Page 56 of The Trouble With Dukes
“Miss Anwen, good morning. I don’t believe I know your guest.” All the kilted barbarians tended to look the same, which was doubtless why they distinguished themselves with different plaids—a family motto woven in fabric for the illiterate.
“Actually, you do know me,” the fellow said. “We served together in Spain, and were introduced at Her Grace of Moreland’s. Captain Lord Colin MacHugh, at your service, Sir Fletcher.”
Ah, yes. The younger MacHugh, the one who’d nearly got his brother killed by the French, court-martialed by the English, and canonized by the Scots.
Instinct prodded Sir Fletcher’s memory for more than a vague recollection of army days and a prank gone awry where Captain MacHugh was concerned, but why sort through that garbage—most of it preserved in bad wine—when a lady needed a call from her most devoted admirer?
“You have the right of it, Lord Colin,” Sir Fletcher said, charming smile at the ready. “I stand corrected. A pleasure to renew my acquaintance with you. Miss Anwen, I’d hoped to see your parents off on their journey, and to pay my respects to Miss Megan.”
Sir Fletcher beamed at her as sweetly as a smitten swain ever did beam.
She wrinkled a nose a tad on the unfortunate side. “Megan isn’t at home, I’m afraid, and Mama and Papa have already departed. You just missed them.”
Damn and blast. Manners forbid inquiring as to whether “not at home” was a euphemism for “not at hometo you.”
“I don’t suppose your parents left their direction? I can wish them a safe journey by post.”
“I’ll send an address ’round once we’ve removed to Moreland House. So much upheaval involved in changing households, you know.”
Miss Anwen needed to work on her gracious smile, for her expression had rather a lot of teeth to it and not much warmth.
“I’ll bid you good day,” Sir Fletcher said, casting a hopeful look up the main staircase. He couldn’t very well chase Megan down across the nearest ballroom, not until he’d replenished his exchequer.
“Good day,” Lord Colin said, taking Sir Fletcher’s walking stick and hat from the butler and holding them out. “Enjoy the lovely weather.”
The butler held the door open, and Sir Fletcher had no choice but to saunter back the way he’d come. What did it mean, that Lord Anthony had decamped for Wales—Wales, of all places—without giving permission for an eminently worthy suitor to pay addresses to Megan?
Though his lordship hadn’tforbiddenSir Fletcher to spend time in Megan’s company either, a heartening realization. Sir Fletcher swung his walking stick, decapitating the tallest specimen from among a bed of orange flowers.
Permission to court a lady was a formality, nothing more, and Megan would see that permission was granted directly. Puget would muster the coin needed to placate the greediest of Sir Fletcher’s creditors, and soon, all would come right.
Sir Fletcher was halfway back to Grosvenor Square before he realized he might stray across Puget and Pammy making calf’s eyes—heifer’s eyes in her case—in public. That disagreeable thought sent his steps veering south, toward St. James’s Street. Few would be about in the clubs at such an early hour and a fellow could always put a meal on his account.
Perhaps the bumpkin from Cumberland would be on hand and available for a quiet word regarding Pammy’s many vices … except Puget had neglected to mention the bumpkin’s name or title.
A pity, that. A rotten shame. Just another example of how the smallest details could send the course of true love top over tail right into the nearest reeking ditch.
“His Grace is entirely too pleased with himself,” Westhaven remarked. “Somebody’s parliamentary bill is about to be defeated, somebody’s canal drained. Whose turn is it to deal?”
The Windham menfolk gathered for cards at least weekly if no other familial gatherings took precedence. They met not at any club but in Westhaven’s library. The card parties had become the social highlight of Keswick’s week and he suspected his brothers-by-marriage viewed it similarly.
“Having our lady cousins underfoot means Her Grace is in alt,” Rosecroft said. “If Her Grace is happy, His Grace is happy.”
“And if Their Graces are happy, the kingdom must be secure,” Lord Valentine muttered, appropriating the deck from Westhaven. “Unless, of course, one’s children are teething, colicky, or fretful, or the baby won’t sleep through the night, or—”
“—the housemaids are feuding,” Westhaven added.
“Or your daughter has to write letters every day to her damned dog and her damned pony,” Rosecroft said. “Valentine, you’ve shuffled the deck enough.”
“Up past your bedtimes, the doddering lot of you,” Lord Valentine said, dealing cards with the dispatch of a man who claimed a wealth of manual dexterity. “What’s this I hear about Megan taking a fancy to the waltzing Scotsman?”
Glances were exchanged around the table, though Westhaven—ducal heir that he was—merely watched the cards piling up before him.
“Megan has taken a fancy to the Duke of Murdoch,” Rosecroft said. “He’s not what I would have chosen for our Megs.”
Keswick glowered at his cards, though he held a decent hand. “Who would you choose for her?”
Keswick didn’t know Megan Windham well, but he liked her. She was sensible, loyal as hell to her family, and patient with children and dunderheaded cousins. More to the point, Keswick’s countess, Louisa, was fond of Megan.
