“Yes, Harlowe. Care to explain what that was about?” Clayton added, arching a brow.
Phillip rubbed his forehead. He could not avoid giving his friends an explanation. It surprised him that Thea had taken this long to ask, actually. Directly after the incident, both Lord and Lady Clayton had kept smiles plastered on their faces, too. Phillip didn’t have to explain to his friends that the best way to draw the least attention to the matter was to act as if it was nothing. Awkward though it might be.
Phillip sighed and spoke under his breath so only Clayton and Thea could hear. “That was Miss Sophia Payton, and if she had slapped me, I would have deserved it.”
“Ah, that was Sophie,” Thea replied knowingly. “I might have guessed.”
Phillip didn’t hear more of his friends’ replies. A man bumped into him. Too close. The room began to spin. Phillip glanced up to see the glaring chandeliers and then down at the floor to see the scores of shoes and slippers all around him. For the second time that night, sweat beaded on his brow. The room closed in on him.
Thea touched his sleeve again, pulling him back into the moment. Breathe in. Breathe out. He forced himself to concentrate on each second. Three. Two. One.
Just as Phillip had gained control again, a middle-aged man dressed entirely in dark brown broke away from the crowd and came striding up to them. The man wiped his forehead with a cream-colored handkerchief and stared at Phillip with an obvious mixture of shock and horror. Phillip pressed his lips together. He supposed he must become accustomed to such stares.
Clayton bowed to the man. “Good evening, Lord Vining. May I introduce you to the Duke of Harlowe?”
Vining promptly bowed to Phillip.
“Your Grace,” Clayton continued. “May I present Viscount Vining?”
Phillip nodded to Vining. Clayton knew everyone. The man was the consummate politician. Meanwhile, Phillip had no memory of Lord Vining.
“You’re…you’re Phillip Grayson?” Lord Vining said as he continued to dab at his wet forehead with the handkerchief. It was spoken as a question, but Phillip instinctively realized the man already knew who he was.
“I am,” Phillip replied, studying the man’s red face.
“We, er, we thought you were… Well, this is quite awkward, but…” Lord Vining glanced around uneasily.
“You thought I was dead,” Phillip replied, smiling calmly at the man whose face was so mottled Phillip was beginning to worry about his health.
“Well, yes,” the man said, tugging the handkerchief tight between both hands.
Phillip nodded. “Although my enemy failed to eliminate me on the battlefield, I’m quite aware that news didn’t make it home.”
Clayton attempted to hide his smile.
Still quite ruddy, Lord Vining continued, “Are you aware that your…I suppose he would be your cousin…has claimed the title?”
“Yes.” Phillip nodded. “My first cousin, Hugh. I am well aware.”
Just then, another man materialized at Vining’s side. He put a hand on the viscount’s shoulder and patted it. “Good evening, Your Grace,” he said smoothly, bowing to Phillip. “It’s a pleasure to see you again. I daresay a great, though certainly unexpected, pleasure.” The man was tall and balding, with an obsequious smile. He bowed again. “Lord Hillsdale,” he said by way of introduction.
Phillip nodded in reply. “A pleasure, Lord Hillsdale.”
From beside him, Clayton cleared his throat and whispered to Phillip, “Hillsdale is the man in Parliament who handles matters of titles and inheritance.”
“Ah, so you’re the man responsible for handing over my title to my cousin?” Phillip asked, addressing his remark to Lord Hillsdale with a tight smile.
“Mistakes happen, Your Grace,” Hillsdale replied smoothly, taking the jibe in stride.
Phillip eyed the older man carefully. A bit of a paunch. Gray in his beard. Far too friendly. From his conversations with Malcolm over the years, Phillip knew that once one became a duke, one had all sorts of new would-be friends to choose from. Hillsdale struck him as a social climber.
“We’ll…we’ll need to… We must get this sorted,” Lord Vining injected, still red and dabbing at the underside of his wet chin.
“All in due time,” Hillsdale said, his unctuous grin widening as he addressed Phillip. “Not to worry. I’ll send a note round next week and you’ll come to Whitehall to discuss it.”
Clayton stepped forward. “Yes, well, until then, we’ll continue to refer to His Grace here as the Duke of Harlowe. I’ve known Phillip since he was a child, and I can vouch for his identity. He is the rightful duke.”
“Of course, of course,” Hillsdale replied. “We’ll get to the bottom of the matter.” He waved his hand in the air, as if dismissing the subject.
