Ambrose battered the hand from his chest. “I doubt that.” He had to stop this decisively. “I get everything I need elsewhere,” he lied. “I don’t need another.”
Silas frowned. “You don’t need to pretend with me, Your Grace. Everyone knows you’re searching for an experienced lover, someone uninhibited who will bend to your every desire without question. I can do that.”
Ambrose laughed at his reputation. “Boy, you do not know the first thing about me. I enjoy a good argument and honesty. So I will be honest with you. You do not tempt me the slightest and I wish you to leave me be. Now,” he glanced around them. “I shall bid you a good evening.”
Although Silas was still scowling, Ambrose did not care. He stepped back through the terrace doors and wound his way back into the ballroom. Perhaps Mrs. Banks might care to dance and then he could ask her about her new beau, Singleton. If her son’s story was true, he would expend the effort to gently tease her. He quite enjoyed seeing mature women blush prettily.
But Mrs. Banks was just leaving the dance floor with Singleton by her side, frantically fanning herself and red faced. On a whim, Ambrose diverted and gathered up glasses of punch for her and the grinning Lord Singleton and one for himself. If he could fan the flames of a budding romance he would consider the night a success.
Juggling the three glasses, he turned about and crashed into a wide male chest, accidentally spilling the sticky beverage all over the fellow in the process. He looked up into Lord Fletcherly’s face and grimaced. Fletcherly turned a mottled red. “How dare you,” he hissed.
Ambrose took a pace back. The man was overly angry about the spilled drinks for his countenance to be so dark so soon. He looked about them. What the devil was wrong with him? It was an accident, nothing more. “I apologize. Damned clumsy of me. Send me the bill for your tailor and I’ll settle the bill immediately.”
Fletcherly scowled, eyes flicking to where Lord Silas stood immobile a few feet behind him. “You will pay the bill and then some.”
The crowd around them gasped. Surely the fellow wasn’t about to call him out over punch? Utter nonsense. He turned away, flicking his hands toward those lingering. The wise disappeared in a hurry, but Lord Silas Flint and Lord Fairmont lingered, eyes wide with curiosity.
“I demand satisfaction, Your Grace,” Fletcherly growled.
“No, Fletcherly. You could be killed,” Silas cried out.
Ambrose turned slowly, piecing together what this duel was really about. Had Fletcherly seen him and Lord Silas together on the terrace? If he had he had the wrong impression of the exchange. Lord Silas needed a leash and manacles on his hands.
“I apologized, Fletcherly. It won’t happen again.”
A muscle ticked in Fletcherly’s jaw. “I’ll make damn sure of that, Your Grace.” He threw his glove to the floor.
Ambrose groaned. A blinding stoke of bad luck.
Lord Fairmont approached and stood at his side. “I’d be happy to stand as your second, Your Grace. It’ll be like old times.”
Yes, very old.
~ * ~
Francis splashed water over his face. Hell, what a ghastly night. He’d dreamed the most hideous events as a result of last night’s reading and he was starting to suspect he should give up the notion of training for a physician. He just didn’t feel cold blooded enough to carry on the trade.
He wiped his face dry and stared at the book. He’d been reading accounts of treatments for madness which had twisted his dreams to nightmare proportions. The case he’d read had been a ghastly business. Imagine tying a woman up and sending little bolts of charge through her temple as a cure for her aberrant behavior. He’d spent years patching up hurts. That treatment had caused the woman greater injury and even scars to the face, and as a surgeon he couldn’t imagine inflicting such harm.
He closed the book. There was always a dark side to any profession. Even footmen had challenges to master. Like avoiding contact with amorous guests who felt inclined to stick their pricks in your face when you kneel to pick up a fallen object. He would never forget the indignity of Lord Fairmont’s assumption that simply because he was
Staines
’ footman—and
Staines
was his lover at that time—that he could put his prick wherever he liked.
Not even
Staines
did that.
Staines
had his rules and a few limits, but he had never forced his attentions on anyone in service under his roof. Only occasionally did Francis regret that. He had to admit that he was curious about sexual relations between men. But good men, not just any amorous fellow.
Staines
seemed to find the activity pleasurable when he’d indulged. It always seemed to improve his mood the next day.
Unfortunately for Francis, he always had knowledge of the duke’s trysts. Given his standing order to remain close to the duke at all times, it was impossible to ignore the many instances when the duke sneaked away with a lover. Yet every now and then, the knowledge distressed him and he would have to exercise the notion out of his mind and body before he felt himself again. Of late, he had been exercising a great deal. It was a damned awkward life when you toiled in the duke’s shadow.
