Page 14 of Dukes Do It Better
“Kind of reminds me of the fine line between pirate and privateer. They do the same thing, one just does it without paperwork.” Simon picked up the menu printed on a card and perused it, so Malachi didn’t waste the effort of rolling his eyes.
“This pirate thing again?”
“I told you to get a shave. Your beard is scruffy, your hair is overlong, and don’t think I missed the flash of ink at your wrists.”
He tugged his cuffs down to conceal the tattoos that ran up his arms and met in the center of his chest. A damned pirate, of all things. The irony. A career at sea, with blessed few prizes taken from battle. He’d have liked to have been a privateer. It was every boy’s dream—or, at least the boys he’d met. Fortunes were made, lost, and stolen during war—except those of Malachi and his crew.
Simon brought him back to the conversation when he said, “Before we get to whatever it is that couldn’t be said in my office, let’s order. You’re buying.” He raised a hand to call a waiter, who scurried to their corner of the room with a speed Malachi didn’t usually command.
Malachi rubbed a hand over his prickly jaw. Simon by comparison sported a clean shave on an annoyingly sharp jaw and defined cheekbones. Perfectly turned out in a well-fit coat, with a crisp white cravat contrasting with his russet skin, Simon looked every inch the gentleman. But then, he always had taken care with his appearance, while Malachi tended toward a more lackadaisical approach. Simon followed fashion. Malachi favored utilitarian clothing. After all, you couldn’t raise sails or break ice off lines when your coat was so tight you weren’t able to even scratch your own nose.
The waiter turned to him with an expectant expression. “Coffee. And more of whatever food he ordered,” Malachi said.
The waiter dipped his head in a strange nod-bow, and left as quickly as he came. Across the room, a large group arrived and spread out over three tables in the middle of the restaurant.
“If I had to hazard a guess, I’d think your appalling beard remains on your face because it annoys your mother to see you unkempt. Am I right?”
“In my defense, my face doesn’t like a blade. If I shave every day, my jaw turns into a mass of painful red bumps.” He rubbed the tangle of facial hair again, because frankly, it was starting to itch. Maybe it was getting out of hand. “When Mother called me home, I deliberately let it go. Juvenile of me, I suppose.”
“You sharpen the blade every time? And use a good quality shave soap?” Simon asked. How like him to focus on fixing a problem while ignoring the confession of immaturity from a friend.
“I’ve tried everything I know. If you have any advice, I’m open to it. I suppose it could use a trim. Clean it up a bit.”
Which would defeat the overall purpose. When he tweaked his mother’s nose by looking rough, he controlled the things she complained about. Left to her own devices, Mother’s chosen conversational topics hurt far more. Malachi crossed his arms and glanced over as the door opened, admitting more patrons to the shop.
George had never experienced the critical side of their mother because in her eyes, George could do no wrong. When she sniffed disapprovingly over Malachi’s appearance and commented on how George had never left the house without being well turned out, Malachi could agree with her. George had been a perfect son, a perfect duke. Bit of a pain in the arse sometimes, but he’d also been a good brother, if not a close friend. Given more time, could they have forged a friendship as adults? Malachi had been at sea, and George on land, so the chance had never materialized.
Heat gathered in his throat, and Malachi coughed to clear it away. He wasn’t going to cry in a bloody public tea room. “To get to the point, I asked you here to discuss the—shall we say materials—my mother claims to have in her possession. Do you have any idea what this book looks like? Over the last two days I’ve begun to search the house, but it would help to know what I’m looking for.”
The waiter arrived with their order. Another group wandered in the door, filling most of the remaining seats. Their private table wasn’t so private anymore.
Any chance of speaking uninterrupted dwindled to nothing. It grated, until he saw a familiar smile across the room. Not directed at him, because she hadn’t seen him yet. No, Lady Emma chattered animatedly with a tall woman. Just then, she broke loose with a laugh that made him grin even though he couldn’t hear what had sparked her amusement. The woman standing beside her was nondescript in nearly all ways but one—she’d made Emma laugh.
“Do you mind if I ask someone to join us?” he asked, not taking his eyes off the pair, who appeared to be searching the room for a place to sit.
Simon swallowed a large bite of sandwich before answering. “Not at all. We can’t safely discuss crown business in this crowd anyway. But the sandwiches are bloody fantastic. The perfect bread-to-filling ratio, I think. To answer your question, I don’t know what the book looks like. There. Conversation complete. Who are you inviting over?”
“You’ll see. She might decline.” Malachi stood. It would be hard to miss the largest hairy man in the room, and sure enough, Emma caught sight of him right away. The way her eyes lit when she saw him did something to his insides similar to the unsettled feeling he experienced when riding out thirty-foot seas. Like the moment when they’d met in the assembly room, her smile was all for him, and he rolled with an emotional swell that threatened to capsize his composure entirely. His hand rested on his abdomen as if it would help calm his response. Those dimples were loaded with a lot of potent charm to throw around so casually.
On High Street outside the shops in Olread Cove he’d thought her pretty as she conversed politely with the baker. When the baker’s wife had joined them on the cobblestones, Emma had greeted her with a wide smile. Back then he’d thought it transformed her into an otherworldly thing comprised of lips and dimples and a kind of bubbling joy that spread to everyone in her vicinity. So, when he’d spied her across the room of the local assembly, he’d crossed the dance floor without thinking twice. By the end of the night, he’d discovered exactly how right his first instinct had been—Emma’s lips could easily be the center of one’s universe.
This time he beckoned, gesturing with a jerk of his chin and raised brow. She said something to her companion, who glanced his way and froze. After a moment, the two wound their way around tables and through the press of bodies filling the room toward where he stood with his back to the wall.
Across the table, Simon wiped his mouth on a serviette and stood to greet the new arrivals.
“We’ve chosen a popular spot. Although it wasn’t this much of a crush a quarter hour ago,” Malachi said by way of greeting.
“Is it always this busy?” Emma asked the woman with her.
Her companion shot a glance at the men before answering. “It wasn’t this crowded when I visited before. Perhaps we’ve caught them at a rush. Or all of London suddenly needs sandwiches.” The young woman surveyed the room with wide eyes, looking everywhere but at their table.
“Then it speaks to the quality of their wares,” Emma said. “An excellent recommendation on your part.” She squeezed her friend’s hand where it clutched a rather ugly brown reticule.
Emma turned toward him. “Miss Adelaide Martin, may I introduce the Duke of Trenton? His grace is in His Majesty’s Royal Navy, and recently returned from the Baltics.”
Miss Martin’s gaze settled on the black ribbon around his biceps. “My condolences on the loss of your brother, Your Grace. He was well-liked, as I’m sure you know.”
“Yes, everyone loved George. Thank you. Ladies, may I present my good friend Lord Marshall. Simon, this is Lady Emma Hardwick.” Oddly enough, Simon didn’t appear to be as enchanted by the petite blond woman as Malachi. In fact, he had yet to look away from the brunette, who stood eye to eye with him.
