Page 55 of The Trouble With Dukes
“Fifty pounds would keep some families for a year.”
“You don’t say. Thank you for that fascinating revelation. I, by contrast, need an infusion of cash by this time next week.”
Puget walked along in silence for a dozen yards. He wasn’t a bad sort, but neither was he particularly clever, despite claiming a host of artistic abilities. A clever man with Puget’s skills would have forged his way to the funds necessary to wed the fair Pamela by now. At the very least Puget could have been immortalizing aging duchesses on canvas—or their flatulent pugs. Sporting portraits might also have netted him a solid income, provided he wasn’t offended by the stench of sweat.
“You have no intention of aiding my cause where your sister is concerned, do you?”
The only cause Sir Fletcher was interested in aiding was his own. While spreading rumors about a certain Scottish duke, Sir Fletcher had been drawn into a few card games, and luck had run against him. The result had been more than a week of dodging invitations, for debts of honor were to be paid promptly.
“I have supported your efforts where Pamela is concerned, else you’d not be permitted even an allemande. True love is supposed to be determined, Puget. I can’t do all the work, nor can I remedy your fundamental unsuitability in my father’s eyes. That will take coin or at least a gentlemanly means of support, which brings me back to the topic at hand.”
“I won’t do it,” Puget said. “I’ve told myself that no sacrifice is too great if it means Lady Pamela and I can be together, but a dance here and there, while Lady Pamela is paraded like a prize mare before some bumpkin from Cumberland—”
Pammy was more of a heifer, sturdy and hale. “I’ll have a word with the bumpkin, tell him Pamela is prone to megrims and tantrums, which is nothing but the truth. She requires a fortune in bonnets and boots too, and puts a significant dent in Cook’s larders. Leave the bumpkin to me, and have another fifty pounds in my hand by week’s end.”
Puget paused at the street corner, his gaze traveling back across the square. “She said she’d meet me here before noon.”
Oh, for God’s sake. Noon was at least a half hour away. “Puget, attend me. Find some other former officer to fleece by week’s end, or you’ll have danced your last allemande with my sister.”
“There are no other officers, Pilkington. I’ve racked my brain, combed through my journals and old records. You’ve dipped into the pockets of the ones with both coin and a propensity for drink and cards. The list is shorter than you’d think.”
Probably true, because many who’d mustered out were now leg-shackled, and that could cramp a man’s social habits abominably.
“Who is in Town this year that normally ruralizes for the season?”
Puget paid attention to the social scene. A younger son without means had to. “More Windhams than usual, but Keswick and Rosecroft are neither gamblers nor drunks.”
“What about MacHugh?” Sir Fletcher said. “He’s new to the title, rumored to have means, and has two sisters and a brother in tow. You saw his handwriting on various requisitions or dispatches, and he’s doubtless been welcomed into any number of gentlemen’s clubs now that he has a title.”
A Scottish savage waltzed into a fine old title, while an English earl’s son was reduced to scheming to pay the tailor. Justice was a blind, deaf, poxy old whore, and relieving MacHugh of a few quid would rectify one of her more egregious missteps.
“MacHugh’s—Murdoch’s—penmanship is distinctive,” Puget said, thin lips pursing, “but he never drinks to excess. I haven’t seen him in the clubs either. For him, a stray gambling debt won’t do.”
Impatience flared, for a call on the household of Lord Anthony Windham had become a pressing priority.
“Then concoct a bootmaker, G. Puget and Sons, or something like it. Send an overdue bill around to the new Duke of Murdoch, payable by return post to your present lodging. Outfitting a family new to Town in a season’s worth of boots ought to be at least fifty pounds of custom.”
G. Puget and Sons might also serve as a vintner, butcher, or tobacconist. The scheme was simple and elegant, a great improvement over Puget’s more complicated games.
At the far end of the square, Pammy’s embonpoint figure came sashaying around the corner, her lady’s maid trailing behind her. One street from her home, she’d be permitted to take the air with such a weak excuse for a chaperone, particularly if Step-mama had overindulged the previous evening.
“Fine,” Puget said. “I’ll send His Grace of Murdoch a bill for boots, but this is the last time, Pilkington. You put my neck in a noose with your requests, and that hasn’t got me any closer to putting a ring on Lady Pamela’s finger.”
Nothing short of divine intervention would accomplish that aim. “Send word when you have the money, and don’t despair where Pamela is concerned. She is a very determined young woman.”
Particularly when a plate of tea cakes was involved.
Puget was already walking away, gaze intent on his lady fair. Sir Fletcher took off in the opposite direction—it wouldn’t do for Pamela to spot him in company with her gallant swain—and soon arrived at Lord Anthony Windham’s townhouse.
“If you’d please alert Miss Megan Windham to my presence,” Sir Fletcher said, passing over his walking stick and hat to the butler. “And I’d like to bid her parents farewell before they leave for Wales too.”
Lord Anthony had intimated that marital protocol required him to consult Megan’s mother regarding potential suitors—a courtesy between parents. Sir Fletcher had murmured appropriate masculine commiserations, but no note had come from Lord Anthony, no quiet word had been offered on a shady bridle path, and thus no public courtship could ensue.
Without a public courtship, a bachelor had no solid prospects to trade upon, as every shopkeeper and merchant seemed to know.
“Sir Fletcher, good day.” Anwen Windham smiled at him, a dark-haired kilted fellow at her side. Both brought an air of mischief with them into the foyer, as if they’d just got away with tippling in the library.
The kilted fellow looked familiar, suggesting Sir Fletcher had crossed paths with him in some drawing room or other.
