“A minor annoyance. But here I am.” He sighed. “I suppose it is providential, though, for now I can be in town to squire you through your transformation.”
“My…what?”
“You know.” Wickham waved a dismissive hand in his general direction. “Turning you from a peasant into a lord.”
Dev snorted. “I am hardly a peasant.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do not. I cannot imagine a title will change anything.”
“How na?ve you are. It changes everything. The world has ignored you until now. And now, you will be the focus of all eyes in the Ton.”
“I cannot imagine why.”
“Can you not? It’s quite a story, an obscure relative inheriting—”
“I am hardly obscure—” Dev interjected with a sniff.
“Because an entire house destroys itself by virtue of…well, lack of virtue.”
His cousins had been a dissolute collection of souls.
Wickham tipped back his head and stared at the ceiling. “What? Oliver dies drunk in a curricle—”
“Under the curricle, I believe.”
“And Sampson gutted by a French whore.”
“Rumors had her as Italian.”
“And Will? What happened to him again?”
“A duel at dawn.”
“Foolish of him.”
“It was foggy.”
“But the uncle… That was the most spectacular scandal.”
“Can a scandal be truly spectacular?”
“Of course it can. Especially when the man in question is caught collaborating with the enemy and decides to put a pistol in his mouth.”
“Perhaps he was hungry.”
“At any rate, the world is watching. You will have to be on your best behavior if you are to be taken into the fold.” His best behavior? Well, he had bollixed that up quite nastily already. “We shall go for the war hero, I think.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You need an image. A war hero will have all the Grand Dames atwitter.”
“What makes you think I wish to twitterpate the Grand Dames?” Who gave a fig what those crusty watchdogs thought?
Wickham shook a finger. “Pay attention, Dev. You need to listen to me. I was raised in this world and I understand it. You need to win their approval.”
“Why?”
Wickham sighed. “Because this is your world now. You will want to have a place in it. Now…” He stood and began to pace with his hands locked behind his back. “Your appearance is critical.”
Del glanced down at his bare chest. “What on earth is wrong with my appearance?”
His friend surveyed him with a curl to his nose. “For one thing, you don’t look like a lord.”
“I don’t look like I have a rapier jammed up my ass?”
“Do be cordial. Remember, you are now one of us. Or you will be once you meet with the magistrate. The lords of the realm are now your compatriots.”
“The same little lords who tormented us both in Eton?”
“Precisely. You can hate them all you want, but you can never show it.”
Well, where was the fun in that? “I don’t think I want to be a lord after all.”
“Nonsense. It’s a wonderful life.” He ceased pacing and threw himself in the chair once more.
“And what do lords do all day?”
Wickham propped his boots on the chair across from him. He leaned back and threaded his fingers behind his head. “As little as possible, as I observe.”
“How very dull.”
“It is nothing of the sort. There are women and parties and song.”
“I don’t sing,” Dev growled, apparently to himself because Wickham pattered on.
“You’ll need to attend the House of Lords, of course, but other than that…” He shrugged.
“Women and parties and song.”
“Quite right.” Wickham tugged down his vest. “You will need to shave, of course.”
Dev glared at him. “Shave?”
“Gentlemen do not sport scruff.”
“I’m not in the least bit scruffy.”
“One begs to differ.”
“One can go to blazes.”
“I can understand why you resist these constrictions—”
“I believe reject is the word you are looking for—”
“But if you are to take your place in society, you absolutely must follow certain conventions.”
“Such as?”
“A cravat, for one.”
Dev reared back. He hated cravats.
“Proper boots.”
“My boots are perfectly serviceable.”
“Silly boy. Being a lord has nothing to do with anything serviceable. Demand the best. You deserve nothing less.”
Dev sighed. “All I want is to be left in peace.”
“And you shall be.” Wickham grinned. “After the Season.”
The sound Dev made was alarmingly close to a shriek. “Season? As in the Season?”
“Naturally.” His once-friend surveyed him with a haughty stare. “You will want to choose a bride. A biddable one would be best.”
“A bride?” He didn’t want a bride. Certainly not one of those squabs on the marriage mart. He didn’t want anyone. No one but Tildy.
And she was not biddable in the least.
The thought made him smile.
“Every good lord has a biddable wife. You need heirs.”
Dev’s heart jumped. Bloody hell. He needed heirs?
Visions of tiny children with masses of uncontrollable curls flashed through his head.