Page 35 of The Trouble With Dukes
Even for you, that’s a nasty scowl, Keswick,” Devlin St. Just, Earl of Rosecroft, said.
“Wait until you have sons,” Keswick replied as the party below reassembled itself for dancing. Long lines this time, a reel or country dance to work off the supper offerings. “No scowl on earth is nasty enough to quell the irreverence of adolescent boys. Were it not for the fortitude of my countess at my side, I’d be a fearful wreck at the prospect of the coming years.”
“We’d all be fearful wrecks, but for our countesses. How’s the leg?”
Louisa waved from across the ballroom with her left hand. Keswick made her an elaborate bow. That was their signal for “this will be the last set.”
Thank God.“My injuries pained me far worse before your sister took me in hand,” Keswick said. “She sees to it that I eat properly, I move about when I might instead remain at my desk for hours. I ride out on fine mornings—you’re joining us tomorrow, right?”
Rosecroft assayed a scowl of his own. “Itistomorrow. Leave without me if I’m not at the gates by the appointed hour. Emmie has fixed opinions about the folly of grown men staying out all night and neglecting proper rest. If it should storm tomorrow evening, I will inevitably be required to read the children their bedtime stories, and need I remind you, Keswick, one does a poor job of subduing dragons and witches at one’s peril.”
“I was slaying dragons, witches,andsea monsters before you learned your first cure for excessive drink.” And yet, the dawn ride after Her Grace’s grand ball was a tradition—afamilytradition—and not to be ignored lightly.
A smiling Megan Windham wafted past them, pretending to examine the pattern on her fan.
“If she can’t see us,” Rosecroft muttered, “how does she expect anybody to believe she’s admiring the flowers on her fan?”
“She saw us. She simply ignored us,” Keswick replied. “If we remain at this balcony, we should soon spot the Duke of Murdoch stumbling by, his kilt pleating in odd places, his expression bemused. Megan rather kissed the poor fellow into submission not ten minutes ago.”
While Keswick had stood about, his back to the combatants, trying to look inconspicuous by the ferns, and praying Louisa would soon take him home.
Though what had Murdoch expected, when he’d allowed a Windham lady to lead him behind the greenery?
“I recalled something about Murdoch,” Rosecroft said as the orchestra started the introduction. “Something I’d heard years ago, before all that nonsense about disobeying orders, getting separated from his men, and being held by the French.”
Being held by the French, particularly after being captured out of uniform, was not nonsense.
“What did you hear?”
“At Corunna,” Rosecroft said, his voice conveying the dread every British soldier associated with that episode in hell. “His men made it to the ships. I heard it said every single one of his men and their families made it to the ships.”
Which meant through exhaustion, privation, deadly winter storms, with the French promising death to any stragglers, Hamish MacHugh had somehow safely led hundreds of soldiers, their wives, and even a few children to the evacuation ships.
“I’d forgotten that,” Keswick said, as MacHugh—Murdoch, rather—went sauntering past with a nod in their direction.
He was tidy and calm, when by rights he ought to have crawled out from behind those ferns, given the formidable passion of a Windham female intent on kissing a fellow witless.
“I wonder what else we’ve forgotten about him,” Rosecroft said. “I hear he plans to leave for the north, so perhaps we’ll never have a chance to find out.”
Rosecroft strode off, which meant Keswick was free to call for his coach and take his lady home. First, he’d stop by the card room and make a few casual inquiries of those who’d served with him on the Peninsula, also a fewverycasual inquiries.
Murdoch might plan to leave soon for the north, but as Mr. Burns had written, the best laid schemes o’ mice and men, gang aft agley.
War had become more entertaining the day Sir Fletcher Pilkington had overheard a gunnery sergeant explaining to a recruit that the business of an army was to advance. The fighting, the marching, the besieging was all in aid of advancement. When a man became a necessary article to that continued advancement, he was expected to do less fighting.
Thus the regimental cobbler never saw frontline action, for an army needed boots. The artificers who repaired harnesses, belts, pistols, and holsters were never deployed to the fore either. The scribe, though he occupied an informal position, was also kept out of the worst fighting so he might pen more wills, letters to sweethearts, or the occasional forged requisition.
Regimental politics had made more sense from that day forward, and situations Sir Fletcher could make sense of, he could manipulate for his own benefit.
“I hardly expected to see you out and about today,” remarked a fellow on a rangy chestnut gelding. The horse was fit rather than sleek, somewhat like his owner. The saddle and bridle were spotless, though worn, as were the rider’s boots and gloves.
“Puget,” Sir Fletcher said, offering the mounted version of a bow. “If I make an appointment, I keep it. Shall we be off? I’ve no need to get caught up in the carriage parade today.”
The Honorable Garner Puget, third son of the Earl of Plyne, nudged his horse forward. “How are your sisters?”
Sir Fletcher’s four sisters were beyond the reach of a mere third son, at least in the opinion of their wealthy, titled papa. Rather than dash Puget’s hopes regarding the oldest of those sisters, Sir Fletcher turned his horse toward one of Hyde Park’s less used bridle paths.
“My sisters continue to thrive, thank you. Lady Pamela was asking after you just this morning. She wondered why you missed the Windham do last night.”
