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Three

Grillon’s Hotel

After midnight

Ewan Poley, Earl of Ardmore, was fairly certain that he was obeying Father Armailhac’s instructions to the letter. ‘Go to London,’ he had said. ‘Dance with a pretty girl.’

‘And just what am I supposed to do with this pretty girl?’ Ewan had inquired.

‘Surely the spirit will move you,’ Father Armailhac had said. For a monk, he had a wicked twinkle at times.

And so far, Ewan had met a multitude of pretty girls. Due to his terrible memory, he couldn’t remember any of their names, but he reckoned he must have danced with half of London by now. Thanks to his title, he had been showered by invitations within a few days of his arrival; it seemed that the English were not quite so blasé about Scottish titles as was rumoured in the north country. Yet it seemed to him that Father Armailhac had meant he should meet a particular girl, one whom he could contemplating wooing and bringing back to Scotland.

He had no objection to marrying, although he couldn’t say he felt passionate enthusiasm for the idea. His mind slid easily from marriage to the long, clean rows of his stables, the golden fields of spring wheat just beginning to sprout. He could give this marrying business another fortnight. Then he would return home, married or no.

The black-haired lass he had danced with this evening seemed more than ready to hop before the altar. But what was her name? He couldn’t remember. She had clung to him like a limpet, which he didn’t care for much. Yet perhaps the lady was desperate, widowed as she was, and likely with naught more than a small dowry.

His manservant appeared at the door, a silver plate in his hand. Ewan might not be enjoying London much, but Glover was ecstatic. All his ambitions were fulfilled by being in the city, as he called it, during the season. ‘Your lordship, a card has arrived.’

‘At this hour? Just put it over there,’ Ewan said, nodding at the mantelpiece. It was crowded with cards and invitations from people he’d never heard of.

Glover bowed but didn’t move toward the fireplace. ‘Your lordship, this card is from the Duke of Holbrook. And’ – Glover lowered his voice to an awed whisper – ‘His Grace has condescended to wait.’

Ewan sighed. A duke. Perhaps the man was desperate to send one of his daughters off into the supposed wilds of Scotland. He’d figured out soon enough that the English thought of Scotland as a wilderness of crazed warriors and grim religious dissenters.

He glanced at his cravat in the mirror. Glover was brokenhearted at his refusal to change his customary black for the gaudy waistcoats Englishmen wore to balls. But he looked fine and, more importantly, Scottish. Scotsmen wore kilts if they felt the need for a little colour, even if they weren’t allowed to wear them in this country.

‘His Grace awaits you in the sitting room,’ Glover said.

‘Aye.’

‘If you’ll excuse the boldness, my lord,’ Glover said, hesitating.

Ewan raised an eyebrow. ‘Yes?’

‘A duke of the realm,’ Glover said, trembling with the excitement of it. ‘Try to avoid Scottish phrases such as aye. ‘Twill make an unpleasant impression on His Grace.’

‘I’m not marrying him,’ Ewan said, but then softened. ‘But thank you for the advice, Glover. I shall do my best to appear reasonably English.’ Not that he would ever wish to mimic an Englishman, not in a hundred years.

The duke was a messy sort, Ewan saw with some relief. In fact, the sort who would take no offense at an occasional aye. Ewan had already had several conversations with the perfumed, sleek type of English nobility, and he didn’t care for them. No more did they him.

This duke was dressed in clothes that looked comfortable rather than elegant. His stomach strained comfortably over the waist of his pantaloons, and as Ewan stood in the doorway of the room, his guest threw back a glass of brandy that Glover must have given him with all the enthusiasm of one of Ewan’s labourers greeting the evening.

‘Your Grace,’ Ewan said, entering the room. ‘This is indeed a pleasure.’

The duke straightened like a bloodhound and turned around. Ewan almost took a step back. Bloody hell, the man looked enraged. And now he remembered precisely where he’d met him before. If you could call it a meeting; the duke had snatched the black-haired lady from his arms and danced with her himself.

