“He certainly has. The new Duke of Westmond shall be a force to be reckoned with, I declare,” his uncle said with a certainty in his voice that made Christopher break into a grin.
“I shall hope so.”
While the older men continued their conversation, Christopher felt himself momentarily distracted by activity at the other end of the room. He glanced over and saw two younger men squabbling.
“I was counting on you,” the taller fellow said. He was broad shouldered and had dark hair which hung down just past his chin. He was glowering at another man, shorter and with shaggy-blond hair. The taller man was presently jabbing his index finger into the shorter man’s chest, clearly displeased about something.
He appeared to notice Christopher’s glance for he turned his head and tilted his head.
“What?” he barked, his voice deep and full of anger.
Christopher raised both his hands and shook his head, looking away.
“That’s Lord Thornmouth,” his uncle explained. “Don’t mind him. He’s in a bit of a mood. He’d been trying to get the Lord High Chancellor to do something about unemployment out in Cambridgeshire and his pleas have fallen on deaf ears. Not something he’s used to.”
“He’s used to getting his way, Thornmouth is, eh, wot?” the Baron said, nodding toward the young man.
“Who is the other man?” Christopher asked, glancing back. The quarrel between the two men appeared to have slowed somewhat and they were now standing and talking with their voices lowered.
“Lord Lounds, Viscount from Cambridgeshire, like Thornmouth. He was to back him up but then changed his mind.”
Christopher licked his lips. It appeared this young man, who could not possibly be much older than him, was a rising star in the House of Lords. He scratched his chin and made a note of the name. Perhaps he could find a way to make his acquaintance. These were exactly the kind of people he needed to know to rise among the peerage once more.
Christopher bided his time and engaged in small talk with his uncle’s friends, having determined that the elderly Viscount and the even older Baron were most certainly not going to be among those who would help him restore the Dukedom of Westmond to its former glory. No. If he wanted to reclaim what was once his, he’d have to find another way. He glanced behind him to where the young Lord Thornmouth and his companion were just departing. He pursed his lips, deep in thought.
* * *
After what seemed an eternity, his uncle declared himself tired and in need of a rest, giving Christopher the chance to excuse himself and make his way toward his carriage. He was due to meet with his brother, Henry, for supper and his stomach was already grumbling.
“Home, My Lord?” the coachman asked as he opened the door. Climbing inside, Christopher felt a tug in his heart.
“To my uncle’s home. Yes, Thorpe,” he replied and sat leaned against the cushioned backrest. They no longer owned a home in the city. Their beautiful home in London, Havisham House, was among the properties that had been sold in order to pay off the enormous debt his father had left behind. Due to his illness and the shady business of his estate steward, Christopher had spent the first few months of his Dukedom trying to right the sinking ship. He was on the right path. Alas, some of the actions that had to be taken had been painful. The sale of Havisham House among them.
He’d loved the London house. Located in Westminster it overlooked St. James’s Park and featured one of the largest ballrooms in the entire city. His mother had loved hosting balls there when he was still a young child, long before consumption had taken her.
I shall get it back. I shall. It is one of the first things I will do.
These days, whenever they were in London, they stayed with his uncle at his modest Mayfair home.
He glanced outside at the streets which were lit by newly installed streetlights. Few people were about at this hour. He leaned his head against the window and watched as the houses passed, letting his thoughts wander. Even though he was not a keen rider, he always found the sound of trotting horses soothing, and tonight was no difference.
The carriage was just making its way past Green Park and turned onto Half Moon Street when Christopher spotted a commotion up ahead. In the dim light of the street, he saw two masked men dragging a third off his horse. He squinted and recognized that the man being pulled of his horse was a messenger.
“Thorpe, stop the carriage!”
The vehicle came to a stop and Christopher jumped out, rushing toward the men.
“Stop, you rogues.” The two men briefly looked up and then one rose to his full height, which was still somewhat shorter than Christopher who’d inherited his father’s tall statue.
“Walk away, Me Lord. This don’t concern ya at all.”
Christopher glanced down at the messenger whose nose was already bleeding and whose expression was one of fear.
“Please, My Lord. Help,” the man begged.
“I order the two of you walk away and leave the man be.”
“Do you order that now?” the masked man asked. “And on whose authority?”
