Page 90 of The Trouble With Dukes
“You’re right, of course,” Miss Windham said, rising. “Megan has a keen appreciation of the honor you do her, or will do her, assuming Uncle Percy gives you leave. I’m sure if you call again later in the week, he’ll be more than happy to receive you.”
Well, damn the luck. Fortunately, the Countess of Hazelton’s ball was scheduled for that evening, and Megan would not miss an event at which one of her cousins was hostess. The countess was Megan’s oldest lady cousin, and the entire Windham family—including His Grace of Moreland—would doubtless be in attendance.
“I’ll bid you good day,” Sir Fletcher said, again bowing over Miss Windham’s hand. She dipped a curtsy and murmured something about wishing him luck.
He didn’t need to rely on mere luck, not when he had forgeries of Megan’s letters. By this time tomorrow, Sir Fletcher intended to be a happily engaged man.
“I’m inclined to burn London to the ground,” Hamish said as he and Colin waited for a hackney to trot through the intersection.
“Somebody already tried that back in 1666,” Colin replied. “You might flush Puget from his covert, but we’d not live to catch him.”
They’d spent the day checking every club, shop, brothel, and park bench in Mayfair and beyond, and still they had neither word nor whisper of Puget, not even in the coffeehouse off Grosvenor that claimed his regular patronage.
“Let’s try again tomorrow,” Colin said. “I’ll spend the evening at Jackson’s, and that will put me on my mettle—and might yield us some gossip about our missing forger.”
The streets were busy, the season reaching its peak, and the sun having sunk low. Hamish’s mood had sunk low as well.
“Tomorrow could be too late. Tonight’s ball is given by one of Megan’s cousins, and Megan dare not stay home yet again. Sir Fletcher will know that, and seize his opportunity.”
They tramped along past Bond Street establishments, most of which they’d visited earlier in the day.
“Then you ought to attend the ball too,” Colin said. “Ronnie and Eddie will never forgive you if you show up dressed as you are.”
Hamish was appropriately attired for poking about London in search of a scoundrel. To appear at a fancy gathering in his boots and everyday kilt would be the undoing of several weeks of good behavior, at least.
“We keep looking,” Hamish said. “I have promised Megan—”
He halted, because the back of his neck was prickling, the same way it had when he’d been searching for his brother in the foothills of the Pyrenees years ago.
“You have that, ‘I smell a French foot patrol’ look in your eye,” Colin said, glancing around. “Angelo was an Italian, though.”
They stood across the street from the famous fencing establishment named for its founder. The grandson, Henry Angelo, operated the place now. Hamish had been inside occasionally on his way north on leave. Jackson’s boxing salon, which sat next door to Angelo’s, had never interested him.
“Puget might frequent an establishment such as Angelo’s,” Hamish said.
“If he were honing his skills in anticipation of a duel?”
Hamish was already crossing the street. “If he were looking for artistic commissions for sporting portraits, or simply seeking to stay out of sight for a while. The former officers tend not to frequent the place, but the dandies and younger sons do.”
Those who could regard violence as entertainment, in other words, and those who fancied having themselves immortalized with an idealized portrait.
“Hamish, you can’t just barge into a fencing salon, and—”
Hamish barged in. “Captain Garner Puget,” he said to the attendant. “Fetch him to me now, if you please.”
The attendant was a thin, blond fellow with delicate features. “Whom shall I say is calling, sir?”
“God almighty,” Colin muttered.
The attendant looked from one brother to the other.
“The Duke of Murder,” Hamish replied. “And company.”
“Don’t call yourself that,” Colin said as the attendant scurried off. “Duke of Mayhem, I can believe, but not murder. Never that. Possibly the Duke of Manners, now that Miss Megan has got you by the sporran.”
Hamish was prepared to commit mayhem at least. “You should leave this to me, Colin. What I have in store for Puget won’t be polite at all.”
Colin took up a lean against the paneled wall and crossed his arms. “Get as unmannerly as you like, Hamish. It’s about time, if you ask me. I’m not going anywhere.”
