Page 5 of To Defend a Damaged Duke
Taking pity on them, Benedict took a turn around the room, pretending to examine the sombre oil paintings of bygone bloody battles, bucolic generals, and long-forgotten racehorses.He wasn’t much of a historian or scholar, but some of the racehorse oils were actually quite striking.The salon, one of three available for guests, was also impressive.At some point in time—perhaps a roof had fallen in, or a fire had broken out—the end farthest from the window had been rebuilt and now had a double height ceiling.Above a line of tall bookcases ran a galleried landing, hemmed by a thick wooden rail preventing whoever was up there from tumbling to a grisly death on the parquet below.
Benedict toured the salon a second time, dawdling at the fireplace, hoping his presence wasn’t putting too much of a damper on his brother’s evening.Most probably, they all thought him quite odd, a stuffy, friendless bore and with the sartorial style of a tea chest.
So it was with vast relief, just as he contemplated making feeble excuses to Francis to slink away, that two newcomers entered the room.One of whom, thank heavens, was a few years older than him.Though with his arresting white-blond hair, exquisite lilac silk costume, and ravishing features, it would be hard to convince anyone.The man at his heels, equally handsome, though a dark, brooding sort, Benedict didn’t recognise.
Nonetheless, Benedict’s heart lifted.
“Ashington,” said the fairer newcomer at once.“Hullo, old friend!It’s been too long.”He strode over with a warm smile and clasped Benedict’s hand in his much daintier, cool one, and beamed.“My fault entirely.I’ve been quite the hermit over the last few years.”He cast an amused glance back at his companion.“Only recently have I been encouraged to venture from my shell.”
“You’re not entirely to blame, Rossingley.”
“And I must offer my condolences on the loss of your dear father.Taken from us far too soon, bless his soul.”
Aware of a flush creeping up his neck as he waved away Rossingley’s kind words, Benedict tugged a finger into the tight gap between his cravat and his skin.As a boy, he’d harboured a childish infatuation with Rossingley.Their mothers had been good friends, and sometimes, the older youth had been home when they paid visits.Years later, the blissfully unaware earl still possessed the power to discombobulate Benedict.
“I’m not exactly…ah…the pink of thetonmyself.”
“No,” agreed Rossingley carefully, giving Benedict a shrewd look.“But that’s not a crime.”
Benedict had a dreadful certainty his high colour had not escaped the man.Which only made him flush more.The earl laid a hand on his companion’s arm.
“Allow me to introduce my darling friend, Mr Christopher—Kit—Angel.Kit, I present His Grace, the Duke of Ashington.”
“Your Grace.”The man offered a small bow.His left ear held a gold loop.Benedict tried not to peer at it.
“Angel has taken over Gartside’s place next to mine,” explained Rossingley.“We have since become very close neighbours.”
Something about Rossingley always gave Benedict a frisson of pleasure.He’d often felt a kinship towards him, though they couldn’t be more different in spirit than a mule and Benedict’s finest stallion.He experienced it again now, wishing he could loosen his cravat even further.There was something about the way he described his friendship with Mr Angel asclose, as if infusing that basic geographic adjective with a hidden meaning.Or perhaps that was simply wishful thinking on Benedict’s part.Privately, he’d always wondered about Rossingley.Yes, the man had once married and begat sons, but even so, he was awfully—Benedict would say gloriously—effete.
“I have two of Gartside’s thoroughbreds,” Benedict informed them, seeing Rossingley’s pale blue eyes light up.“Purchased them back in September for a song.”
His nerves eased a little.Rossingley was always happy to talk horseflesh.His excellent seat on a horse, only surpassed in recent years by Benedict’s own, had occupied a younger Benedict’s thoughts (and his nether regions) for many a long, dull summer in the country.
“If nothing else, that blasted creature knew his racehorses,” answered Rossingley dolefully.“Horrid business.Horrid man.”
Yet again, he exchanged a look with Mr Angel, whose dark gaze had hardly left the earl’s slender figure since they’d walked into the room together.
“Would you care to drink with us awhile, Ashington?”Rossingley asked.“Our usual table is over by the window.”Nodding his elegant head in the direction of Francis and his friends, he smiled.“These young bucks will be losing their blunt, hand over fist, to one another at basset any minute now.And I find it gets rather rowdy at this end of the room.How’s your dear mother?”
Chapter Three
TOMMY SQUIRE RUBBEDat his gritty eyes.After poring over his accounts for hours, the neat rows of figures had begun to zigzag into one another.Most evenings at around this time, Sidney would suggest he employ a secretary, and Tommy had started to wonder if the man was on to something.All work and no play made Jack a very dull boy.Searching his weary brain, Tommy tried to recall the last time he’d indulged in anything remotely pleasurable.Oranyone, for that matter.
That was not to say he hadn’t gained a modicum of pleasure from accruing great wealth.Squire’s was his and Rossingley’s third gaming establishment, but their first in a salubrious part of town and thus the only one to attract theton.In addition to their ever-expanding portfolio of blackleg stands, two brothels, and a boxing club, Tommy’s coffers and those of his silent investor were well and truly swollen.A thrill with which he’d yet to find another to compare.Well, almost.
Three rhythmic raps on the door signalled the arrival of Sidney, relieved from front desk duties to deliver his nightly report.Tommy lay down his quill pen, closed the ledger, and locked it in his desk drawer before returning the key to the thin silver chain tucked inside his undershirt.As one of his two oldest, most trusted friends (his investor, the Earl of Rossingley being the other), he paid Sidney handsomely.But even Sidney wasn’t party to everything.As Tommy had found to his cost, trust and friendship were nothing but the reckless parents of betrayal.
“More in tonight than last Thursday,” announced Sidney by way of greeting.“Twenty-two members and seven guests.”He shrugged out of his coat and pulled up a chair, unasked, grinning when it emitted a loud creak of protest.“This fancy furniture ain’t made for common arses like mine.”
“Believe me, aristocratic arses aren’t very much different from yours.”Tommy helped them both to a snifter of brandy.“And, like yours, they don’t smell of roses.”
“God, no.”Sidney chuckled.“Remember that old baronet used to come to the White Hart on a Wednesday?Him and the inside of a bath had never been acquainted.I used to lie there blue in the face from holding my breath.It wouldn’t have been too bad if he wasn’t always so leathered.It took him a bloody age to get it up.”
They reminisced about the good old days for a while.Or rather, Sidney did and Tommy, always miserly with words, half listened, contributing very little except bile.Sidney had an enviable knack of only recalling the parts he wanted and helpfully disregarding the rest.Even the bad, such as the repugnant baronet, he could twist into an amusing anecdote.
“Yer mate’s in tonight,” Sidney informed him, realising he was holding a one-sided conversation.“The earl and his fella.I said you might pop down and say hello.Can’t say ’is fella looked too delighted about it.”
Tommy huffed.Famously quick-tempered, Rossingley’s lover—Kit Angel—had never been quite sure how to pigeonhole Tommy, and Tommy wasn’t in a rush to reassure him that ship had long sailed.He enjoyed hot-headed Mr Angel’s fearsome stares far too much.Tommy and the earl shared a special relationship, that much was true, but not of the kind Mr Angel fretted about.
