“True,” he said, nodding, “your promise was nothing.” A few lords shifted uncomfortably on their feet, and a few ladies tittered nervously behind their fans. “But your fulfillment of the promise was much appreciated.” Even as tension released from the group, Sebastian caught Wakeley’s dodgy eye. “If only everyone delivered on their promises.”
The sum Wakeley owed was a mere hundred pounds. But that was beside the point. He must pay. What was the point of an honor system without honor? Society would crumble on its ear.
Wakeley swallowed.
“Some don’t?” asked one lady with surprised lift of an eyebrow.
“You’d be shocked,” said Sebastian, refusing to release Wakeley’s gaze.
“But it’s for the arts,” said another lady.
“Does anyone have suggestions for collection?” asked Sebastian, lightly. Conversations about money weren’t the done thing in his circles, but here they were and he had a point to make to one specific lord. “I can’t very well send a burly Runner out for collection.”
This got a laugh from all. Wakeley swallowed, again.
“Oh, I think a public shaming would do nicely,” said yet another lady.
“Interesting,” said Sebastian with a cock of his head. “Do go on.”
What was truly interesting was that it was Wakeley’s wife making the case for a public shaming.
Her face lit with an idea. “You could call him on it at a party.”
“A party such as this one?” asked Sebastian.
Wakeley turned an unhealthy shade of chartreuse.
“Exactly,” said the man’s wife without the faintest notion of her husband’s suffering at her side.
Sebastian bowed to Lady Wakeley before shifting his gaze toward her husband. “A suggestion I’ll take under advisement for my next party.”
Wakeley wiped his sweaty brow with the back of his hand and released a long, slow breath. He seemed to have gotten the message that Sebastian wouldn’t be exposing him tonight. But he wouldn’t be so lucky in the future.
Sebastian had a feeling he would be receiving the £100 within the week.
Of course, he could endow a new arts building in London from foundation to roof and everything in between without blinking an eye, but that was beside the point. It was vital that thetonthrew their money at it, too. With financial investment came emotional investment, and as a duke of considerable wealth and influence, Sebastian was just the duke to shame thetoninto financing their entertainments.
If they wanted the pleasure of the arts, they must invest in them. He saw this as his duty, obligation, and life’s work.
And if he sometimes grew weary of all the duty and obligation he’d carried with him since the moment of his birth—his father had perished in a boating accident a month before he was born—he kept it to himself. For he understood his place of entitlement. The price for the privileged life he led was small.
The simple fact was he’d shouldered responsibility from the day he was born, and he didn’t mind those responsibilities. He was good at being a duke—helikedbeing a duke.
But after Cambridge, he’d taken a long look at his life and the lives of the aristocratic men around him and noticed something. His interest in the arts afforded him a view of life beyond his title. A life that provided spaces where he could flirt with freedom and taste a life altogether different from his. The sort of life he could never immerse himself fully within, but those with the talent, will, and drive could. Each partnership was as unique as each artist. An opera singer would have a different set of goals from a sculptor or a composer from a poet.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he said on a shallow bow, “I must ensure the champagne flows until dawn.”
He knew it would, of course, but he’d found that particular excuse to be the most effective. The champagne must flow in an endless stream. And the crapulence and aching heads on the morrow… Well, that was better left to tomorrow.
His mission complete, he pointed his feet in the direction of his study, where he kept a careful log of all the promised—and fulfilled—donations. He had a few to jot down from tonight, and he couldn’t very well have his private secretary following him around at parties and transcribing every pledge. That would spoil the illusion a bit.
“Ah, if it isn’t His Grace himself,” came a broad, brandy-soaked voice that veered a mile wide of aristocratic.
Sebastian schooled his features before turning. “Mr. Shaw, how good of you to attend our little soirée.”
Mr. Shaw was a manufacturer of steam engines who was looking to use his recently acquired wealth to gain a foothold in Society and perhaps a title along the way, either through service to the Crown—the hard way—or through a daughter’s marriage—the more achievable way. There was always a down-on-his-luck young buck looking to recover the family’s fortunes through a marriage to an heiress.
And Sebastian was more than willing to aid this endeavor for a littlequid pro quo. For the fact was he didn’t give two tosses about titles, though he wouldn’t confess as much to a soul in this increasingly sweat-soaked ballroom. These particular souls’ primary concern was of title and status. It would be insulting to their view of the world if he scoffed that it was all silly vanity and pretense. So, he also courted men like Shaw—those with first-generation wealth. They were usually the most eager to give to his causes, anyway.
