“Yes,” Edmund said.
“Well.” Jack wiped his mouth. “I hated Norman, but I never wished him dead.”
Phineas studied Jack over the top of his whisky glass. “Even though you would have been well within your rights to.”
“Well, yes. But wishing him dead would mean I had to become the duke and I was rather hoping to avoid that.” Jack laughed and he knew the laugh was a bitter one.
“Yes.” Phineas was about to say something else, but he clamped his mouth closed.
Edmund raised his glass. “Welcome to the peerage, Jack Pike.”
George raised his forefinger, as if to lodge an objection. “MacNaughton.”
“Indeed,” said Phineas. “You won’t be Jack Pike anymore, will you? You’ll be Jack MacNaughton. Or John MacNaughton. You’ll have to revert to your father’s name.”
Jack’s own father, a worthless drunk, had died when he was five, and his mother had quickly married Sir Oswald Pike. Jack had chosen to take his stepfather’s name years ago. His commission had been paid for by his stepfather under that same name. But as the ninth Duke of Dunmore, he’d have to go back to being a MacNaughton. The Duke of Dunmore had been a MacNaughton for as long as the title had been in existence.
“But I suppose most of us will just call you Dunmore.” Phineas poured more whisky into Jack’s glass.
Jack attempted a smile. “Well, call me Your Grace, and it won’t be that much of a hardship for you to remember.” Suddenly, he was struck by a possible way of escaping his fate. “Wait, we’re forgetting. I am not necessarily the duke.”
“Why do you say that?”
George answered for Jack. “The Duchess of Dunmore could still bear a son.”
Phineas frowned and looked at Jack. “Have you heard rumors Elizabeth is with child?”
Jack turned away, grinding his teeth. “I think I would be the last man in the world to hear any rumors about that woman.”
“Yes, everyone keeps their mouths shut about Her Grace around you, don’t they? But people have no reason not to talk in front of Phineas Edge. And I can tell you I have heard no gossip in that direction. Although I have heard she has a new lover—”
“I would remind you that my friends keep their mouths shut about the Duchess of Dunmore around me because I promised that anyone who mentioned her would get a blade in his neck.”
“Calm down, Jack. I won’t say anything else about Elizabeth, all right?”
Jack put his third whisky to his lips and felt the glass knock against his teeth. He was trembling.
Elizabeth. He didn’t like to think of his cousin’s wife—now his widow—as Elizabeth. If Jack had to think of her, much better to think of her as a heartless, betraying trull. Because she was one.
He tossed the whisky back. The burn in the back of his throat did nothing to ease the peculiar ache in his chest.
“Dunmore,” he mumbled. “Where is it, do you know?”
“Scotland.” Phineas raised his eyebrows. “Hence, I thought the whisky was fitting, Jack.”
“Blast. I know it’s in Scotland. But where?”
“It’s your duchy, Jack. Not mine.”
“The Highlands.” George was thoughtful, lying back in his chair, his forgotten book hugged to his chest, one finger still holding his place. “Beautiful scenery, I hear. Brutish people.”
“I suppose I’ll have to go up and have a look at it.”
Edmund grunted. “You should go as Jack Pike, not John MacNaughton. Get the lie of the land. Find out all the secrets. I wish I could do that with Sudbury.”
Jack shivered. “Scotland. In March. I would be a glutton for punishment.”
“Gluttony is not the sin I would ascribe to you, Jack,” Phineas teased.
