Chapter Five
“Good God, man, what were you thinking?” bellowed the Duke of Blackmoor as he paced up and down in front of his desk, agitation written all over him.
“I wasn’t,” Westland replied with a shrug, draining his glass. “I was taking a nap. Under a tree.”
Lucien, the Duke of Blackmoor, stopped mid-pace and impatiently swung around as the door banged open.
“Humber,” he barked, relief and concern colliding in his tone.
Barely a week had passed since Sebastian, Earl of Humber, had been shot in a wretched case of mistaken identity.
Though the danger had passed, Lucien’s worry for his friend’s health had not.
Yet anyone hearing him now, who did not know him, would think he spoke in temper.
“What the devil are you doing out of bed? You look horrendous.”
“Really? Horrendous? Well, I wouldn’t want to upstage the Groom on his wedding day, would I?
Nor, my friend, will a little hole in my side force me to miss your nuptials.
” Studying his two friends with curiosity, Humber made his way carefully across the room, every step betraying pain despite his efforts to hide it.
His head swam, his palms sweated, and the contents of his stomach threatened to make a violent appearance at any moment, yet he managed to make it without any embarrassing incident.
Half collapsing into a chair by the fire before his legs gave way, he forced a tight smile.
“Although,” he said, “if I am not mistaken, there seems to be something I am missing?”
“A bloody scandal is what,” spat Blackmoor, already back to pacing. “Not that I’d give a damn… were it not Vivien’s beloved cousin at the centre of it.”
“Hugh?” laughed Humber incredulously. “Hugh Thomas has caused a scandal? I don’t believe it.”
“Not Hugh, you imbecile!”
“Quite,” came Hugh Thomas’s calm voice as he slipped inside the room and closed the door softly behind him. “Not I, Humber. Though it appears in the absence of her husband, Lady Mason has seen fit to appoint me as… as her ambassador.”
“Ambassador?” Humber echoed, his brows knitting together as he slowly studied each of the occupants in the room.
Blackmoor shot Humber an impatient look as he huffed and slumped into the nearest chair, massaging his temples with his fingertips. Westland, broad and motionless by the window, merely lifted a shoulder in faint indifference.
Hugh, looking a little uncomfortable, took a deep breath.
As no one else seemed eager to offer up a speedy explanation for Humber, he quickly poured himself a stiff drink before facing his new friends.
“Lady Mason, as you can imagine, is inconsolable, though please, let me say, neither she nor I have any doubt the incident in question was merely an unfortunate accident, precisely as described. However, the ladies, Seymour and Smyth are adamant in what they think they saw… and only too happy to banter it around. So, erm…?”
“Saw?” blustered Humber. “Is anyone going to tell me what the deuce is going on?”
“Calm yourself, Humber, or you’ll burst your stitches,” sighed Westland, his large frame still blocking some of the light from the window, making it difficult to gauge his expression.
“The girl was merely dancing in the meadow and fell into my lap as I napped, tis all.” At the sight of Humber’s brilliant-blue eyes popping wide open as his mouth started to move in readiness, Westland knew, for some quip, he half-rolled his eyes and put up a staying hand.
“But,” he continued firmly, “as I would rather not be the architect of her ruin, you may tell Lady Mason I will marry the girl. She may choose whichever of my estates she prefers. She may bring her maid, her dog, or a dozen companions, for all I care. But let us be clear; I have no interest in being a husband, nor in any husbandly duties, beyond giving her my name and the protection it affords. So—” his tone clipped as he took a step further into the room and arched a brow, “are we all pacified? Satisfied?”
“Satisfied?” The small gasp from the doorway froze the room, and all four men turned in unison to see Miss Sylvie Mason staring at them in wide-eyed horror.
Bloody hell, cursed Blackmoor silently. He must remember to tell his butler Forbes to desist in having the hinges of this dammed door so well oiled.
“Miss Mason,” Westland began, the rare uncertainty in his voice belying his usual calm, “forgive me… I…”
“You… you wish to send me away? To… to exile me?”
“I…” But before he could form the words, little Miss Sylvie Mason fled, slamming the door behind her, leaving it shuddering quite violently on its well-oiled hinges.