Chapter 11 - Michael
The following morning, Michael entered the Black Raven and was greeted by the elegant strains of Debussy playing from the grand piano just past the foyer.
After his overcoat had been received, the host led him toward the tables to the side of the great room.
As it was morning, the gambling hall was discreetly curtained off.
It would not be opened until after the evening meal.
The Black Raven was the most prestigious gentlemen’s club in all of London.
Though there were many other establishments that might have competed with the club on their variety of entertainment, the Black Raven was one of the only place where a gentleman might be encouraged to go by his wife.
The surroundings were clean, comfortable, and elegant, the membership roll tasteful and curated.
Michael nodded at the Duke of Ettrick, who returned the silent greeting in kind. The duke had not yet been served, but Michael didn’t know him well enough to presume that the man wanted company at his breakfast table.
Though in possession of a towering figure that was impossible to ignore, the Scottish duke was otherwise taciturn and solitary. Michael got the impression that the man would have preferred to go unnoticed in general, though his title, wealth, and stature made that impossible.
Besides, Michael and the duke had only recently been introduced, and only because Ettrick was a common fixture in the Preston parlor as of late.
The man visited Miss Margaret Preston as often as Michael did Claire—which was to say, daily.
He stayed the entirety of visiting hours, planted firmly at Margaret’s side, and glowered at any man who dared stand too close.
Whenever Ettrick looked at Margaret, he wore an expression like a starving man who’d just been presented with a butter-topped steak—a steak that was slightly yet impossibly out of reach.
Michael certainly hoped he himself didn’t look at Claire the same way.
Except he feared he did, as Ettrick had given him a commiserate sort of nod just the other day.
After Michael was seated comfortably in a leather wingback at a table in one of the alcoves that ringed the room, he placed his order, shook out his newspaper, and relaxed backwards with a contented sigh.
So far, his courtship of Claire was going flawlessly. Of course, she didn’t know that, which was all the better, as she would have promptly put an end to it. However, their friendship was firmly reestablished, and there had been several moments that carefully edged toward something more.
Michael knew he was walking a fine line—he had to pretend to help Claire well enough that she would keep him around, while pretending to only be her friend.
Of course they were friends, but his designs were too grand to be contained within the word.
Courtship was not for the faint of heart—at least, not when one actually cared for the lady.
Across the room, the host entered again, trailed by three young lords. It was Lord Nelson and his two friends, Lord Croft and Lord Gresham.
Instantly, Michael adjusted his newspaper higher. Please not the table next to mine, he thought.
But apparently luck was not in Michael’s favor, for he heard the host murmuring and the chairs being pulled out at the table between his and the one inhabited by the Duke of Ettrick.
“Rutheridge,” Lord Nelson called boorishly, not taking the genteel hint of the raised newspaper.
Michael was therefore obliged to lower it and blink with mild surprise as if he hadn’t yet noticed the occupants of the next-door table.
“Nelson,” he said coolly, nodding at the table. “Gentlemen.”
“Come now. We’re old friends,” Lord Nelson boomed. “You must call me Gavin.”
Michael barely held back a wince. He didn’t want anyone to think he considered Lord Nelson a friend. While it was true that they’d known each other for many years, they’d first made each other’s acquaintance back in Eton.
He had thought that Nelson was an insufferable ninny even then.
Though Michael believed that, in retrospect, the insult could have rightly been levied at himself as well at the time, he’d matured a great deal in the interim.
Nelson had simply grown larger in stature and become even more entitled and insufferable.
Now, Lord Nelson was the worst kind of idiot—a loud one, who believed himself intelligent because he happened to be wealthy.
Never mind that he’d inherited it all. Never mind that he was spending it at an alarming rate.
He wore his blond hair combed upward into a outlandish pompadour, loved a shockingly bright waistcoat, and was altogether a braggish boor.
Thankfully, their adult years had not often thrown Nelson and Michael into the same proximity, and Michael had done an excellent job of ignoring the fellow altogether. Until now.
“Rutheridge,” Nelson said, “I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.”
At least it hadn’t escaped his attention that Michael hadn’t offered Nelson the use of his honorific.
“Apologies,” Michael said politely, “but I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”
Michael was suddenly wishing he’d ordered a plain cup of porridge instead of the full breakfast—no one would question abandoning porridge half-finished.
“Why, you and Miss Preston, of course,” Nelson said, loud enough for the entire room to hear. Thank the heavens there weren’t that many gentlemen in attendance.
Michael arched an eyebrow and said nothing. It was as clear a signal as any, but perhaps Nelson’s fingers were too oily to have a good grasp on manners.
Nelson leaned forward, a smarmy smile upon his face. “It can’t be that you’re actually courting her in earnest,” he pressed. “It must be some sort of lark.”
