A jolly laugh burst forth from the man as he pointedly glanced about the ballroom that sparkled to the rhythms of string quartet and bursts of laughter. “Quite alittleparty you throw, Ravensworth.”
Sebastian enjoyed the company of men such as Shaw. Plain spoken, yet ever with an air of levity. One could relax in the company of such a man. Still, Sebastian suspected a core of steel within Shaw and intuited his business rivals might feel less at ease in his presence.
A canny glint entered Shaw’s eye. Sebastian knew that glint. “And all arranged without the assistance of a wife?” asked Shaw.
And there it was.
Sebastian knew he was viewed as a somewhat unusual duke. A bachelor duke. A guest list was usually the purview of a wife, and he didn’t have one of those—not even the twinkling of one in his eye.
“Or perhaps there’s a duchess on the horizon?” continued Shaw, perhaps emboldened by Sebastian’s silence.
The image of a woman—tall and willowy with short blonde curls and glacial azure eyes that mostly twinkled with mischief, except when they landed on him and shifted to barely suppressed fury—flashed across his mind.
He blinked the image away and dismissed it, as usual.
Though most didn’t ask the question with such affable bluntness, it was a question to which Sebastian was accustomed, even when asked in subtler ways. Which made it a question he knew how to evade effectively with a self-effacing smile and shake of the head that told no one anything.
But just as Sebastian had been a man on a mission earlier, so too, was Shaw tonight. He had three daughters of marriageable age—and Sebastian wouldn’t be marrying any of them. Which wasn’t a conversation he was keen on having with this man tonight—or ever. Still, he could appreciate the ambition, though sorely misplaced.
So, he decided it expedient to speak the language Shaw understood best. The plain sort. “I can expect delivery of your pledge by…?”
Shaw snorted. “My man will have it to you by day’s end tomorrow.” The man’s eyes narrowed. “And I can expect the invitation to your fancy London ball for myself and my family by…?”
A half smile tipped about Sebastian’s mouth. Now they were back on solidquid pro quoground. “Day’s end tomorrow.”
Every year, he held a ball on the equinox to herald the end of summer and the arrival of autumn. This year it was to be held on the twenty-third of September, only six or so weeks from now. It was one of the most exclusive invitations in theton’s social calendar. And since Mr. Shaw had promised £2,000 to the funding of the arts building, the man had acquired for himself and his family one of those exclusive invitations. Sebastian reckoned favorable odds that at least one of the daughters would find herself a titled husband on that night.
The men gave each other a nod of mutual understanding, and Sebastian excused himself. Again, his feet pointed toward his study, but this time they reached their destination.
A few minutes later, Sebastian was inside and twisting the key in the door lock. He’d learned over the years that if he entered an empty room at a soirée alone, someone was always bound to follow—be it a gentleman who saw his opportunity for a private word with a duke or a lady who wanted privacy of a different variety.
Sure enough, the handle rattled.
He released a snort and made straight for the brandy cart. He didn’t imbibe spirits when mingling at these soirées. They were a sort of work. As his guests turned a little fuzzy about the edges, he stayed sharp. He often thought he could’ve been a top-notch swindler had he been born beneath a different moon and circumstances. But he wasn’t a fleecer of the aristocracy; simply a determined patron of the arts, which benefited society as a whole.
He took his brandy onto the private terrace that could only be accessed through the study and stared into the garden lit by a hundred flickering, candlelit globes. At last, he allowed a feeling of accomplishment release. He’d secured £3,000 pounds tonight. He counted it as a success for a house party thrown in the wilds of Lincolnshire.
A feminine voice reached him from below. “Jem, tomorrow’s the Albion Players’ final night. I heard they got a strong man with ’em this year.”
Sebastian poked his head over the stone balustrade to find two servants on the lawn. He shifted back far enough so they wouldn’t notice him. The servants deserved to enjoy a stroll in an enchanted night garden, too, without a duke spoiling their good time.
“Elsie, ye know I like a strong man,” said Jem. “I’ll see if Old Sam will take me place in the stables tomorrow night.”
Elsie flashed a dimpled smile at Jem, whose shoulders relaxed in an instant. “Meet me at eight in the village square and don’t be late,” she tossed over her shoulder. “I have to get back to that Mrs. Montague. She spilled wine on her new white silk gown, and she’s in a right flutter about it. Red wine and a white gown…” Her eyes rolled toward the heavens.
“Nobs,” Jem scoffed, dismissive, even as he turned in the opposite direction, presumably returning to his own duties for the night.
Reading between the lines of Jem and Elsie’s conversation, Sebastian understood there was a traveling theater company in the area. The village square, to be exact. How long had it been since he’d attended a pantomime?
Years.
He decided in an instant that tomorrow night’s show would have an additional audience member. Of course, he wouldn’t go as himself, but dressed down. He still had clothes from when he, Archie, and Rory would hit the East End incognito. In certain circumstances, it was better that an aristo didn’t flaunt his social status.
A frisson of excitement traced through him. The fact was as much as he enjoyed the high arts, he enjoyed the low variety equally well. Each occupied a rightful place in society. Traveling companies were lively and fun and, truly, when was the last time he’d done something purely for the fun of it? The trip to Italy with Archie and his sisters?
He shook his head. Those wild Windermeres. What adventure weren’t they equal to?
The truth was he missed his friends. Amelia and her duke were loved up in London, relentlessly producing one babe after another. Archie and Valentina were presently en route home from the Continent, at last. Rory and Juliet had taken to running a farm in Scotland and spouting poetry at any animal within listening distance. And Delilah… She’d up and bolted to Switzerland, of all places.
