Page 57 of The Trouble With Dukes
“I’d prefer an Englishman,” Westhaven said. “Scotland is too far away.”
“I second that motion,” Lord Valentine said, finishing the deal. “I also would have thought Megs better suited to a soft-spoken fellow, one who favors books, plays the violin, and smokes a pipe. Not some Highland warrior who wears a skirt and barely knows proper forms of address.”
“We weren’t all born into ducal families,” Keswick observed. “Are we here to play cards or matchmake?”
“Matchmake, of course,” Westhaven replied, arranging his hand. “Does anybody have an objection to Murdoch? I thought Sir Fletcher Pilkington had caught Megan’s eye, but my countess informs me I am in error.”
“Countesses do that,” Rosecroft muttered. “Valentine, why can’t you deal a fellow any decent cards?”
“Because I’m after your pin money,” Lord Valentine said. “My sisters expect me to keep you lot in line, and that thankless task requires that I relieve you of your valuables. Keswick, however, is apparently holding a decent hand.”
The door opened, admitting Lucas Denning, Marquess of Deene, whose privilege it was to be married to Eve, the youngest of the ducal Windham children.
“Bring the decanters over,” Rosecroft said as the players made room for an extra chair. “And condole dear Valentine on the impending loss of his last groat to his elders.”
“Your arrival interrupted an interesting discussion, Deene,” Westhaven said, topping up each man’s drink as Lord Valentine dealt a fresh hand. “Cousin Megan has taken a fancy to the new Duke of Murdoch. We’re wondering if Sir Fletcher’s charms have paled, or if she’s trying to bring Sir Fletcher up to scratch by showing favor to a competitor.”
“Murdoch?” Deene considered his cards. He was looking a bit harried, as a new father will. “I can’t say as I know him.”
“You knew him as Colonel Hamish MacHugh,” Rosecroft supplied. “Is that jam on your cravat, Deene? Valentine has apparently started a new fashion.”
“It’s the blood of the last man who suggested I’d disgrace my marchioness with anything less than perfect turnout before her brothers. Keswick, shall you lead?”
Keswick tossed out a card. “Somebody has to.”
“Hamish MacHugh was the fellow held by the French,” Deene said. “Could not have been a pleasant experience, but then he probably wasn’t a pleasant fellow to have as a captive, if the gossip is to be believed.”
“What gossip?” Westhaven asked.
“Play a bloody card,” Rosecroft muttered.
Westhaven flicked his wrist, and a card went sailing to the exact center of the table. “What gossip?”
Rosecroft set a card on top of Westhaven’s. “The gossip that said MacHugh was of such a violent disposition even the French interrogators didn’t want him underfoot. He had a reputation for acquitting himself well in battle, but then one hears he led his own men into an ambush at some godforsaken bridge.”
Keswick collected the cards. “He was considered a brute. Witnesses saw him snap an unarmed man’s neck without batting an eye. Not the done thing, even on the battlefield, and some say MacHugh’s own brother was among those jeopardized by the colonel’s disregard for orders. Others have suggested gossip is in error. Might we change the subject?”
“What flavor jam is that on your cravat?” Rosecroft inquired of Deene. “Raspberry stains worse than strawberry, I’ve found.”
Deene glanced down at his cravat. “I don’t know. Evie will lecture me into next week, but what’s a fellow to do when he’s acquired a lapful of smiling cherub, and nobody warns him the cherub has been at the jam?”
“Change his cravat?” Westhaven suggested. “Wash the cherub’s little paws with one of the three handkerchiefs no self-respecting papa is ever without? Hand the cherub off to the nursemaids with a lordly scowl, muttering about decorum in the nursery?”
“Ha!” Lord Valentine chorused from across the table. “Decorum in the nursery is an oxymoron once you get past the first child, rather like a good night’s sleep.”
And thus, Keswick mused, did grown men while away an evening, alternately taking a respite from the rigors of domestic bliss, and wondering how their ladies and offspring fared at home. The gathering broke up promptly at midnight, with Rosecroft suggesting that pouring boiling water continuously on any evidence of raspberry preserves might rescue a cravat from a fresh stain.
“Walk with me?” Deene asked quietly as hats and gloves and walking sticks were parceled out.
“Of course,” Keswick replied. “Rosecroft, you’ll join us for a breath of fresh air?”
“Somebody has to see that Deene arrives home safely, or Evie will lecturemeinto next week.”
Keswick had needed patience and subtlety, but he couldn’t consider the evening wasted if the family’s three veterans of the Peninsular campaign found the privacy necessary to discuss another former soldier. As they walked along, carriages rattled past, and linkboys and footmen held lanterns for the fashionable parties.
“MacHugh was rumored to be only half-sane,” Deene said. “War doesn’t exactly bring out the best in a man, but is that the sort of fellow Megan ought to consort with?”
“We were all half-daft by the time we crossed the mountains into France, and matters did not improve at Waterloo,” Rosecroft said. “MacHugh’s record includes insubordination, disciplinary proceedings, absence without leave, conduct unbecoming an officer, and all manner of disgraces. Moreland must not be aware of Murdoch’s military record.”
