Page 68 of Dukes Do It Better
In the event that his future held more time in London, he should put a bit more effort into managing his expectations when it came to the dowager. A court-martial, no matter the circumstances, was a huge life event for a sailor. He’d foolishly thought she might greet the news with concern or empathy. In reality, she barely managed to garner credible interest, much less convincing emotion.
“Your duty is to the title now. Your life is here, not on some boat,” Lady Trenton said.
“Ship,” Malachi growled. He wasn’t captaining a dinghy, for God’s sake. Not that he was captaining anything these days. Or ever again. Even if he squeaked through this investigation without ending his career, his sea days were over.
He pushed away the useless frustration. “Did you deliver the book to the appropriate authorities?”
“Of course.” With a languid kind of grace, his mother poured herself a cup of tea, then offered him one as well. “Lord Clarey was grateful for my offer to squire his niece about next year. By the end of the meeting, he understood my actions were merely the overenthusiastic efforts of a mother who needed her heir home safe. Anyone would have done the same.”
He arched a brow. Sure. Blackmailing the crown was the first resort of mothers everywhere. Surprise was a wasted emotion. Her sons, even her beloved George, had always been pawns in her mind before they were people. George was the heir before anything and was treated as such. The grief she carried was genuine, but Malachi suspected there might be an element of anger on her part that God had dared change the plan for the title without consulting her first.
The nerve.
“I’m glad to hear the danger to you has passed, since I need to leave Town for the coast. There’s a property I’m visiting before the trial. Distract myself with estate business and such.” The phrasing was deliberate. Mother couldn’t possibly complain about his leaving to carry out work connected to his godforsaken title.
“When do you leave?” she asked.
“Soon. I have a few things to finish in London. But soon. So, if you don’t hear from me, don’t be concerned.”
His mother waved a hand. “I’m used to you disappearing to the ends of the earth, Malachi. I long ago gave up the habit of maternal worry.”
He offered a tight smile. Of course. She wouldn’t worry about him. Rather than let the knowledge hurt him, he imagined the words rolling through the air, but not touching him. Mother wasn’t going to change. Just like his emotions toward her were a mixture of love and resentment, their relationship would always be complicated. The best he could do would be to protect his heart—oh, the irony, when it ached so much from Emma’s mistreatment—and continue to honor his parent without letting himself be vulnerable.
Malachi set aside the untouched cup of tea, placed his hat on his head, and said his goodbyes. Ivan the butler showed him out, even though, technically, this was Malachi’s bloody house. But he bit his tongue and murmured a farewell in Russian to the old retainer.
It was so tempting to walk out of the square and head for Hill Street. The need to confront Calvin and Ethan itched under his skin, but he stifled the impulse.
Instead, he flagged down a hack and directed the driver to Simon’s bachelor quarters.
Malachi walked in after a cursory knock. “Simon!” he called out from the foyer. Raising his voice, he tried again, “Simon!” After receiving word of the court-martial, Simon should have expected a visit.
“Here! What do you want?” Simon padded barefoot out of the cramped room he used as a study. “Mal, stop yelling. Why are you here?”
“I need to borrow your valet.” Malachi took off his hat, then untied the ribbon holding his hair at his nape. The long dark waves tangled around his fingers when he threaded his hands through the strands and drew them over his shoulder.
“If you were a woman, that might have been attractive.” Simon shook his head, but was smiling. “Are you getting rid of the beard too?”
Malachi grimaced. “I’d rather not appear in front of the jury with red bumps on my face like some green lad. Besides, we have a few weeks before the trial.”
Simon twisted his lips to one side. “Trim it, then. You’ll still be unfashionable, but at least you won’t look unkempt. Follow me.”
Upstairs, they entered Simon’s bedchamber and found a man in the attached dressing room. “Wilson, are you up to a challenge today? We need to make Lord Trenton look respectable.” Simon jerked a thumb at Malachi.
Wilson looked him up and down. “I’ll need a bit to sharpen my scissors. Disrobe to the waist and take a seat, Your Grace.”
The valet left, then Simon held out a hand. “I’ll take your things.”
Layer by layer, Malachi stripped. Did he want to cut his hair? No. But the admiral was right. If he had any hope of convincing a jury of his peers that he was an upstanding captain made of strong moral fiber, he needed to look the part.
Never mind that he was guilty of the crime of which he was accused. The irony was not in the act of committing the crime, but that he wasn’t alone in his actions. A good captain served his men. No matter what.
During times of peace, when King George left his soldiers and sailors to rot, those in command had to step in and do what was necessary to see their crews taken care of. Sometimes, it meant creative accounting methods. And sometimes, it meant doing dirty jobs for pay. Such as getting rid of people who hurt women, like James Montague. Oh yes, he remembered the details. The transport of prisoner 8792–39 had paid for an entire quarter’s wages for his crew and refilled the Athena’s dry goods storage for the voyage.
As a duke and the son of a respected member of the intelligence community of England, Malachi would not hang. He probably would not even be ejected from the navy. But this cloud would hang over the rest of his career, giving him zero chance of ever holding the command of a ship. Since he hadn’t joined the Royal Navy for the paperwork, manning a desk for the foreseeable future held little appeal.
Malachi cleared his throat and tossed his cravat to Simon, who draped it over the discarded coat. Bunching the fabric of his linen shirt in his fists, he pulled it over his head, then tugged the sleeves right side out again.
“Holy mother of…I knew you had tattoos, but I wasn’t expecting this.” If Simon’s eyes opened any wider, his eyeballs would fall out of his head.
