“I don’t care. Pour me a brandy.” Perhaps it had been his cousin,Violet, though if it had been, she would have marched into his bedroom with absolutely no reservations at waking him.
Timmons placed a tray on the table beside Alexander with a twist of paper atop and proceeded directly to the sideboard. He poured out a snifter of brandy and carefully set it beside the headache powder.
“Timmons, what is wrong with you?” Alexander scoffed. “That’s barely a thimbleful. Hardly enough to wet my tongue.”
“Apologies, Your Grace.” The butler returned to the sideboard and filled the snifter to the very top before returning it to Alexander.
He swallowed the headache powder, took several large gulps of brandy, and closed his eyes, waiting for the pounding in his temples to ease.
“Your Grace,” Timmons said once more. “Your callers—”
“Not so loudly, Timmons. Oakhurst was in rare form last evening. I don’t even recall the carriage ride home. I assume Stone put me to bed?” It wasn’t the first time his valet had done so, nor would it be the last. “I seem to recall Lady Maxell. Did she come inside?”
Before Timmons could answer, the voice of Lord Damon Viceroy thundered down the hall in the direction of the drawing room.
“Where is he? Where is Timmons?”
The butler paled.
Alexander cast one bleary eye at Timmons. “Tell Uncle Damon we can speak later,” he ordered. “I’m recovering.”
“I think not, nephew,” his uncle growled from the drawing room door. “We will speak now.”
“Not so loud, I beg you.” Alexander pressed a hand to his aching temple.
“Timmons, please ask Lord Canterbell to give me a moment with the duke before he comes storming in,” Damon snapped.
“Yes, my lord.” Timmons scurried out, shutting the door behind him.
The appearance of his uncle was usually a welcome occurrence,given the closeness of their relationship, but not when his head felt as if it were splitting open. “Good morning, uncle.” Alexander attempted to sit straighter. Damon was obviously put out about something. Probably either Violet or Rose, Alexander mused. His cousins liked to cause their father no end of grief.
“What have you done, you imbecile?” Damon stomped to the sideboard. “And it is two o’clock in the afternoon.”
“I had a lengthy evening.” Alexander rubbed one eye. “I don’t think that cause to insult me.”
Damon glared at him, glancing at the still closed door of the drawing room. “I’m here about your evening, as it happens.”
“Fine. I lost a large sum at Binson’s but it isn’t as if I can’t afford to. And in my defense, Lady Hastings kept leaning over the hazard table as I threw the dice and her gown was exquisite and showed a great deal of bosom. She distracted me.” Alexander chuckled. “I imagine that is why Freeman was banging on the door at an ungodly hour. Not Lady Hastings, but the rather large marker at Binson’s.”
Alexander was fairly certain he’d tupped Lady Hastings against the wall of the gambling hell. Discreetly, of course. But matters were somewhat blurry.
His uncle poured out a snifter of brandy. Drained it, then poured another. “Freeman is in Sussex at the moment. On business.” The chiseled features, so like Alexander’s own save for the eyes which were so dark they resembled onyx, hardened.
“Goodness.” Alexander managed to keep himself upright. “You are in an incredibly foul mood. Did someone compromise Violet?”
Violet was bound to be ruined at some point. She sometimes accompanied Alexander to Binson’s wearing a mask and a wig. If Damon ever found out, he’d marry Violet off to that dull earl who kept sniffing about her skirts. Rose wasn’t much better, just more discreet. Alexander adored them both.
“No, Violet didn’t ruin herself,” Damon ground out. “But someonehas been ruined.” Icy cold rage twisted his features as his gaze settled on Alexander. “After all my cautionary tales. Knowing how your father was trapped by your mother in much the same manner. Yet you still—” He cursed softly under his breath.
“What? I’m not sure—”
“Only widows. Courtesans. Barmaids.Trollops,” Damon returned. “No one of importance. No virginal young ladies or you’d end up—well, now I must reconsider…” The words trailed off as Damon paced across the rug, looking at the closed drawing room door. “Matters.”
“What is it you think I’ve done?” His head throbbed and Damon’s pacing was making him dizzy. “And what matters?”
“I can’t fix this, Alexander.” Damon shook his head. “At least not immediately. You weren’t even discreet. Good lord, of all the cliches, taking liberties with a young lady in the gardens during a ball,” he snarled. “A bloody ball. And now Canterbell—”
“Canterbell? You mean the chap in Parliament you’re always attempting to curry favor with?” Damon was deeply involved in politics. His ambitions were no great secret to Alexander or his daughters. Prime Minister, probably. Or a minister of some sort.
