Page 69 of The Trouble With Dukes
The pounding in Sir Fletcher’s head was joined by a seething biliousness in his belly. He shook his hand free of Geneva’s.
“You are already my favorite sister.” Also a very good spy, praise heaven. “Please go to the mews and tell Jacobs to saddle Jupiter. I’ll be along shortly.”
Or perhaps not. The situation with Miss Megan Windham wanted immediate attention, while Geneva could entertain herself for hours chasing barn cats and getting her pinafore dirty. Sir Fletcher, by contrast, had a special license to procure, and an errant fiancée to bring to heel.
“Aren’t you coming with us?” Colin asked.
Hamish rubbed tired eyes. “What time is it?”
Colin consulted a gold watch that went nicely with his evening attire. He wore the kilt well, with just enough dash and just enough decorum.
“It’s late enough that Eddie and Ronnie will be down any minute, ready to terrorize the unsuspecting bachelors of Mayfair once more. They’ve taken to being ladies with a vengeance.”
Hamish set aside the ledger he’d been working on and moved the stack of bills to the edge of the blotter. His library wasn’t the grand public room the Duke of Moreland’s mansion boasted, but the books here were well loved and the chair behind the desk comfortable.
“Our sisters have taken to bankrupting me,” Hamish said.
Colin settled into the chair opposite the desk, one ankle crossed casually over the opposite knee.
“Are you being the tightfisted Scot, bemoaning the loss of every groat while you hoard up twenty in its place, or are you serious?”
“Mostly the Scot,” Hamish said. “I don’t begrudge the ladies their finery, but we’ve weeks of prancing about to endure yet, and I hope to negotiate marriage settlements before we leave here.”
Colin snapped the watch closed. “Would you tell me if you needed help?”
“I’d tell you before I’d tell anybody else.”
The watch was tucked away, the chain hanging just so across Colin’s flat middle. “I’ll take that for a no, even though I’m filthy rich and I love you better than I love my horse.”
“Colin Andrew, you’ll move me to tears.” Or to drink. Hamish tossed a bill across the desk. “Is this your new bootmaker?”
“Puget and Sons? Never heard of them, and I know the bootmakers in London because Eddie and Ronnie have dragged me to most of them. The merchants probably don’t expect you to be here come December, so they’re settling with you as they go.”
Poring over the ledgers had left Hamish’s eyes stinging, which made him think of Meggie, though everything made him think of Meggie.
“I don’t blame the trades for trying to prey on a new title,” Hamish said. “I do expect them to provide goods for the coin they seek.”
Colin studied the invoice. “Let me have a chat with this bootmaker. I don’t recognize the direction, but I’ll stop around at their establishment and see what I can find out. We’ve barely been here long enough to have many boots made.”
Hamish was about to demand return of the invoice, but Colin was watching him, his gaze unreadable. Colin had a temper, though unlike Hamish’s, it was a cold, calculating temper. A man who crossed the wrong line with affable, easygoing Captain Lord Colin MacHugh would never see retribution coming until it put out his lights with the first blow.
“Let’s not be hasty,” Hamish said, holding out his hand for the bill. “I’m convinced London runs as much on gossip as the army ever did. One unhappy cobbler and I’ll find old Moreland doubting my solvency.”
Colin passed over the offending invoice and rose as feminine chatter sounded from the corridor. “Now you’re doing your impersonation of the dour Scotsman. Moreland has five daughters, and he knows what a London season costs. I’ll tell the ladies you have a megrim, because you look as if you do. Courting is taking a toll on you.”
Waitingwas taking a toll on Hamish.
“I’ll make my own excuses to the ladies,” Hamish said, pushing to his feet. “If they don’t scold me for something twice a day, they mope.”
Too late, Hamish realized he’d blundered. Again. Colin wanted to be useful, but Colin’s version of useful too often ended up in wagers, fisticuffs, or awkward apologies.
The door opened and Edana and Rhona stormed into the room.
“Hamish, you will please make yourself presentable in the next twelve minutes, or you’ll cause us to be late,” Rhona said.
“Not fashionably late either,” Edana echoed. “Rudely late. We’ll miss the opening sets, and I’ve promised the promenade to”—she peered at a slip of paper—“Mr. Cam Dorning.”
“He’s too young for you,” Rhona said. “But I do fancy his eyes. Hamish, what are you waiting for? You can’t go out dressed like that.”
