Chapter 11- Callum
Callum hadn’t intended to approach Margaret that first evening, but then she’d landed directly in his arms. Heaven help him, she’d felt so right there that it had taken all of his considerable will to set her back upon her feet as promptly as politeness dictated.
And once she was in his proximity, he couldn’t help but ask her to dance.
That small interlude was enough to convince him of his feelings.
Margaret was completely free of artifice, and delightfully funny.
The entire rest of the evening fell away in the light of those few precious minutes—every other lady he’d met was but a smudged painting in his mind, but Margaret was branded there in perfect clarity.
He didn’t linger at her side after escorting her from the dance floor after their waltz. Instead, he’d watched. Callum had spent his childhood hunting deer—he knew the value of tracking before one made one’s move.
Hour by hour, Callum’s stomach had twisted into increasingly complex knots.
After unobtrusively watching the lady for the entire remainder of the ball, he was concerned.
Was there something wrong with Miss Margaret Preston that he didn’t know about?
Why else would the gentlemen in the ballroom ignore the most beautiful young woman in the room?
Callum was determined to find out the truth of the matter, but he didn’t dare ask Ellis.
His cousin was already suspicious that a young lady had secretly ensnared him.
Thankfully, Ellis was also a late sleeper, so the following morning, Callum started his hunt at the best place for gossip—the White Raven, the most prestigious gaming club for gentlemen in all of London.
Not only did the White Raven boast luxurious meeting rooms, an honest, well-run gambling floor, and fastidiously clean overnight accommodations, but they also served the finest breakfast a gentleman could find outside his own home.
It was perfect for those who wanted to start their day away from their own breakfast table—due to whim or marital infelicity—and it was a wonderful pick-me-up for those who’d never made it home the night before.
“Ettrick, old chap.” Lord Gavin Nelson waved him down from a nearby table. “Come join us.”
Callum gave a closed-mouth smile that concealed his gritted teeth. If there ever was a “gentleman” more detestable than Lord Nelson, he’d yet to meet him. But Callum had come here for gossip about ladies, and there was no better way to have it than to accept the invitation.
He nodded, and two of the man’s table companions shuffled to the side to make room for him.
There was already an empty chair, but Callum was larger than the average English male—broader in the shoulder and thicker everywhere else.
He suspected the difference in physique was partly due to his ancestry, but also because while these gentlemen had spent their leisure time reading books or debating which horse would win at the races, Callum’s father hadn’t believed in leisure time at all.
Callum had spent his time riding out with his father, hunting for their table, repairing fences as if he were an equal to the men of work from the village, and not the duke’s son. He hadn’t always appreciated his father’s tactics, but now he was immensely grateful.
His father had died when Callum was just eighteen. If Callum hadn’t spent all that time engaged in the minutiae of the estate, it would have been an even bigger blow than simply the loss of the greatest man he’d ever known.
“Gentlemen.” He nodded to the three men as he took the empty seat.
A servant rushed forward to pour him tea; he waved off the offer of cream and sugar. Those additions were for ladies to keep or grow their curves; Callum believed men should be as hard as the stone cliffs of Clo Mor.
“Surprised to see you here this morning,” Lord Nelson said.
Callum arched his eyebrow in a silent demand for the man to explain himself. “I breakfast here often.”
“Yes, but you’re usually leaving by the time I arrive.”
“One might call you a lay-about.” Callum made himself smile, to give Nelson a way to believe he was joking. It was amazing what you could say directly to people’s faces if you said it with a smile.
Lord Nelson and his friends guffawed and devolved into ribbing each other.
Callum waited until the little furor had died down, then added, “I overslept this morning because of the festivities last night.”
“It’s a wonder you went at all if you weren’t going to dance much,” one gentleman said. “You just stood there.”
“I danced with several young ladies.” He shrugged. “You forget it was my very first ball.”
“That didn’t stop all the young ladies who’d just been presented.”
Lord Nelson gave a smarmy smile. “I love the desperation of a fresh batch of misses just presented. It’s a wonder I didn’t end up in the gardens with one this time.”
“I thought you might,” his friend said. “I saw you speaking with Miss Pennington.”
