“Your Grace?” Helena said, recognizing the Duke of Lennox’s black hair amongst the riotous group.
“Miss Rowe!” he slurred, stumbling toward her. “We need your assistance.”
“Mine?” Her heartbeat ratcheted into overtime when he slung his arm—quite inappropriately—over her shoulder. “How can I assist six dukes?”
“Roxburghe,” —the Duke of Lennox flung his arm out, pointing at the Duke of Roxburghe and nearly toppling himself and Helena over—“and Grisham are fighting over their wedding date. We decided that Miss Webb and Miss Philbert should fight instead.”
Helena raised her eyebrows. “Surely you don’t think you’re going to convince two ladies to sort out a matter using fisticuffs.”
“Nora!”
The Duke of Roxburghe stumbled past them into the parlor, his arms open wide as he aimed for Miss Webb, who, giggling, allowed him to envelope her in his embrace and vanished from view.
“Are you all on the cut?” Mrs. Hawkins asked, her mouth pressing into a thin line as the Duke of Beaufort crashed into a table, knocking it into the wall.
“Mrs. Hawkins?” Helena said, peeking out from under the Duke of Lennox’s arm. “Would you prepare some coffee?”
“Isabel,” the Duke of Grisham said, spying Miss Philbert in the doorway. “You must solve this issue.”
He lurched toward her, followed by a procession of inebriated dukes, with Helena and the Duke of Lennox taking up the rear.
Half-carrying the Duke of Lennox, Helena shuffled into the parlor and, despite the intoxicating desire to curl into his chest, deposited him in a nearby chair. She removed his arm from her shoulders and stepped away. Her gaze flicked to Miss Drummond, whom Helena knew had watched the interaction with interest.
Miss Fernsby-Webb sidled over to Helena and leaned in, lowering her voice. “What do they want?”
“There’s some type of dilemma they wish Miss Webb and Miss Philbert to solve,” Helena replied, ensuring her response was loud enough for Miss Drummond to overhear.
“The wedding date.” The Duke of Lennox struggled to rise from the chair, wobbled, his arms giving out, and sank down with a grunt. “They need to pick who gets married first.”
“Miss Philbert should,” Miss Fernsby-Webb replied, glancing over at him. “She was engaged first.”
The Duke of Lennox accepted a cup of coffee from Mrs. Hawkins and offered the housekeeper a kind smile before lifting the cup of steaming liquid to his mouth. Without drinking, he lowered the coffee and gestured toward Miss Philbert.
“She didn’t select her date until after Miss Webb choose… chose.” He murmured the last word to himself as though unsure if he’d said the correct thing, repeated it several times, then finally added, “They picked the same day.”
“I have a solution,” Miss Fernsby-Webb replied, clapping her hands together. “They can play for the date. Whichever lady wins may marry first.”
“Brilliant!” The Duke of Lennox waved his arm, sloshing half of the coffee onto the tablecloth.
He immediately grabbed a napkin to daub up the fluid, but his efforts were clumsy, and he ended up creating a larger mess.
Helena stilled his hand. “Mrs. Hawkins can wash the linen to remove the stain.”
His gaze traveled from her fingers, which rested on his hand, up her arm, across her collarbone, and to her face. A peculiar expression flashed in his eyes. One Helena had witnessed once before—the night she fled from Humphrey.
Hunger.
“Thank you, Miss Rowe,” the Duke of Lennox said, managing to stand.
Before he lumbered toward her, she darted around Miss Fernsby-Webb and gestured at two tables.
“Do all the ladies in attendance still wish to play?”
A unanimous confirmation reverberated through the room, with the exception of Miss Wilmington and her mother, who admitted the addition of six inebriated dukes was a bit overwhelming for them and took their leave.
“I count seven ladies,” Helena said, pointing at each woman. “Will the most sober of our male guests be willing to join a table?”
“I will,” a deep voice replied.