‘Do you know who I am?’ he said. His voice was as deep and burly as his figure.

‘According to your card, you are the Duke of Holbrook,’ Ewan observed. He moved over to the sideboard. ‘May I offer you another drink?’ He dropped the Your Grace part as it made him feel faintly servant-like.

‘I am the guardian of Lady Maitland,’ the man announced.

‘Quite so,’ Ewan murmured, pouring himself a stiff glass. ‘Well, I am the Earl of Ardmore, hailing from Aberdeenshire, if you were not already aware of the fact.’

‘Lady Maitland,’ Holbrook insisted. ‘Imogen Maitland.’

Imogen must be the black-haired charmer from the ballroom. ‘If I have offended you or the lady in any way, I offer my sincere apologies,’ Ewan said, striving for diplomacy.

‘Well, I should say you have!’ the duke huffed.

‘How?’ Ewan inquired. He kept his tone easy and even.

‘All London is talking of the two of you,’ Holbrook snapped. ‘Of your tasteless exhibition of waltzing.’

Ewan thought for a moment. He had two alternatives: to tell the truth, or to take responsibility. Honour demanded that he not reveal the fact that Holbrook’s ward had clung to him with all the expert passion of a Bird of Paradise. He was no fool: the black-haired Imogen was far less moved by his beauty than she had pretended to be. He caught some sort of emotion in her eyes, but it didn’t seem to be pure lust, even if that was the emotion that she was flaunting.

‘I apologise in every respect,’ he said finally. ‘I was bowled over by her beauty and I gather it led to my actions being interpreted in an unpleasant light.’

Holbrook narrowed his eyes. Ewan gazed back at him, wondering if all dukes in England were so undisciplined in their emotions and dress.

‘I’ll have that drink now,’ the duke said.

Ewan picked up his personal decanter and poured him a healthy glass. Holbrook had the distinct atmosphere of a man who enjoyed a good brandy, and Ewan had brought with him several flasks of the best aged whisky to be found in Scotland.

Holbrook took one large sip and then looked at Ewan in surprise. He sank into a couch and took another sip.

Ewan sat down opposite him. He could see that Holbrook understood exactly what he was drinking.

‘What is it?’ Holbrook said, his voice hushed.

‘An aged single malt,’ Ewan said. ‘A new process and one likely to change the whisky industry, to my mind.’

Holbrook took another sip and sat back, ‘Glen Garioch,’ he said dreamily. ‘Glen Garioch or – possibly – Tobermary.’

Ewan gave him a real grin this time. ‘Aye, Glen Garioch it is.’

‘Bliss,’ Holbrook said. ‘Almost, I could let a man who knew his whisky marry Imogen. Almost!’ he said, opening his eyes again.

‘I’ve no particular desire to marry her,’ Ewan said agreeably.

He realised his mistake when Holbrook’s eyebrows drew into a ferocious scowl.

‘Although I would consider myself immeasurably lucky to do so,’ Ewan added. ‘She is a lovely young woman.’

‘Rumour has it that you’re in England precisely to find a wife,’ the duke growled. But he was sipping his liquor again.

‘The rumour is correct,’ Ewan said. ‘But not necessarily your ward.’

‘Ah.’

They sat in silence for a while, enjoying the whisky.

‘I expect the truth of it is that Imogen threw herself at you, and you’re being too polite to tell me so to my face,’ the duke said as gloomily as was possible when one is holding a glass of ’83 whisky distilled by Glen Garioch.

‘Lady Maitland is an exquisite young woman. I’d be more than happy to marry her.’

The duke caught his eye, and then: ‘Damned if you don’t mean it. Don’t care who you marry, is that it?’

‘I take a reasonable interest in the subject,’ Ewan protested. ‘But I will admit that I’m rather anxious to return to my lands. The wheat is sprouting.’

The duke looked as if he had never heard the word sprout. ‘Are you telling me that you’re a farmer?’ he asked. ‘One of those gentlemen who dabble about with experimental methods. Turnip Townshend, wasn’t that his name?’