“Unfortunately, her chaperone had quite a sharp eye. I thought her mother might overlook it out of gratitude that I’d deigned to dance with her at all. The nose on her…”
Callum cleared his throat and restrained himself from reaching over and choking the man with his own cravat.
“What of you, Ettrick? See anything you like?”
He shrugged. He knew better than to be honest with these men. It would be like pointing out his favorite puppy to a pack of hyenas.
“Not particularly.” He sipped his tea. “Besides, I don’t know enough about the ladies to decide if I like any of them.”
“Goodness’ sakes, just look at them. They’re all mostly the same once you loosen their stays, anyway.”
Callum deeply regretted sitting down. He wasn’t going to be able to enjoy the excellent sausages if he kept imagining creative ways to put Lord Nelson down. His eyes flickered to the silver service on table. He wondered which would dent first—the teapot or Nelson’s head.
“Are none of you looking for a wife, then?” he asked.
“In due time. Is that your purpose in coming to London?”
Callum’s teacup paused on the way to his lips; he arched his dark eyebrow. “Why else would I be here?”
“For the parties, the fun of it. For all the ways to enjoy a woman without making her a wife.”
“Careful, Nelson.” His voice was deceptively light. “The men around you all have sisters. Including myself.”
“I beg your pardon most ardently, but I would never be foolish enough to dally with your sister. Besides, judging by the size of you, she’d be far too large for my liking.”
A two-pronged serving fork to the throat would do nicely, Callum decided. Insert and twist—it would be over so quickly. Granted, there would be a spectacular spray of blood, and all over the white linen, too.
The other gentlemen at the table cleared their throats and looked elsewhere; they seemed to be reading the taut lines of Callum’s frame correctly. Nelson blathered on, completely unaware of Callum mentally trying out every item within reach as a weapon.
“No—I prefer women with lighter hair and lighter forms.” He chuckled at his own joke. “Like the Stevens sisters. Or the Preston ladies.”
Callum left off visualizing how he’d kill the man with the spoon—truly awful, that—to pay attention once more.
“I know nothing of either family,” he lied, making his shoulders relax so the other men would speak freely. “Who are they?”
“Milly and Rebecca Stevens—light brown hair. Twins, by the looks of them, though they were born a year apart. Not that anyone can blame their father for it—have you seen their mother? Those ladies will age well, mark my words.”
“It’s truly a wonder you haven’t been shot yet,” Callum mused.
Laughter around the table, some of it more nervous than others.
Lord Nelson grinned as if it were all in good fun and continued, “And then the Preston sisters. Four of them out at the moment, though the three eldest are a bit old for my taste, and the youngest is a bit out of my scope of interest. As I’ve said, I prefer my ladies light enough to pick up.”
Probably to make the abduction easier, Callum thought. For he couldn’t imagine a woman who’d willingly go along with Lord Nelson.
“So have you dallied with any of them? The Stevenses or the Priestons?”
“Preston. And no—both sets are new to me. New to society as a whole, so I’ve heard.”
Callum thought he might be able to even accomplish the task with the tiny tongs resting atop the sugar bowl. “But would you have heard? Doubtless not all the gossip about young ladies reaches your ears.”
Nelson snorted. “My good sir, gossip about young ladies is all I care about. I hear much of it. Luckily for me, Mr. Pickwick is kind enough to screen them all for me, anyway.”
“Who is Mr. Pickwick?” Callum said, feigning ignorance.
“Mr. Pickwick. Mr. Pickwick. You’ve never heard of Mr. Pickwick?”
Callum stared at him with dead eyes. Hadn’t he just said as much? There was almost nothing he hated more than speaking to an idiot, and Gavin Nelson was obviously one of those.
Nelson swatted at his friend’s arm. “You have a copy of the latest, don’t you?”
“Just the latest addendum.” He tugged a small booklet from his inner pocket and passed it across the table.
“Mr. Pickwick’s Guide to Marriageable Young Ladies,” Callum read. He glanced up and arched an eyebrow. “You put stake in what a gossip rag says?”