“What kind of joke do you think I’m playing, precisely?” Michael’s words held the low undercurrent of warning.
Nelson was too daft to recognize it, though Gresham and Croft shifted in their seats and shared a look.
“I thought such a thing could be amusing myself,” Nelson said, fiddling with his cravat and smoothing his waistcoat—a terrible olive-yellow green today. “Did you know there are eight Prestons? What a collection that would be.”
“A collection?” Lord Gresham said, frowning at Nelson’s side. “What on earth do you mean? You cannot hope to marry all of them.”
“Marriage?” Gavin chortled in that disgusting way of his. “Who said anything about marriage?”
“And yet, without the mention of marriage, this conversation veers dangerously close to impropriety,” Michael said. “Unless your words have a different meaning than the obvious.”
“I’m not speaking of anything so serious as that,” Nelson said. “Just a small amusement.”
Michael frowned at him, and Nelson stupidly took the silence as an invitation to continue. “I once heard that the Marquess Rivers had three sisters all fighting for him by the time he finally chose a bride.”
“I doubt you would find much entertainment in that quarter,” Michael said. “It’s well known that Claire Preston is prudent. As a matter of politeness, I visited her only the other day, and she insisted upon reading aloud to me from Fordyce’s Sermons for upwards of an hour.”
“That only makes it more challenging. It will be all the more enjoyable when I turn her attention to me.”
Rutheridge snapped his paper irritably and changed tactics. “I can think of no faster way to die than by toying with one of Lord Cavendish’s sisters.”
“Indeed,” Lord Croft said, frowning. “It’s widely accepted that he’s dangerous.”
“I think such rumors are overblown.”
Nelson was fiddling with his cravat again; Michael had the sudden urge to slap at the man to get him to stop. Or perhaps a fist to the jaw would suffice.
“I hope to have a front-row seat when you find out they aren’t,” Michael said.
Lord Gresham frowned; Michael thought he could hear the man’s mental wheels grinding together from where he sat. “Are you suggesting that you intend to get Miss Preston to fall in love with you out of sport?” he finally asked.
“You fellows don’t think I can accomplish it?” Nelson challenged, his eyebrows raised.
“Of course not,” Gresham said. “If you were capable of making a woman fall in love with you, you’d be richly settled already.”
Nelson froze and turned to glare at his friend. Lord Gresham frowned as if confused by his anger.
Michael asked, “Lord Nelson, have you ever seen what a cannon ball does to a man?”
He frowned. “No. Why do you ask?”
“No particular reason, only that Lord Cavendish has a full set of cannons on each of his ships.”
Nelson snorted in disgust. “Lord Cavendish is little more than a common sailor. I doubt he would begrudge a man his entertainment.”
The suggestion that Nelson would use Claire as entertainment finally broke what remained of Michael’s barely held composure.
He snapped, “Your intellect and reasoning are breathtaking. Meaning it takes my breath away how stupid you are.”
Despite all the occasions that might have invited it, it appeared that no one had insulted Lord Nelson to his face before. His cheeks began to pinken and he sat up stiffly, his eyes flashing.
“You mark my words, Lord Rutheridge,” he snarled. “Before the season is out, I will succeed in getting to know Miss Preston much better.”
Michael suddenly wondered how serious the justice system was when they insisted that dueling must be put to an end.
Though he’d previously thought the advice sensible, in that moment he realized how shortsighted it was.
What was a man to do with this much incandescent rage if he were not able to call another man out for it?
Michael thought the best course of action was to leave before he started a fistfight inside the Black Raven, so he stood.
Still, he couldn’t help himself from patting Lord Nelson’s shoulder a bit too hard on his way past and saying, “A gentleman would have to be nigh on suicidal to prey upon the Preston ladies, so on second thought, I think perhaps you should try it. I think you’ll be surprised to find out just how much protection the Preston sisters have, and from how many different quarters. ”
Michael had long been aware of the Duke of Ettrick’s interest in the conversation. As Lord Nelson’s back was to the duke, he hadn’t seen the murderous glower the duke had levied at him from the moment he’d referred to the Preston ladies as a “collection.”
Michael doubted Nelson would have stopped speaking, even if he had. In Michael’s experience, some men needed to feel the full brunt of their stupidity before the message fully sank in.
By the expression on Ettrick’s face, the duke intended that Lord Nelson feel the brunt of his error in a very literal sense.
If the duke had ever looked at Michael in such a fashion, he would have rethought his words immediately.
The man was enormously tall, perhaps six and a half feet.
He towered over whichever ballroom he stepped into.
“Good morning, Your Grace,” Michael said as he strode for the door.
The duke nodded in grim acknowledgement of the greeting, his eyes still focused on Lord Nelson.