“It’s foolishness, Helen. It’s the same distance to the forge as it is to the castle. We are going to the castle and, at the very least, Mags is staying there until the goddamn roof on this goddamn keep is fixed. You can do what you like.”
Luran twined around Helen’s legs and yelped. She looked down at the dog. “Stay with the sheep.” He ran off.
Helen got in the back of the cart next to Mags and put her arms around her.
Jack got up on the front seat and the cart began to move.
Helen put her mouth against Mags’ wet hair. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
Mags’ teeth were still chattering. “D-d-dinnae be sorry, my lady. I’ve always wanted to be inside Dunmore Castle. ’Tis very grand?”
“Aye. ’Tis very grand.”
“And warm?”
“Ye will be put in a warm room with a fire. And in a real bed with blankets. And ye will be given something hot to drink. Dinnae that sound good?”
“It s-s-sounds better than good. It sounds l-like ham.”
Twelve
The next day dawned warm but windy. The sky was a boundless, brilliant blue. Jack saw neither Helen nor Mags at breakfast, but he asked and was told they were eating together in Mags’ room. He called in the steward Macsomething and told him work on the shepherds’ hut in the far part of the duchy should halt today and all masons and carpenters and their supplies should be sent to the keep in Kinmarloch. The roof must be fixed. He would come himself later in the morning to survey the damage.
Then there was the arrival of the post for the first time since Jack had come to Dunmore. Had he really only been here a week? He opened a letter from London addressed to Captain Jack Pike, dated ten days after he had left London. It was from Phineas Edge, the Earl of Burchester.
Jack:
Reliable sources (id est, her lady’s maid) say the Duchess of Dunmore’s courses have come. You are the duke. Bring your well-favored self back down to London, Your Grace. The debutantes are not rioting yet, but they are close. It makes us lesser men shiver in fear and long for your return so you will make your choice and leave the rest of the field amenable to our more unwanted attentions.
Lady Olivia Radcliffe, the daughter of the Earl of Titchfield, is newly out and, oh, Jack, what gorgeous children the two of you will have. Her beauty is unmatched. Even by yours. But you’ll have some work to do, warming her up. Brrrr.
If you prefer something a little wilder, Miss Alice Danforth, George’s sister, is still the source of a great deal of scandal and remains unspoken for. I can see the future trouble you two rascals might wreak together. The days of polite society would be numbered.
On the other extreme, there’s her and George’s friend, the Duke of Abingdon’s daughter, Lady Phoebe Finch. She has a healthy pair of bosoms and good child-bearing hips. She’s the nicest of girls, but I know you could bring out her naughty side. If you can get past George, that is.
Bad news on the heiress front. The youngest Lovelock daughter, the only one left unmarried, is apparently off to travel with her sister and her sister’s husband, the Viscountess and Viscount Tregaron, for the unforeseen future. One has to wonder if it might be to hide something? About her? From her? Well, at seventeen, she was too young for you anyway, I think. And you don’t need her money.
However, the ginger temptress Lady Ellen Stafford shows promise, and if I’m not wrong in my guess about what lies under her skirts, she has legs of glory. It would be something to be the man who gets to nestle down between those thighs and taste the quim framed by the maidenhair which matches the hair on her head.
And if you prefer a woman with experience in handling old codgers, which is what you are now, Lady Lutton, the widow of the Earl of Lutton, has been at several balls. Oh, what a delectable, plump piece of flesh she is. Achingly sweet. Which is surprising, considering what a curmudgeon her first husband was.
Six of the seven Cavendish daughters are in town. There is word their father, old Middlewich, is ill, but they are determined to have a Season. The eldest, Lady Anne, is getting a little long in the tooth and a little desperate, they say. Her tongue is sharp, I know, but one wonders what it might feel like against one’s cock, eh?
Anyway, I am sure each of the ladies above—and dozens more—would be ecstatic to have you compromise her as long as you also slip a ring on her finger. But you must be here in London to do that.
Unless, of course, you have already compromised some clan chieftain’s daughter with breasts akin to Ben Nevis in size, a heart as warm as a glass of whisky, who looks on you with adoration and whispers in her lovely burr, “Och, Jack, I’d do anything to get yer caber up me.”
Ha!
Oh, the Duke of Thornwick is looking around for a wife, too. He hasn’t got a patch on you, in my opinion, and he certainly doesn’t have your devilish charm or your legendary status in the bedchamber, but I am told the ladies think he is comely. You have some competition, you see, so don’t dawdle.
All of London awaits you, John MacNaughton, Duke of Dunmore. Come home.
Yr. Friend,
Phineas Edge,
Earl of Burchester.
