Page 4 of Lavender’s Lost Duke

The problem was, Lord Chilcott had a silver tongue. He wound up trouble easier than the Prince Regent spent money. Thomas was certain that whatever dirty business Lord Chilcott was stirring up, he would hear about it sooner than later. He took the steps up to his London townhouse two at a time and tripped on the last one right into the arms of his faithful butler, Alby, who let him in and divested him of his hat and gloves.

“How was White’s today, Your Grace?” Alby asked with a bow.

Thomas watched as a maid disappeared around the corner with a footman and a poorly concealed giggle. Thomas decided not to comment on the familiarity between the two servants. Laughter was good, healthy. As was a romantic attachment at their ages. In fact, he felt a stab of jealousy for them.

That was ridiculous. They were servants, and he had everything.

Thomas took a deep breath and looked back at his more subdued and elderly butler. “Almost much the same as it usually is. Ought it to have been different?”

Mr. Alby’s usually cheery eyes were far more concerned over Thomas’s answer than they typically were. He knew something. Thomas could feel it. He might even be able to sort it out if his head wasn’t spinning. Definitely one drink too many.

Mr. Alby tipped his head back and forth as if unsure how to answer.

Thomas motioned to the corridor just off the entryway; they passed an incredibly large painting of the seaside as he turned into his personal study. “Sit,” Thomas instructed his butler.

The elderly man remained standing. “You know I won’t, Your Grace.”

Thomas smiled a little. “What good is it being a duke if even your own servants don’t do your bidding?”

“It must be a cross to bear,” Mr. Alby answered drily, but with a hint of a smile.

There it was again, that jealous stab into Thomas’s chest. Mr. Alby had to be seventy, employed by the family for as long as Thomas could recall, with hardly ever a day off and ghastly hours when it came to Thomas’s schedule. There was nothing to envy in the man—but it was there, gnawing at his chest like a hungry animal. Was there a secret to happiness in being a servant that Thomas didn’t understand?

“Well, you’d best close the door. I’d like to hear it all if you would.” If Mr. Alby was to remain standing, so would Thomas.

Mr. Alby obeyed the directive and stood with his hands clasped behind his back, as if he were dictating the menu for the evening meal. “There have been whisperings, Your Grace.”

Thomas nodded, expecting this. “And what do the whispers say?”

“They say there is reason to believe you were involved in hiding French spies in the war. Treason, Your Grace.”

Treason? He held a hand to his head, willing Mr. Alby’s form to come into focus. Surely he hadn’t heard him correctly. “Someone suggested I hid French spies?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“An act of treason?”

“Indeed, Your Grace.”

Thomas’s jaw went slack. There was always something people talked about. Thomas was a duke after all, and there weren’t many of them. But ever since the Duke of Gilfordshire had married, more of the talk tended to circulate Thomas’s direction. Was getting married what it took to become uninteresting? Thomas didn’t know, and he wasn’t willing to test his theory. But treason? Really? The Monteclare family had been loyal to the crown for hundreds of years. Awarded a dukedom for that precise reason.

The accusation was beyond ridiculous. He sat down in the leather chair that had seated two dukes before him and laced his fingers together atop his desk. “Tell me everything you know.”

Mr. Alby outlined the information he’d heard in great detail—which made Thomas’s brain hurt all the more. Apparently the housekeeper had heard from the seamstress, who had heard the owner of the millinery, that there was a group of gentlemen preparing to take a case before the Justice of the Peace . . . or something along those lines. Most people who heard the news acted with great surprise—as they should—it was false to the bones of it.

Thomas looked Mr. Alby right in the eyes, which was a hard thing to do with a servant; they always tended to bow and shy away from interacting with him. “Who started it?”

“The general consensus is that the case is being headed by your cousin, Lord Chilcott, Your Grace.”

The air whooshed out of Thomas’s lungs. It was just as he’d thought. The baron could convince a fish it was a bird if he wanted to. All he needed were a few people without the energy to think for themselves, and he had a following. Thomas pinched the bridge of his nose. “You are dismissed, Mr. Alby. Thank you.”

Once the butler had closed Thomas in his office, Thomas rested his head in his hands. It was all well and good to spar with one another in parliament, or to steal a dance from one another at a ball. Annoying, certainly, but fair. This level of competition was clearly getting out of hand.

The memory of Thomas’s uncle raised its head like an ugly gargoyle. The feeling of betrayal and manipulation by his own family and a most trusted servant still had hooks in his soul. But the experience had made Thomas wiser, more cunning, and less trusting. He’d erected firm walls between himself and his uncle, and that included severing one of Thomas’s greatest friendships with his cousin, Ron. Now that the nefarious uncle had passed on, Ronald had come into his title as the current Lord Chilcott. The past still sat between them as thickly as the River Thames, and stunk just as badly, too.

He reached for the decanter of brandy he kept in his bottom drawer but stopped himself. He needed to clear his head, not make it even worse. Actually, what he really needed was for Lord Chilcott to be provided with someone else to pester.

Thomas deserved a break from his cousin’s machinations. He grabbed again at the decanter and took a small swig of the brandy despite knowing it wouldn’t help.