Page 36 of Foolish Bride
Sophia and Daniel rushed her out of the theatre and into the carriage. Tears ran down her face.
Wishing he could comfort her, his gut clenched.
Many of the women shed tears over the silly play. He hadn’t even wanted to attend the performance. Now he was torn between being happy that Elinor had been there and distraught over the effect his presence had on her. He did not believe such an insipid theatrical could have caused her so much distress. He had upset her, and a wave of guilt washed over him.
“What did you think of the play?” Thomas stood next to him, avoiding the crush of humanity trying to escape the theatre.
“Terrible, of course.” If he rushed for the door, he could be in his carriage and to her family townhouse in less than an hour.
“Indeed. I believe I could do with a drink after that torture. Shall we go to the club?”
It was better to leave her alone. She deserved a new life that didn’t include him. She should find someone who would make her happy.
The ride to the club filled his head with a series of questions. What if he hadn’t taken that last assignment? What if he had fought her father on the dissolution of their engagement? What if he had been kind to her when she risked everything to come to him on their thwarted wedding day? So many questions and all impossible to answer, because he had chased her away at every turn.
Once inside White’s Gentlemen’s club, Thomas ordered brandies and found a quiet corner where they could enjoy them in peace.
It wasn’t to be.
A man whom Michael had never seen before approached them. The drunk and furious red-faced man stumbled to a stop and pointed a bony finger at Michael. “You are a pretender.”
Michael had been in battles where men dropped at his feet. He’d seen men’s limbs cleaved off. As a spy for the crown, he’d borne terrible atrocities. This man was no threat, but he gave him a thorough and leisurely looking over.
The man listed to one side before straightening. He was perhaps five feet eight or nine with thin red hair. Probably in his early thirties, but looked older because he was at least two stones overweight. His sparse hair was uncombed, his face freckled and his eyes ringed red. The jowls under his chin warbled, and he huffed and puffed in place.
“Who are you?” Michael asked.
Washed-out blue eyes bugged out their sockets and sweat trickled from his temple in spite of the fact that the temperature in the club was quite comfortable. “Who am I?”
Michael raised his eyebrow and waited for an answer.
He puffed up like a pigeon in the park. “I am Carter Roxton. I am the rightful heir to the Kerburghe Dukedom.”
Now it fell into place for Michael. “Did you petition the crown?”
The man advanced a step and wobbled drunkenly. His face turned almost purple. “Do you think me a dunce? Of course I did. Months ago I went to the prince and explained my close relation to the past duke.”
“And what was that relationship exactly?” Thomas grinned and sipped his drink.
It really wasn’t funny.
“The Duke of Kerburghe was my father’s brother’s wife’s cousin’s uncle.” There was a practiced cadence to his announcement.
Barely managing to contain his mirth, Thomas slapped his knee.
“I see,” Michael said. “And the crown denied your claim?”
“I have appealed.” Mr. Roxton stomped his foot and clung to the chair.
There was humor in the situation, though it was more like a bad farce. This man was rather ridiculous, but he was also drunk, so he took pity on the poor sod. “Your uncle’s wife’s cousin’s uncle, you say.”
Thomas burst into laughter.
Roxton turned his head sharply toward the laughter. The effort sent him off balance, and he toppled to the floor in an unceremonious heap.
Thomas’s hysteria was not helping the awkward situation.
Michael sighed, put down his brandy glass, lifted the unconscious Roxton from the floor, and put him into a large chair. Giving Thomas an annoyed look, he once again took his seat and picked up his brandy.
