interrogation into the location, size, and terrain of his various estates. Since he was well versed in the extent of her own very numerous acres, he found this interest encouraging. She must be considering the marriage of their holdings, which would produce a landed fortune surpassed by few in England.
“And in Wiltshire,” he concluded his accounting, “there are about six hundred acres, mostly arable.”
“Have you ever followed a plow, Duke?”
“Are you serious, Miss Brotherton?”
“I would so like to. Mr. Hooke of Wiltshire discovered not one but two Roman villas on his land when the plow threw up tesserae.”
Tesserae, tesserae. He’d heard that word. “Those little tiles you were showing me?” Insisted on showing him. No wonder they were all the color of mud. That’s where they’d come from.
“The small tiles from which the Romans made their paved floors. Mr. Hooke found the most elegant mosaic pavement under his fields. How I would like to see it.”
“How fortunate for him. You should visit.” No doubt she was suggesting that after their marriage they might, during a visit to his estate in that county, call on Mr. Hooke. He had no objection.
“Think how marvelous it would be to discover such remains and excavate them. You should order your tenants to look carefully when they plow.”
He could just imagine what his tenants would say to such a command, not to mention the loss of productive land should any Roman ruins be discovered.
“Have you looked on your own lands?” he asked, trying not to sound sharp.
She shook her head regretfully. “My grandfather always said excavations were a waste of productive land. Can you conceive of such an attitude?”
Continuing this conversation could lead to an irreconcilable breakdown in relations. What did it matter if his duchess had eccentric interests? Antiquities, especially the non-naked-statue kind, were perfectly respectable.
Since they were alone in a closed carriage, this would be a good moment to attempt a little wooing. Steal a kiss, perhaps. He looked at Miss Brotherton’s well-bred face, hazel eyes gleaming with delight at the thought of acres of tesserae. There was nothing at all to disgust a man in her appearance. Many would even find her pretty enough, regardless of
the size of her fortune. A husband would have nothing to complain about bedding her.
Unfortunately, he felt not the slightest enthusiasm about doing so, which was remarkable in that he hadn’t enjoyed a woman in months. He’d thought it proper to break with his mistress, a widow residing in Basingstoke, when he wrote to Morrissey proposing his courtship of Miss Brotherton.
He didn’t even want to kiss her. He wanted to marry her, but he didn’t wish to kiss her. He wondered if he should be concerned.
The discovery in some distant county of an Anglo-Saxon midden, which sounded like an antique dust-heap, rendered her quite lyrical. All the way to Conduit Street, she talked about rubbish.
Naturally, he saw her up the steps and knocked on the door. And naturally, in this chaotic household, the door opened to reveal, not a servant, but the mistress of the house. Caro—Mrs. Townsend—stood in the doorway dressed in her usual white but revealing even more flesh than usual. In fact, her garb appeared to be fashioned from a sheet. The breeze set her curls aflutter and molded the light linen around her delicious figure.
“There you are,” she said.
Her foggy tones were like a physical caress that went straight to his groin and proved that his desire was still functional. Mrs. Townsend he wanted to kiss. And a good deal more.
Not daring to touch her, he bowed.
The Importance of Being Wicked Page 6