Once again exchanging glances, the sultan and the captain both chuckled. “Isn’t that the reason they are going to London, my sultana?” Ziyaeddin asked gently.
Charlotte blinked again as she absently bounced her son on her shoulder. “Oh,” she replied softly. “I suppose it is,” she added after another moment, a watery grin replacing her look of worry.
At least Ertugrul would return. He had to. One day, he would be the sultan of the empire.
As for David, well she supposed it would depend on his plans for his future. His father’s plans for him. He was the heir to the Bostwick viscountcy, after all.
Meanwhile, at White’s men’s club, St. James Street, London
Fog following him through the glossy black door of White’s, James, Duke of Ariley, gave up his greatcoat to a footman before making his way to the back of the elegant men’s club. Given the time of year, more members were in attendance on this evening than had been for the past few months. Aristocrats were returning to London in anticipation of Parliament’s start in a fortnight.
Pausing to glance into one of the smaller, more private rooms, he nodded to several men who acknowledged him. He moved on to the next room and did a double-take upon seeing George Bennett-Jones, Viscount Bostwick, engaged in a conversation with Marcus Batey, Viscount Lancaster.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “I hope I’m not interrupting,” he added, knowing full well he was. As a duke, it was his right, of course, but he’d lived long enough not to abuse it.
“Not at all, Your Grace,” George said as he stood. “Lancaster and I were just discussing our wives’ charities,” he added.
“And speaking of wives, I won’t have one if I don’t get home before midnight,” Marcus said as he pulled his pocket watch from his waistcoat and noted the time. “It’s already past eleven.”
James chuckled. “Then you best get going. I was hoping to speak with Bostwick for a moment... although...”
Marcus’ gaze darted to George before he turned it back on the duke. “Is something wrong, Your Grace?”
“No. But... you have daughters, do you not?”
Arching a dark brow, Marcus said, “My oldest, Analise, is Countess of Middleton, and Charity gave me my second daughter, Miss Hope. Uh... we named her Faith Hope, but we call her Hope since there are so many Faiths her age,” he added.
“She must be the one,” James stated.
“Sir?” Marcus once again dared a glance at George, but the other viscount merely continued to stare at the duke.
“She’s not married, is she?” James asked.
Marcus shook his head. “She’s been courted a few times, but...” He shrugged a shoulder again. “Daughters of viscounts aren’t exactly top of the list. We’re hoping she meets someone this Season who can appreciate her boldness, or my wife has threatened to employ her matchmaking skills and marry her off to some wealthy tradesman,” he said on a huff.
“Boldness is not a trait to dismiss lightly,” the duke remarked. “Especially in the wife of an aristocrat.”
Blinking, Marcus regarded the Duke of Ariley with a questioning expression. “If only the young bucks agreed,” he finally replied. He turned and nodded in George’s direction. “I’ll bring Charity to the office in the morning,” he said, referring to his viscountess. “And I’ll see you both in Parliament,” he added before he turned to give the duke a deep nod. “Your Grace.”
“Have a good evening, and if you are in need of a witness for this evening, I’ll vouch for you with Lady Lancaster,” James offered.
Grinning, Marcus said, “Much appreciated,” before he took his leave.
James watched him go and then moved to take the chair Marcus had been using. A footman appeared with a glass of brandy, setting the drink on the table that separated the two aristocrats.
“We haven’t spoken in a long time,” George commented. He had half a mind to ask what the duke had in mind when it came to Lancaster’s daughter, Hope, but decided he would learn soon enough. With the Season beginning soon, gossip would spread through Mayfair like wildfire. “What’s happened?”
Helping himself to his brandy, James said, “Nothing, which is usually a good thing, but...” He sighed. “I find Ariley Place rather crowded these days.”
George furrowed a brow. “Oh? Did your duchess give you another heir?” He knew Helen Harrington Burroughs, Duchess of Ariley, was probably too old to bear any more children—she had to be in her sixties—but given the number of women in their forties who had done so in the past few years had him wondering if his own viscountess might beenceinte. “Or have some long lost relatives shown up on your doorstep?”
James winced. “No additional heir, but also no son-in-law and no daughter-in-law. I had hoped Waverley and Rose would both be married by now,” he complained, referring to his son William, Earl of Waverley, and his third but only legitimate daughter, Rose.
Giving a start, George regarded the older man with an incredulity. “Waverley isn’t yet thirty,” he remarked.
“True. But close enough.”
“Forgive me for asking, but has Lady Rose recovered from her accident?” George asked. “I understand from my daughter that she was quite badly injured. A broken leg, was it not?”
