Page 49 of Dare to Love a Duke
Tom paused. “Companions?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Who are they?”
“Couple of gentlemen, Your Grace. I didn’t get their names.”
Tom managed a nod before heading off toward a supper he had no desire to eat.
He walked through the chophouse, and it came as no surprise that it was full of men he’d known almost his whole life. When he’d been home from school and allowed to join the adults at the dinner table, he’d sat silent and seething as his father and his friends had bleated their opinions onpreserving the nation.
No one had ever asked himhisopinion, which, in retrospect, was a good thing.
“Good to see you here, Your Grace,” called the Earl of Clarington, his knife and fork poised above his beefsteak. He beamed at Tom with approval. “Capital, you know, having you continue your father’s fine legacy.”
Tom smiled thinly, but did not stop as he moved as quickly as possible through the main dining area. As he went, more men hailed him, their faces wreathed with approving grins.
The beginnings of a headache planted behind his eyes as he reached the back of the main dining area. It was easy enough to find the private dining room, as another servant stood beside the door.
Two more servants were positioned around the chamber, their chins high and their gazes professionally distant. Covered silver dishes lined up atop a sideboard. The chandelier blazed, adding its brilliance to the multitude of lit candelabras. A single round dining table stood in the middle of the room, topped with a white cloth, and seated around it was the Duke of Brookhurst and two silver-haired gentlemen Tom had never met.
“Ah, Your Grace,” the duke said, rising. He extended his hand, and Tom had no choice but to shake it. “What a pleasure to have you join us.”
“Say nothing of it,” Tom said.
The duke smirked as he turned to the other men, who looked at Tom with eager expressions. “May I introduce you to two excellent chaps, Mr. Pratchett and Mr. Dillard, of the Midlands Canal Company?”
“Gentlemen.” Tom gave them a clipped nod. A sinking feeling pooled in Tom’s belly. Clearly, this was to be a supper with a purpose.
“It issuchan honor, Your Grace,” Pratchett—or Dillard—said, clasping his hands together. “I was just saying to Mr. Pratchett that we have met some of Britain’s most esteemed and distinguished men, but surely none of them compare to His Grace, the Duke of Northfield.”
“Very true,” Dillard said enthusiastically.
Tom suppressed a sigh. There was little less appealing than a sycophant. “I need a drink.”
“Indeed, you do.” The Duke of Brookhurst snapped his fingers and a servant bearing a decanter of wine stepped forward.
“Something stronger,” Tom said to the servant. The lad bowed before retreating, and a moment later appeared with a glass filled with amber liquid.
“Whiskey?” Tom asked.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Tom took the glass. “Come back in twenty minutes with more.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” The footman faded back into his position against the wall.
After taking a healthy swallow of the burning liquor, Tom sank down into one of the chairs arranged around the dining table. The Duke of Brookhurst and the two canal men followed suit.
Tom regarded them warily. A time or two at White’s, he had heard other members mention the Midlands Canal Company. The business venture was aggressive in purchasing rights to land, and though they generously compensated the owners of the land, it was clear that they would not permit anyone to decline their offers. Tom couldn’t determine what the consequences of saying no entailed—none of the men at White’s had articulated that clearly—but whatever the canal men wanted, they eventually got.
“Might I extend our sympathies over the loss of your father?” Pratchett said, his eyes brimming with an attempt at emotion.
Looking into the bottom of his glass, Tom made a noncommittal sound.
“A superior man,” Dillard added. “Mr. Pratchett and I admired him greatly.”
Servants uncovered the dishes of food and brought them forward. There was roast pheasant, a haunch of beef, collared mutton, and fricasseed chicken—and a lone dish of stewed parsnips, since, apparently, all the other animals in England had died in the making of this meal.
