Page 25 of Three Weeks with a Princess
“Good God, what are you doing back in Town?” Charles asked.
“It’s delightful to see you, too,” Jack said. “I do hope I’m not disturbing your cogitations on important affairs of state, Your Grace.”
His best friend cut him a grin. “I’m reading the on-dits. They are generally more entertaining than your company, especially when you’re glowering at me. Suffering from a little dyspepsia, are we?”
“Ah, the gossip columns. Is the duchess making an appearance in them this week? She does have a tendency to liven things up, and London is so quiet at this time of year.”
“That’s a delicate way to characterize my wife’s adventures. We’ve not had any incidents in some weeks, so I suppose we’re due for one.” Charles breathed out a dramatic sigh.
Jack laughed. “Your wife is utterly charming and you adore her—as you should, by the way. I tried to steal her for myself, but for some demented reason she chose you over me, no doubt because you’re a dukeanddisgustingly wealthy.”
He winced as soon as the words were out of his mouth. He’d meant it as a joke, but more than a little bitterness had leeched into his tone.
His friend simply gave him a smile, rising politely to his feet. “No, it’s because my manners are so distinguished. Or so Gillian assures me. And you know what a stickler she is for polite behavior.”
The absurd comment made Jack laugh and lightened the moment. The Duchess of Leverton was the opposite of a high stickler. She was also one of the kindest, most intelligent young women Jack had ever met.
“You’re a lucky man, you blighter,” he said. “I hope you give her all the appreciation she deserves.”
“She is the light of my life,” Charles said quietly. “I don’t know how I got along without her.”
“And don’t forget that Her Grace is very handy when it comes to dealing with ruthless brigands or, even worse, jug-bitten aristocrats.”
“Don’t I know it,” his friend replied with a rueful smile.
To say that the former Gillian Dryden was an unconventional woman was perhaps the understatement of the decade. Still, there was no doubting that the duke and his new duchess were deeply in love and, in their own odd way, a perfect match.
“I am truly happy for you and Gillian,” Jack said, turning serious. “You both deserve it.”
His friend gave him a shrewd perusal. “Thank you, Jack. You, however, seem to be weighed down these days. Care to have a brandy with me and unburden yourself?”
“I’ll join you in a brandy, although I’m sure you have no wish to hear about the sorry state of my affairs. They’re both mundane and dreary, I assure you.”
“Don’t be an idiot. I will happily listen to any number of your sad tales. God knows you did it for me in my callow youth.” Charles glanced past him. “But Lord Stalworth is glaring daggers at us for disturbing the peace. I suggest we repair to the club room where we can talk more freely.”
Jack followed his friend, flashing the elderly viscount an apologetic smile. Stalworth, the very picture of decrepitude, rustled his paper in disapproval. Boodle’s was known for its genteel atmosphere, and the distinguished and mostly elderly members tended to frown on any behavior that disturbed the tranquil atmosphere.
Jack’s membership in London’s clubs was of recent vintage, after he’d assumed the title. He could certainly see their value; a great deal of business was conducted over brandy or port or at a hand of cards. But the hard truth was that he couldn’t afford the lifestyle that came with club privilege—the gambling and wagering on things from the arcane to the idiotic. He avoided the tables and never made wagers on any of the othersure betsthat were so much a part of the masculine life of the Ton.
As far as he was concerned, he’d won the ultimate wager by escaping the battlefields of Spain and Belgium with only a few minor wounds. To risk his livelihood—and the security of all those who depended on him—by gambling would be tempting fate to a reckless degree.
Jack’s father had brought his family to the brink of ruin more than once at the tables of London’s elite clubs. Uncle Arthur had rescued them from debt more than once, at great cost to his own purse.
But Uncle Arthur had squandered great sums of money as well until ill health and Rebecca Kincaid persuaded him to retreat to Stonefell. Jack had no intention of adhering to the family tradition of losing one’s shirt, nor would he ever keep a mistress. Uncle Arthur had at least had the decency to fall in love with his, but Jack’s father had traded in expensive women as easily as he’d entered a wager in the betting book at White’s or tossed down a hand of cards in a gaming hell.
He and Charles found two seats in a relatively secluded alcove, keeping away from a group of men boisterously gossiping about the Prince Regent and his latest rumored mistress. It was another unwelcome reminder that Lia might also become an object of such gossip. The by-blow of a prince taking to the stage and following in her mother’s scandalous footsteps was as salacious a picture as one could imagine.
After ordering brandies from a passing footman, Charles stretched out his long, booted legs. While his friend looked the picture of contentment, Jack felt as if he had a swarm of wasps buzzing around in his brain.
Charles eyed him. “Why are you scowling at that lot over there? They’re just engaging in the usual idiocy.”
“God knows Prinny and his loutish relations provide them with enough fodder. Doesn’t it bother you?”
“Why? Because my wife’s father is the Duke of Cumberland, the absolute worst of the lot?”
Jack cut him a wry smile.
Charles shrugged. “He’s so disreputable that Gillian wants nothing to do with him. We make a point of not discussing him and avoid him whenever possible.”
