Chapter Two
“Christ, my head aches. Bring me one of those powders, Timmons. And a glass of brandy to wash it down. Oakhurst was at his most outlandish last night.”
Alexander Viceroy, Duke of Roxboro, sat back in his favorite chair with a deep sigh of satisfaction.
Feeling poorly after a night carousing with Oakhurst wasn’t unusual.
His closest friend and drinking companion was an unrepentant libertine.
Worse than even Alexander himself. But last night had been wild even for Oakhurst. Binson’s first, for hazard and cards, of course.
Then an opium den. And finally, a brothel near The Devil’s Acre where the women catered to all manner of depraved sexual tastes.
“Yes, Your Grace,” the butler bowed and rushed off to find something for his employer’s pounding head.
Usually, Alexander enjoyed a great deal of depravity, but nearly having his throat slit by a naked prostitute who spoke nothing but French was more than even he’d bargained for.
Oakhurst claimed the girl did the most interesting things with her tongue, so Alexander had followed her to a back room without a second thought, completely foxed and barely aware of his surroundings given the opium.
When she’d tried to murder Alexander, for his purse he suspected, he’d fallen from the bed, hit the table beside it—thank god he was prone to running into things, stubbing his toe and the like because it probably saved his life—and rolled under the bed.
His would-be assailant let out a scream of frustration.
Which alerted the burly gentleman standing guard at the top of the staircase.
He rushed in and disarmed the murderous little trollop, hauling her away while Alexander struggled to get out from under the bed which was quite taxing given his intoxicated state.
He flailed about like a fish until Oakhurst found him.
He debated on whether or not to tell the tale to his uncle. Damon Viceroy worried excessively over Alexander’s well being, which, given his nephew’s propensity to attract misfortune, was no surprise.
Oakhurst liked to say Alexander was the Duke of Misadventure.
He thought the nickname amusing, but Uncle Damon didn’t care for it. Dukes were supposed to be…ducal. At any rate, Alexander’s uncle didn’t like Oakhurst and thought him a poor influence.
“Good lord, Timmons,” Alexander said as the door opened. “I thought you’d never return. My temples ache so bad my ears might bleed.”
A throat cleared. “You have callers, Your Grace.”
Alexander opened one eye. “It isn’t Freeman again, is it? I’ve signed everything he put before me yesterday.”
Freeman was his secretary, a man so incredibly annoying, so lacking in humor, that Alexander often forgot he was in the room.
Like a potted palm. Or a pasty colored vase.
Freeman arrived, without warning, this morning, banging on the front door while Alexander was still in bed.
Only Freeman would arrive before noon. Terribly uncouth.
At any rate, Damon handled all of Alexander’s personal affairs as well as those of the vast Viceroy empire.
Estate matters and the like didn’t interest Alexander one whit. Freeman should have known better.
“You refused him entry earlier. Send him away again, Timmons.”
Timmons lowered his gaze to the rug. “It was not Mr. Freeman, earlier, Your Grace.”
“I don’t care. Pour me a brandy.” Perhaps it had been his cousin, Violet, though if it had been, she would have marched into his bedroom with absolutely no reservations at waking him.
Timmons placed a tray on the table beside Alexander with a twist of paper atop and proceeded directly to the sideboard. He poured out a snifter of brandy and carefully set it beside the headache powder.
“Timmons, what is wrong with you?” Alexander scoffed. “That’s barely a thimbleful. Hardly enough to wet my tongue.”
“Apologies, Your Grace.” The butler returned to the sideboard and filled the snifter to the very top before returning it to Alexander.
He swallowed the headache powder, took several large gulps of brandy, and closed his eyes, waiting for the pounding in his temples to ease.
“Your Grace,” Timmons said once more. “Your callers—”
“Not so loudly, Timmons. Oakhurst was in rare form last evening. I don’t even recall the carriage ride home. I assume Stone put me to bed?” It wasn’t the first time his valet had done so, nor would it be the last. “I seem to recall Lady Maxell. Did she come inside?”
Before Timmons could answer, the voice of Lord Damon Viceroy thundered down the hall in the direction of the drawing room.
“Where is he? Where is Timmons?”
The butler paled.
Alexander cast one bleary eye at Timmons. “Tell Uncle Damon we can speak later,” he ordered. “I’m recovering.”
“I think not, nephew,” his uncle growled from the drawing room door. “We will speak now.”
“Not so loud, I beg you.” Alexander pressed a hand to his aching temple.