‘I’m not quite as engrossed as Mr Townshend,’ Ewan murmured, letting another sip of liquor burn its complex, golden way down his throat.

‘This is delicious,’ the duke said, clearly discarding a subject of little interest to him. ‘This whisky is utterly –’ he stopped. ‘Wheat? Do you have anything to do with whisky production, then?’

‘My tenants supply some grain for the distilleries in Speyside,’ Ewan said.

‘No wonder you know your drink so well.’ The duke seemed quite struck by this. ‘Been thinking about giving up the tipple,’ he said suddenly.

‘Indeed?’ Ewan had to admit that the duke was putting away the best whisky there was to be had in Scotland at a fantastic rate, and showing little signs of it. Perhaps he had fallen into the way of drinking too much.

‘But not tonight.’

Ewan decided the appropriate response to that revelation would be to pour the duke another generous portion, so he did so.

‘Your estate is in Aberdeenshire?’

Ewan nodded.

‘There’s a lovely horse up there,’ the duke said, thinking it over. ‘I haven’t seen him for a year or so, but –’

‘Warlock,’ Ewan put in. ‘He strained a fetlock last July.’

‘Exactly! Warlock. Belongs to a friend of yours, does he?’

‘I own Warlock,’ Ewan said.

Now the duke’s eyes were definitely warm. ‘Good man. Out of Pheasant, wasn’t he?’

‘Pheasant by way of Miraculous,’ Ewan said.

‘I don’t suppose you’re thinking of breeding his line, are you?’

‘I already have a yearling who’s showing definite possibilities.’

The duke had shed his sleepy, pleasant manner and was sitting bolt upright, looking more awake than Ewan had seen him, except perhaps at the ball when he was in such a rage. ‘I’ve three offspring of Patchem sitting in my stables, two mares and a colt. The daughters are my wards, and each one of them came with a horse for a dowry. Their father was a bit of a featherhead and he doesn’t seem to have thought carefully about the business. I was thinking of breeding the mares, since neither shows much racing ability.’

A horse for a dowry? He’d only heard of such a thing once, and that was from the golden-haired beauty at the ball. Who had told him to look elsewhere, because she only had a horse for a dowry. Apparently she didn’t think it important to note that the particular horse was from the line of Patchem.

‘I should like to see a horse with Warlock’s and Patchem’s bloodlines,’ he said.

They sat in comfortable silence for a few moments, the duke slumping back into his boneless, indolent stance.

‘You’ve gone about finding a wife the wrong way,’ Holbrook said, after a while.

‘I’ve gone to fourteen events in the last week,’ Ewan observed. ‘Four balls, a number of afternoon gatherings and one musicale. I did ask a young lady to marry me this evening, but she declined.’ He didn’t think it necessary to note that the woman was apparently one of Holbrook’s wards, not when the duke had only barely gotten over his annoyance at Ewan’s behaviour with another of those wards.

‘That’s not the way of it. These things are handled between men. The key is to figure out which woman you wish to marry before you go to the ballroom.’ The duke’s voice had just the slightest husky edge now, a golden burr of whisky. But all in all, Ewan thought he held his liquor better than any man he knew except old Lachlan McGregor, and McGregor had given his life to the practice.

‘I’ll take you along to my club,’ the duke continued. ‘We can have it all fixed up in a moment.’ He rose and Ewan was rather amazed to see that the man wasn’t even unsteady. ‘Not that you can have Imogen,’ he said with a sudden roar, ‘even if she does come with a mare for a dowry. We’ll do the horse breeding on the side.’

‘I wouldn’t think of it,’ Ewan said, looking around for the card case that Glover had brought for him. He didn’t find it, so he simply followed the duke out the door. The only sign that Holbrook had imbibed the better part of a flask was a certain talkativeness.

‘You see,’ the duke said in the carriage as they were trundling off to his club, ‘the poor girl lost her husband a mere six months ago. The man fell on the racetrack, racing one of his own horses: a yearling that should never have been put to the bridle.’

