Page 11 of Plucked By the Orc

“No.” Albion held up a finger. He hadn’t even touched his steak pie, which was in danger of growing cold. “Not to do with her. Ifyoudon’t succeed.”

“Such faith you have in me, brother,” Duncan muttered. He’d anticipated Albion would make light of this matter. He would say Duncan was merely looking for an excuse to spend further time with Miss Gabbert because he found her eyes exceptionally lovely. His younger brother conducted himself in a frivolous manner in almost every aspect of his life.

“I’m only saying that you can’t play with her as though she is a toy.”

“I am hardly toying with her. I am helping her. As Father would have wanted.”

His grace, the first Duke of Barrington, might have passed away one year prior. Still, Duncan was forever the responsible eldest son, desperate to please his father, who had an expansive worldview committed to good works for both orcs and humans.

“Even so, I suspect your motives aren’t entirely selfless,” Albion said.

“I admit that this tutelage will make for a fascinating chapter in my book.”

“You see then? If you fail, it is a mere trifle for you. But for this young woman, it is everything.”

Duncan pushed his plate aside, his hunger waning. He had not considered his agreement with Miss Gabbert in such terms. Theway Albion described it, the entire affair sounded like a whim. And one lacking in honor, which Duncan could not abide.

“I intend nothing short of success. The young woman’s fortunes will thusly improve.”

His brother’s eyes danced once more. “Why don’t you say we make this interesting?”

Albion had been known to take to gaming tables both here in their club and at the smoky lounges populated by the otherwise upstanding “gentlemen” of London’ston—late in the evenings and early into the following mornings when their wives and children were already tucked into bed. Albion had also enjoyed the more transparent dice rooms of the Hidden Realm, where all were welcome, and the stakes kept laughably low to avoid the kind of financial pecuniary that often befell human gamesters after a run of foul luck.

“You know I’ve no taste for cards, brother,” Duncan said. “But I take it you don’t have Faro or Loo in mind.”

“What if I challenged you to pass this young woman as a lady at Lady Bellingham’s rout on St. Valentine’s Day?”

“Why, that is in just over ten days’ time.”

“Do you not feel that you and Miss Gabbert are equal to such a test?”

Duncan sat silently, staring at Albion and his ruffled cravat. Strange how his brother had taken to such dandy embellishments as of late. Who knew what he had up his sleeve? A wager between them was likely the least of his schemes and plans.

“What say you, Dunc? Why, that would stick it right to theton, would it not? Which is what you’ve wanted since … well.”

Duncan clenched the sides of the oaken table, steadying himself. The club furniture was heavy, yet the legs still rattled on the floor under the pressure of his grip. Though half a year had passed, Lady Margaret’s scornful laugh still rang in his ears.

“If you even whisper Lady Margaret’s name, you’ll regret as much.”

“I know the rules.” Albion glanced at Duncan’s hands, grasping the table. “And I wouldn’t want you to lose your temper. I know that never ends well for anyone.”

“I wouldn’t want to embarrass you,” Duncan said between gritted teeth.

Though his brother hadn’t uttered Lady Margaret’s name, her face flashed in Duncan’s mind. Raven curls framed her perfect face: high cheekbones, smooth porcelain skin, and a long, thin nose inherited from the same ancestors who afforded her an ease of life now.

Conquering ancestors, from what he understood. Those who’d crossed the channel from Normandy hundreds of years before. And Duncan couldn’t help but think she’d kept some of that conquering instinct. He still cringed when recalling the cruelty of her laugh after he had at last worked up the courage to ask her the most critical question in the world.

No doubt Lady Margaret would be at the rout as well. Which made it all the less likely that Duncan himself would attend, let alone subject Miss Gabbert to the ordeal.

“You said the young woman seems sharp?” Albion asked.

“As a tack. And Miss Gabbert is a most sensible woman. It is the social graces she lacks. The ones the English set such a store by. There is not a thing wrong with Miss Gabbert’s intellect but for some roughness around its edges. With a few simple lessons, her enunciation and manners can be as fine as any I’ve encountered in London.”

“Then it should not be an issue to have her ready in time,” Albion said, lifting his tankard of ale as though to make a toast. “Why shouldn’t you be eager for this opportunity to put your little brother in his place? And make a tidy sum in the process?”

“How tidy?”

After swallowing some of his ale, Albion placed the tankard back on the table. He then looked at the ivory-colored plaster of Parisornamentation on the ceiling as though giving the matter great thought.

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