“Timmons, please ask Lord Canterbell to give me a moment with the duke before he comes storming in,” Damon snapped.
“Yes, my lord.” Timmons scurried out, shutting the door behind him.
The appearance of his uncle was usually a welcome occurrence, given the closeness of their relationship, but not when his head felt as if it were splitting open.
“Good morning, uncle.” Alexander attempted to sit straighter.
Damon was obviously put out about something.
Probably either Violet or Rose, Alexander mused.
His cousins liked to cause their father no end of grief.
“What have you done, you imbecile?” Damon stomped to the sideboard. “And it is two o’clock in the afternoon.”
“I had a lengthy evening.” Alexander rubbed one eye. “I don’t think that cause to insult me.”
Damon glared at him, glancing at the still closed door of the drawing room. “I’m here about your evening, as it happens.”
“Fine. I lost a large sum at Binson’s but it isn’t as if I can’t afford to.
And in my defense, Lady Hastings kept leaning over the hazard table as I threw the dice and her gown was exquisite and showed a great deal of bosom.
She distracted me.” Alexander chuckled. “I imagine that is why Freeman was banging on the door at an ungodly hour. Not Lady Hastings, but the rather large marker at Binson’s. ”
Alexander was fairly certain he’d tupped Lady Hastings against the wall of the gambling hell. Discreetly, of course. But matters were somewhat blurry.
His uncle poured out a snifter of brandy. Drained it, then poured another. “Freeman is in Sussex at the moment. On business.” The chiseled features, so like Alexander’s own save for the eyes which were so dark they resembled onyx, hardened.
“Goodness.” Alexander managed to keep himself upright. “You are in an incredibly foul mood. Did someone compromise Violet?”
Violet was bound to be ruined at some point. She sometimes accompanied Alexander to Binson’s wearing a mask and a wig. If Damon ever found out, he’d marry Violet off to that dull earl who kept sniffing about her skirts. Rose wasn’t much better, just more discreet. Alexander adored them both.
“No, Violet didn’t ruin herself,” Damon ground out.
“But someone has been ruined.” Icy cold rage twisted his features as his gaze settled on Alexander.
“After all my cautionary tales. Knowing how your father was trapped by your mother in much the same manner. Yet you still—” He cursed softly under his breath.
“What? I’m not sure—”
“Only widows. Courtesans. Barmaids. Trollops,” Damon returned. “No one of importance. No virginal young ladies or you’d end up—well, now I must reconsider…” The words trailed off as Damon paced across the rug, looking at the closed drawing room door. “Matters.”
“What is it you think I’ve done?” His head throbbed and Damon’s pacing was making him dizzy. “And what matters?”
“I can’t fix this, Alexander.” Damon shook his head. “At least not immediately. You weren’t even discreet. Good lord, of all the cliches, taking liberties with a young lady in the gardens during a ball,” he snarled. “A bloody ball. And now Canterbell—”
“Canterbell? You mean the chap in Parliament you’re always attempting to curry favor with?” Damon was deeply involved in politics. His ambitions were no great secret to Alexander or his daughters. Prime Minister, probably. Or a minister of some sort.
“I am Lord Damon Viceroy. I have no need to cozy up to anyone.” His voice lowered. “But it is never a bad idea to have Canterbell’s support. And now.” He stopped before Alexander. “You’ve mucked things up. As if falling off that pleasure barge in the Thames wasn’t bad enough—”
“That was an accident,” Alexander interrupted. “I was a bit foxed.”
“As you were likely last night when you took a young lady into the gardens. Now he’s here, in your foyer, demanding that you be honorable.” Damon snorted. “With his daughter. And not even the beautiful one.”
“Who?” Alexander had no idea what his uncle was talking about. The conversation had failed to make sense since the mention of Freeman, who apparently hadn’t been knocking the front door down early this morning.
“Canterbell, you idiot.” Damon shut his eyes, as if the sight of Alexander was too much to bear. “You don’t even know what you’ve done. Last evening—”
“I was with Oakhurst. And Lady Maxwell.” Alexander frowned. “At some point.”
“Stop interrupting. You compromised Lord Canterbell’s daughter at the Perswick ball.
A fact,” his voice raised a fraction. “Of which I was apprised while attempting to enjoy my eggs at breakfast. Poached, if you must know. Perfect. But they had gone cold by the time Canterbell was done informing me of your behavior because you couldn’t be roused to receive him. ”
Well, that explained the early morning banging on the door.