Page 58 of Would I Lie to the Duke
“Yes, Your Grace.” Vale bowed before withdrawing.
When they were alone again, Jess said, “Those men sound awful. Rude. You can’t mean to let them in your house.”
“I can and I will. There’s always room in my home for the Union of the Rakes.”
“The what?”
Looking boyish and eager, a far cry from the urbane duke, he grinned. “The Union of the Rakes. A terrible name we coined for ourselves at Eton, and unfortunately the moniker stuck.”
She followed as he strode toward the house.
“There were five of us that day in the library.” He paused by Lady Farris, Lord Pickhill, and Mr. Walditch. “I have additional guests to see to. When you’re finished in the gardens, just head into the house and Mrs. Diehl will see you settled in your rooms. Dinner is at seven.”
He didn’t wait to hear the others’ response before taking a step in the direction of the house. She lingered behind.
He threw a glance over his shoulder and, with a mischievous lift of his brows, indicated he wanted her to accompany him. So she did.
They both crossed the threshold leading into a corridor. “Five of you? A library?”
“We were being punished for various infractions. The senior boy made us sit in the library all day and write an essay about who we thought we were. The task eventually fell to Holloway, who wrote one essay for the five of us.” He stopped and shook his head, but his smile remained in place. “Thought for certain we’d wind up killing each other before the day was over. Turned out, we forged a friendship that’s endured for twenty years.”
“No small achievement.”
“Five boys couldn’t be more dissimilar. Myself, a ducal heir, Holloway, a commoner who was a brilliantscholar, McCameron, a Corinthian. Then there was Curtis, a criminal, and a . . .” He snorted. “I’m not sure what Rowe qualifies as. An eccentric, I suppose. Mayhap in our differences we found a kind of common ground.”
“You like them so much you let them insult you.” It was impossible not to see the affection in his face, not to hear it in his voice. He’d never spoken of anyone with such fondness as he did these men who comprised his select cadre of friends.
He lifted a warning finger, though there was no anger in the gesture. “Don’t ever say that in front of them, or I shan’t hear the end of it. They do so love to torment me.”
“Men who torment aduke.” She smiled widely. “Imustmeet them.”
“Brace yourself.” He waved her forward as he walked toward the front of the house.
She could hear masculine voices in the Great Hall, rumbled words intended only for a few ears, followed by laughter. She thought she heard someone threaten to hit the other with one of the medieval flails attached to the wall.
“I’ll set the dogs on the lot of you,” Noel said as he and Jess stepped into the chamber. Three men turned to face them.
“That’s fortunate, as Curtis here is wearing beefsteak for drawers, and is particularly hard up for any attention below his waist.” This comment came from a man with almost vulpine features, his cheekbones impossibly high, his eyes the pale blue of a glacier.
“Just because I don’t let any Tom, Dick, or Harriet into my breeches—like you—doesn’t mean I lack for amorous company, Rowe,” growled a man with a square jaw and shoulders as wide as a doorway.
“Both of you, button it. There’s a lady present.” The man who uttered this had a Scottish accent and a bearing that could only be described as martial. His spine was straight and his gaze was keen and assessing, as if he was taking the measure of a battlefield. He bowed. “Beg pardon, ma’am.”
“Lady Whitfield,” Noel said, “I must insult you by introducing you to my friends.”
“You are this month,” the one called Rowe said. “The check cleared.”
She couldn’t believe that Noel could permit such insolence, even if these men were his old schoolfellows. And yet he only laughed in response.
“Lady Whitfield, this is William Rowe.”
“The political writer,” she said, shocked at both Rowe’s relative youth as well as his easy manner with Noel. He also did not seem unusually eccentric to her. “Your articles—they’re incredible. That one about the certain decline of the ruling class was especially fascinating.”
“Lady Whitfield is a genius,” Rowe said to Noel, startling a laugh from her.
“This towering edifice is Theodore Curtis,” Noel continued, gesturing toward the man whose muscles seemed to strain his jacket.
She gaped at Curtis. He had the body of a Samson,and, according to Noel, had been on the wrong side of the law in his youth. “The barrister? You defend the poor. I’ve read transcripts of your appearances in court and the eloquence of them has occasionally moved me to tears.”