‘Aye,’ Ewan said. He’d heard that story somewhere, but as was often the case, the name of the rider eluded him.

‘Imogen had loved him for years.’ Holbrook was leaning back against the cushions, having no problem whatsoever keeping his balance as the carriage swung around corners and rumbled down cobblestone streets. ‘She picked him out when she was a mere nursling, and they ended up eloping. And then he died but a matter of weeks later.’

‘Weeks!’ Ewan said, struck by the misfortune of that. And then: ‘Of course, that would be Draven Maitland.’

‘The same.’

‘Ah,’ Ewan said. He had met young Maitland a few times, since the man used to race the Scottish cycle before returning to England for the English racing season. Maitland was a rash, foolish young man whom Ewan had rather disliked.

The duke took a little flagon out of his pocket and took a sip, but shook his head. ‘This is like drinking pisswater after that whisky of yours. At any rate, poor Imogen is not quite herself, due to the shock of the whole thing, as you can imagine.’

The carriage stopped in front of an imposing, pillared building. Ewan had no idea what part of the city they were in. ‘Aren’t these clubs for members only?’ he asked.

The duke waved his hand dismissively. ‘No one will question my bringing a guest in for a drink. I’ll put you up for membership, if you’d like. But it is a hell of an expense,’ he tossed over his shoulder. ‘Not worth the money, I should think.’

Ewan agreed with him. Surely men stewed in liquor all offered the same tedious company, and if it was their society he wished, the men in his local tavern would do.

The duke seemed to know precisely where he was going. They were greeted by a solemn-faced individual, who bowed deeply and intoned a welcome to ‘White’s’. Then the duke trundled past a few rooms that seemed to be filled with gamblers and finally arrived in a library.

It was a magnificent room. The few bits of wall that weren’t covered with books were papered in a deep crimson. There was a fire burning in a generous hearth, and comfortable chairs scattered about the room in groupings that offered intimacy. The duke didn’t hesitate. ‘Come,’ he threw over his shoulder, heading to a corner.

Four high-backed chairs were grouped with their backs to the room. In one of them was a scion of English nobility of just the sort that Ewan disliked. He had black curls tossed in one of those styles that Ewan had just figured out was a style, rather than the effect of an unexpected rain shower. And he was wearing a waistcoat of such riotously embroidered beauty that Glover would have grown weak at the knees. Ewan could only be glad that his manservant was not with him: the last thing he wanted was to find himself dressed in a garnet-coloured jacket, as if he were a man milliner.

Ewan saw with one glance that the gentleman seated next to the man milliner was a man of power. He had a face that bespoke the ability to move nations, if he wished. His very quietness radiated power and presence. Perhaps he was one of those royal dukes, although he had heard tell that the dukes were on the plump side.

‘I’ve brought along a Scottish earl,’ Holbrook said without ceremony. ‘Seems a decent fellow, and keeps a whisky in his chambers that’s full of the devil. Plus he’s the owner of Warlock, who won the Derby two years ago, if you remember. Ardmore, that sprig of fashion is Garret Langham, the Earl of Mayne. And this is Mr Lucius Felton. As for myself, I go by Rafe amongst friends.’

Without waiting for a response, he signalled to a footman. ‘Ask Penny if they have any aged Glen Garioch whisky in the house.’

‘They don’t,’ Ewan said, bowing to the gentlemen, who had stood up and were doing the pretty. ‘Aged malts aren’t exported for sale yet.’

The duke collapsed into a chair. ‘I suddenly have a deep interest in visiting our northern neighbours.’

Now that the Earl of Mayne was on his feet, Ewan could see immediately that the man was no man milliner, for all his deep red jacket seemed to catch the gleam of the firelight. He had tired eyes and a dissolute droop to his mouth, but he was a man to be reckoned with.

‘Ardmore,’ Mayne said. ‘It’s a pleasure.’ He had a strong handshake. ‘Didn’t I see you dancing at Lady Feddrington’s house?’