“It’s not a gossip rag. Well, perhaps it is a bit, but it’s dead spot-on. Mr. Pickwick has eyes everywhere. He’s written about every scandal I’ve ever heard of, and many I haven’t. If you want to know about young ladies, that’s your best source. Ask anyone.”
“Thank you. I believe I will.”
Callum stood, slipped the booklet into his own pocket, picked up the full plate that a waiter had just placed before him, and tucked his now-empty chair back into place with his large boot.
Lord Nelson frowned up at him. “Where are you going?”
“For the record, Nelson, you’re right about one thing—you’d never get within ten feet of my sister. And it’s not because she’s too large or too ugly. It’s because I would pick you up by your skinny neck with one hand and toss you from the bloody parapet if you tried.”
Callum turned his back, crossed the room, and sat at the first empty chair he saw.
“I don’t believe I invited you to join me.”
The Duke of Devonshire spoke from behind his spread newspaper; Callum was fairly certain the man hadn’t even seen him sit.
“Forgive me, Your Grace. If I stayed at the other table any longer, I was in danger of murdering someone.”
“Ah, Ettrick. Apologies. I thought you might be someone else.” He folded his paper and set it neatly next to his plate. “I did rather wonder at your choice of breakfast companions.”
“My mistake. It certainly wasn’t worth it.”
“To satisfy my rampant curiosity, why did you choose to sit there to begin with?”
Callum studied the man before him. They weren’t friends.
They didn’t know each other—rather, they only knew of each other.
Still, what he’d heard of the Duke of Devonshire was that the man was pragmatic and truthful, fiercely loyal to his family, and not a gossip.
Perhaps he should have asked to sit with him from the start.
“I came to London to find a wife.” He picked up one of the silver shakers on the table and began to add a prodigious amount of pepper to his eggs.
“A shocking admission, by society’s standards.”
“I rather thought that was what the Season was for.”
“Your purpose isn’t shocking—it’s your blunt admission of it that might raise eyebrows. But I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. You’re a Scot, after all.”
Callum frowned, unsure whether he should be offended on behalf of his countrymen. “What does that have to do with it?”
“An Englishman would only hint at his intention, until he’s quite sure of his success.”
He shrugged. “I’m sure that if I want a wife, I’ll manage to find one.”
“With holdings as impressive as your height, I’ve no doubt you’re correct.” Devonshire chuckled. “Forgive me, I’m still not sure what you wanting a wife has to do with you sitting with that lot.”
“I was in search of gossip,” he grudgingly admitted before spearing part of a sausage and popping it into his mouth.
He’d been right—the sausage was far more enjoyable with a room’s worth of distance between him and Lord Nelson.
“It must be difficult to walk in blind to English society, especially when you’re shopping for the most important member of your family.”
Callum arched an eyebrow and nodded, still chewing.
“Perhaps I can help.”
Callum blotted his lips with a napkin before he said, “Have you heard of a Mr. Pickwick?”
Devonshire’s features closed as surely as a slammed door. “Of course. Who hasn’t?”
“Me, until recently. Do you trust his advice?”
The man relaxed into his chair. “Implicitly.”
“Truly?” Callum’s eyebrows raised. “Why?”
Devonshire smiled. “Mr. Pickwick has proven himself as a credible source time and time again throughout the years.”
“Does he write about all the young ladies?”
“Most of them.” He tilted his head. “And I know many more. Are you asking about a certain lady in particular?”
“Yes, but I don’t know if you’ll keep my confidence.”
“At this early point in the Season, I’ve given out so much advice regarding eligible females, I’m starting to wonder how I might make a profit from it.
Perhaps I should just hang a shingle and be done with it.
” He blotted his lips with his napkin. “The information will go no further than my wife’s ears, I assure you. ”
Callum’s lip quirked. “Fair enough.”
He considered Devonshire’s implicit offer while the man waited patiently. If there was one thing Callum knew, it was that Devonshire couldn’t have been more different than the likes of Lord Nelson and his ilk. What harm could there be in asking an honorable man an honest question?
Decision made, he leaned forward, his eyes intent. “What do you know of Miss Margaret Preston?”