Page 6 of Dukes Do It Better
While other Englishmen won glory fighting Napoleon on land and water, Malachi and his men rode forty-foot seas in the Baltic. With command of a frigate built for speed and maneuverability in battle, the Athena was a valuable asset to the crown, and Malachi had been ready to prove it.
Nevertheless, he had to obey orders, and hadn’t realized his father was pulling strings at the Admiralty to keep him away from the fighting. Those orders meant watching helplessly while the war passed him by. His men, trained and foaming at the mouth for battles and prize money from captured ships, had to sit back and wonder why the Athena was left to bob like a cork in the frigid northern waters.
When he’d raised hell with the Admiralty, they’d made him shuttle convicts between England and the penal colonies for four years.
Then came orders sending him back to the Baltic, where Father’s post with the diplomatic service meant Malachi couldn’t break wind without his parents hearing of it.
Mother joined George in London not long after Father passed two winters ago.
He glanced over his shoulder at the woman who’d fallen silent. Black crepe from head to toe reflected her genuine state of mourning. She’d probably wear her blacks for many months longer than Malachi, before moving on to half mourning. Perhaps she would never set aside her blacks. After all, Mother had lost her two great loves: Father and George.
Lady Trenton’s unfailing adoration of her oldest son would never be in question. Since birth, George had existed as the center of her world. Grief etched deep grooves between her dark brows and dug canyons around her mouth like parentheses, framing her disapproving tight lips.
“I’ll be returning to sea as soon as possible. A wife won’t be part of my life for a good long while, I’m afraid.” His announcement fell on deaf ears. Without acknowledging he’d spoken, his mother refilled her teacup and picked up the day’s paper. Flipping to the society pages, she perused the columns of text and seemed to ignore Malachi entirely. He closed his eyes and tried to simply breathe instead of sigh. This was her way. It had always been her way. But that didn’t mean he had to stand here and wallow in the icy silence.
“I have things to do today. Do you need anything while I’m out?”
Silence.
All right. He bowed his head in polite farewell. “Good day, then. I’ll see you at dinner.”
“Some friends will be joining us tonight for the meal. I expect you to be clean-shaven, Malachi.”
That suppressed sigh escaped, but Malachi didn’t trust himself to speak, so he closed the drawing room door behind him and leaned against it for a moment. Being home shouldn’t be this hard. Even with George’s death, it shouldn’t be this hard. The walls of the town house seemed to press in on him, as if the house itself were wringing every last drop of happiness from its inhabitants.
Ivan, the butler, handed Malachi his hat with a silent, pitying look.
“Spaciba,” he thanked the old Russian retainer. Fresh air and sunshine would knock these doldrums loose. That, and looking for a place of his own. If he continued in the family home, he would never survive this time in London. Visiting a property agent today became a priority, right after he visited the Admiralty. Again.
The stones rang beneath his feet as he dodged around a vegetable seller’s cart and a hackney carriage. He needed answers, not excuses. It was time to dig for gossip, and there was one reliable source for that within the Admiralty’s walls.
* * *
“Explain to me again how the machinations of my mother, who doesn’t give a frog’s fart about me, has somehow overrun common sense in the Admiralty.” Malachi heard the growl in the demand and Simon must have recognized it as well.
Simon Wilshire, also known as Lord Marshall, rolled his eyes and rose. Malachi’s tall, lanky friend squeezed past him, reaching for the door to the tiny room the Admiralty called an office. With power came floorspace, and apparently Simon’s status didn’t warrant adequate square footage for two men to stand in front of the desk. At least he had a window, otherwise there would be little to differentiate it from a jail cell.
Simon leaned against the heavy wood door and sighed. “You’re a pain in the arse on the best of days, Harlow, but coming in here demanding answers without so much as a hello is hardly a way to make friends.”
“You’re my best friend. I didn’t think a greeting was needed. And as much as it pains me to correct you, it’s Trenton now, not Harlow.”
“Lucky for you, the Duke of Trenton has more pull around here than plain Captain Harlow ever did.” Simon bit his lip, catching the subtext of his own words too late. He might have blushed, but the pitiful light of the room hid the flush on his dark complexion.
Simon wasn’t wrong. He and Malachi had been friends and worked with the government for long enough to have the lay of the land. The Duke of Trenton, the golden lord of the diplomatic service, close friend and confidante to two kings, and all-around managing father had overshadowed Malachi’s career from the beginning. It was ironic that the name he’d come to resent so fiercely was now his, and may be the only power he could wield.
Running a hand through his hair, Malachi cursed when the long strands snagged on his fingers, forcing him to pull out the ribbon tying the mess off his face. This would be the third queue of the day. Although calling it a queue implied a certain level of order he lacked.
“You should cut it short like mine.” Simon grinned. He’d worn his thick, tight curls shorn close to his head for as long as the men had been friends.
“Had lice so bad on one of the voyages to Australia, I did shave it. My head isn’t nearly as well-shaped as yours.” Standing in the room made him feel like a looming animal in a cage, so Malachi pulled a plain wood chair away from the wall. It had to move all of three feet to be in place directly before the desk, and he couldn’t sit, otherwise it would block Simon’s path from the door. “If I were locked in this room all day, I’d go mad,” Malachi commented.
“Better tell your mother that. She’s pushing to get you a desk down the hall. I overheard her discussing it with Lord Clarey’s clerk. Apparently, my presence here and our friendship are reasons enough for settling you in this wing. Apologies if our relationship results in you being stuck here.” Simon shimmied sideways to get around Malachi, then resumed his place behind the desk.
Another growl broke free. His mother. Sure, as a duchess, she held a certain amount of power. But enough to reasonably hold over the commanding officers in His Majesty’s Royal Navy? “How is she pulling strings to this degree? That’s my question.”
Simon dropped his voice to a whisper, and Malachi had to lean forward to make out the words. “Your father’s bank book.”
The edge of the chair caught Malachi as he sat with a thump. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
