“Then I am not giving up either. We will find a solution. And I will see you here tonight.”
They met the next night and the next, and each night he came away feeling less alone and more as though he were part of a team. He’d been part of a fighting team, so he knew what that felt like. But he had never been part of any other team. He’d never really had any friends growing up. He rather liked the feeling of having an ally and a confidante, of feeling like he was part of something, not the one looking on. At the same time, he knew it could not last. He knew she would grow tired of wanting to help him, tired of tedious legal documents, tired of not sleeping. Then he would be alone again. He had to guard his heart against that possibility.
On the third night, the cold, dreary weather turned rainy and the duchess refused to attend a scheduled dinner party in Richmond. “The drive is too long and the weather too foreboding,” she said. “My head has been aching since I rose this morning, and I have no doubt I will suffer a megrim by this afternoon. Dreadful weather. I fear summer may elude us completely this year.”
The family had been in the drawing room, Ewan standing by a window, watching people huddle under useless umbrellas in the deluge.
“Shall Papa and I go alone then?” Lady Lorraine had asked. And then almost as though she had sensed his gaze on her, she added, “And Mr. Mostyn, of course.”
The duke shook his head. “Your mother is right. This is no sort of weather for a drive to Richmond. We will send our regrets. We could all use a night in. But I must insist we all stay in,” he said, looking pointedly at his wife. The duke, like the rest of the ton, must have heard the rumors that the duchess had taken a new lover. Lorrie had noticed she wore a new diamond and emerald ring, said to be a token of love from her paramour.
But the duchess waved a hand and settled into her chair, looking quite content to stay in. “Bellweather,” she said to the butler standing near the door. “Tell Cook I shall have a small meal in my room at dinner.”
“I’ll join you,” the duke said. Lorrie glanced at her mother, but to her surprise, the duchess didn’t argue.
“Yes, Your Grace. Two for dinner, then?” the butler asked.
The duke looked at Ewan. “Do you plan to dine here tonight, Mr. Mostyn?”
Ewan didn’t mind the duke, but he detested the effort it took to maintain unimportant conversations through several courses. “No.”
Lady Lorraine sighed, and Ewan wondered if she was pleased he would be away or whether she would miss him.
And why the devil did he care? She would be tucked in at home all night. He could dine at the Draven Club and sleep in his own bed at Langley’s. They both needed a break from all the financial papers and account books tonight at any rate. They could come at it again with fresh eyes the next night.
He would not miss ledgers or letters or the survey reports on the flora and fauna of South America his father’s investigator, apparently an amateur explorer, had compiled. He would not miss her.
And as though to prove it to himself, Ewan made a point of ignoring Lady Lorraine for the next hour and taking only the briefest leave of her when he set out in a light drizzle for the Draven Club.
The dining room was empty. Ewan didn’t mind. He was relieved at the quiet and the solitude. For once he could spend an evening without Lady Lorraine prattling on.
Porter came to offer him refreshment, and Ewan asked for wine and whatever the cook had prepared.
“Very good, sir. Mr. Wraxall and Mr. Beaumont are in the reading room.”
Ewan hadn’t come to the club for company, and he intended to eat alone and then find a quiet corner to be alone. But after an hour of brooding, he had checked the clock on the mantel in the empty card room three times. He realized he was waiting for the hour to grow late enough that he might meet Lady Lorraine in the library.
Why couldn’t he put her from his mind?
Beaumont and Wraxall would make him forget. Ewan joined them in the reading room, where they were drinking port and laughing over an old war story. It was one Ewan knew well.
“And when that frog came around the corner and saw Duncan running for him like a raving lunatic, the look on his face made me laugh so hard, I almost forgot to grab him,” Neil said. He smiled as he spoke, and Ewan realized it had been months since he’d seen Neil give a genuine smile.
“And then the frog says, ‘Mon Dieu!’” Beaumont said, raising his voice and affecting a French accent. “And Duncan says—”
Ewan stepped forward. “I’m no god. I’m the devil who will send you to hell.”
Neil and Rafe turned to look at him, Rafe frowning at having his thunder stolen.
“Give over.” Ewan sat at their table. “You’ve told that story a hundred times.”
“Because I tell it well,” Rafe argued, while Neil poured Ewan a glass of port he didn’t particularly want. “You have to do the accents—the frog’s French and Duncan’s Scots brogue.”
“And the accents make it more amusing? I notice you never tell the part about how that frog died.”
The other two men’s smiles faded. They must have remembered that Ewan had run him through with his own bayonet, a boy too young to grow a beard.
“You’re right,” Neil said, putting a hand on Ewan’s shoulder. “That story has grown stale.” He lifted his glass and gestured with it. “I still say Beaumont should have gone into the theater.”
“And make my father even prouder?”
Even Ewan had to smile at the quip. Beaumont’s parent, the Earl of Haddington, was not averse to making his disappointment in his son known.
“What brings you here?” Neil asked Ewan. “No balls tonight? No operas?”
“Dinner party in Richmond, but the duchess did not want to brave the weather.”
“She’s wiser than her choice of bed partners would lead one to believe,” Beaumont said. “Viscount Worthington? The man is nothing short of a lecher.”
“Unlike you, a pillar of morality,” Neil said.
“I have my standards,” Rafe said, sipping his port. “Low as they may be.”
“A night off and you choose to spend it with us,” Neil said. “You must be desperate.” He had shadows beneath his eyes, and Ewan wondered when he had last had a full night’s sleep.
“I wanted a decent meal. I can’t pronounce half of what Ridlington’s French cook prepares.”
“So you are here in spite of us,” Rafe said. “I’m actually glad to see you. I heard some interesting news the other day.”
Ewan set his glass on the table. “About my cousin?”
“Hell no. ‘Interesting’ and ‘news’ do not fit in the same sentence with ‘Francis Mostyn.’ This came from a couple of Bow Street Runners.”
“I told you not to cuckold any more husbands,” Neil said.
Rafe gave his friend a bland stare. “I was dining at an establishment the Runners tend to frequent.”
“Which means he was hiding from an irate husband,” Ewan said.