“I thought it was Phin when my butler told me a friend was here,” Jack grumbled. “I need him.”
George forced a smile. “Phineas is likely busy with his new mistress.”
“Ah, yes.” Jack examined him carefully. “You’ve heard. And you’re . . . what? Here because you’re angry?”
“I’m relieved. About that.”
“Good. I’m glad there won’t be any duels between my friends. Please. Sit.” Jack tucked the letters under a pillow.
George shook his head as he drew up a chair to the bedside. “Phineas does not know the hole he has dug himself with Lady Starling.”
“Ah. Well, he’ll find out, won’t he? I love the man, but it would serve him right. Some just desserts for the rogue.”
“I don’t know as many entertaining stories as the Earl of Burchester, but surely I can fill in for Phin in a pinch. Did you need me to procure you some whisky?”
Jack grimaced. “Believe it or not, George, my boy, I am off spirits while I’m off my leg. Doctor’s orders.”
Jack MacNaughton was acting very strangely. Doing what a doctor told him to do. Reading books. Not imbibing. No sign of a current mistress. Except those letters he just had hidden away like they were secret directives from the Crown. They must be from that woman he had met up in Scotland.
“What do you need Phin for?”
Jack rubbed his unshaven chin. “I need him to write a letter for me.”
“Ah.” George didn’t understand. There was nothing wrong with Jack’s hands. Why couldn’t he write his own letter? But Jack seemed disinclined to explain.
“So if you see the rascal out in the world, tell him to come see me. Immediately.”
“Yes.”
“What’s wrong, George?”
“Wrong?”
“First, it’s Thursday evening. You visit me in my sickbed on Friday mornings. Always on Friday mornings. When I broke my ankle in April, I replaced your weekly visit to the British Museum in your calendar. Second, you’re not wearing your wig, thank God. And third, you look fucking miserable.”
“I’ve made a mess of things.”
Jack sighed. “You can’t have made a worse mess than I have. Tell me.”
“I want to marry Lady Phoebe Finch.”
“But that’s nothing new. Or is it?”
George groaned. Yet again, someone saying he and Phoebe must have had an understanding for ages. “It is new. Just a few days now.”
“And the problem is?”
“She’s engaged to the Duke of Thornwick.”
“An arsehole.”
“Yes, I’m glad to hear you say that. Yes.” George had been right to come to Jack. This was the encouragement he needed.
Jack ran a hand through his too long blond-brown hair. “Have you ever noticed the man won’t acknowledge you or speak until you say something first? Makes dukes look bad. Such conceit. He’s insufferable. ”
George nodded vigorously, unable to speak, choked with emotion. Jack understood. Thornwick was despicable, and he, George Danforth, was not.
Jack felt his whiskered chin. “So you’ll have to get her to break off the engagement.”
