Calenham laughed again. “Come, have a drink with me.”
After a moment’s pause, Theo inclined his head. They rode the short distance to Calenham’s townhouse, where a sleepy butler welcomed them. Soon they were seated in the Marquess’ study, the fire crackling low in the grate.
Calenham poured two glasses of brandy and handed one to Theo. “To late-night rides and inconvenient women,” he toasted.
Theo lifted his glass with a brief and took a slow sip.Inconvenient? More like inescapable.
Calenham leaned back in his chair, studying him. “So, why Lady April?”
Theo shrugged. “She has what I require in a duchess.”
Calenham arched a brow. “And what might that be?”
“Strength. Spirit. Decency.”
“Not love?” Calenham asked, seeming half-mocking, half-curious.
Theo’s mouth tightened. “Love is not a foundation for anything lasting.”
It is an illusion crafted by poets and fools.
Calenham whistled low. “Cold.”
“Practical,” Theo corrected.
Calenham swirled his brandy thoughtfully. “Does August know?”
“He arranged it.”
Calenham chuckled. “Efficient.”
Their conversation turned to easier matters—shipping ventures, land leases, new investments—until the fire burned low and the brandy ran warm in their veins.
At last, Theo rose, setting his empty glass on the side table.
“Thank you for the drink.”
Calenham stood as well, clapping him lightly on the shoulder. “Thank you for the entertainment.”
Theo offered a brief nod, cloaking himself once more in distance, and disappeared into the misty streets of London.
“April!” May’s voice carried up the staircase just as April descended. “You are positively everywhere this morning.”
April paused, one hand on the polished banister. “Everywhere?”
June appeared behind May, a mischievous glint in her eye, and brandished a folded gossip sheet.
“You might wish to see this,” June said, thrusting it into April’s hands.
April unfolded the paper, her gaze narrowing as she read:
The ever-mysterious Duke of Stone, that elusive prize of the ton, has at last chosen his duchess—none other than Lady April Vestiere, one of Wildmoore’s brightest flowers. It is said the gallant but ill-fated Baron Wexley never stood a chance, for when the Duke sets his mind on something—or someone—he always gets what he wants.
Always gets what he wants?April frowned, her heart giving an uncomfortable jolt. She handed the paper back to June. “Where is Mama? Has she seen this yet?”
“Not yet,” May whispered. “But she will.”
“How did Wexley know?” June asked. “Did the Duke tell him?”