Since the sky was brightening quickly, Francis dressed for riding and made his way down the main staircase to meet the duke in his study at the appointed time before they headed out. His footsteps echoed down the hall to announce his arrival but when he pushed the door open, the room was empty. Unusual. The duke slept very lightly and always woke long before Francis ever did.
He stepped out of the room and made his way up the grand staircase and along to the duke’s bedchamber. He tapped on the door and waited.
When no voice or footsteps answered his knock, he eased the door open and peered into the gloom. The vast bed was empty of the duke. “Your Grace?”
No one answered. He pushed the door wider, noting the coldness of the chamber and stillness of the room. The duke had not been here this morning. His bed looked to not have been slept in at all.
He closed the door again and frowned. It was not like the duke to miss a morning ride without sending word of his change of plans. But then Francis chuckled. He wasn’t the duke’s wife that he had to be apologized to. Francis was a mere servant, one of many. Any inconvenience was hardly worth the duke’s time to address.
Since
Staines
didn’t seem likely to need him for a while yet, Francis climbed the servant’s stairs to his chamber, picked up the book from last night and commenced reading about the application of electricity again until someone rang the bell for him.
~ * ~
Redding
was correct after all.
Six o’clock
was
an ungodly hour to be about in the world.
“Gentlemen,” a deep voice boomed. “I’ll count to ten and then you may turn and fire when ready.”
Ambrose looked up at the new dawn rising on the dew damp green fields and cursed his stupid luck.
Redding
would kill him for this unfortunate situation. But he was a gentleman and, when challenged to a duel, a true gentleman had to defend his innocence against an unfounded charge.
“One.”
He moved away from his opponent with a heavy heart. It had been years since he’d actually fought a duel, but at least, that time, the charge had had some merit. What was her name? Ah, yes, Angelique Montague—a vivacious and exciting woman. But a married one with a possessive husband who had not liked to share her charms with strangers.
“Two.”
The last challenge
Redding
had stopped by threatening his opponent’s family. Ambrose did not condone that sort of thing normally, but his opponent had been unhinged, frothing at the mouth like a savage animal and unable to be reasoned with.
Redding
had saved his hide more than once but he wasn’t here to render the same service today. The surgeon
Fairmont
had insisted be sent for had failed to appear.
“Three.”
Damn it all. He missed bloody
Redding
on his days off. He never got into scrapes like this when his servant was around. Lord Silas would never have approached him if
Redding
had been in attendance last night.
That’s it, his days off are cancelled.
“Four.”
And if Redding had been where he was supposed to be then Fletcherly, Lord Silas’ apparently secret and jealous lover, would never have thrown down his glove and started this ridiculous farce over nothing more than a mere flirtatious conversation. Who the hell dueled over ownership of male lovers anyway? If word of this duel got out he’d be the laughing stock of
London
. His family would be mortified.
“Five.”
Now, where to aim? A body hit or should he delope? Fletcherly didn’t seem the kind to not do his all to protect his interests. So Ambrose surely had to fire back at the other man.
“Six.”
The thigh? But a man could bleed out and die if he hit a main artery.
Redding
would surely advise not to aim there. Ambrose should have sent for
Redding
, after all. The stomach presented the widest target, but a shot to the belly was often a lingering, painful death. He might not care if Fletcherly lived or died but he did not like a man to suffer. Damn
Redding
to hell and back. Thanks to his surgeoning, Ambrose knew far too much about how to cause death in an opponent. It made for a sticky conscience.
“Seven.”
Four and Forty was too young an age to die. He had a birthday coming up soon. There were still so many things he wanted to do before he joined his wife in heaven, if he could get in. If not for
Redding
’s stubborn streak at keeping him out of trouble, he’d surely be there already.
“Eight.”
And there was
Redding
to worry about.
Redding
would not like to find another employer.
Redding
would miss him.
“Nine.”
Time’s up.
“Ten.”
Ambrose turned, raising his left arm as he moved. A shot rang out and he staggered back. His right shoulder burned and he squinted along his wavering limb to find his opponent. But he could not focus. The world tilted and he fell to his knees.
Voices rose to shouting then dimmed to a dull roar. He raised his pistol again, sighting Fletcherly at last, but his hand shook uncontrollably. His pistol fired, the ball landing heavens knew where. He closed his eyes and the ground rose up to meet him. Long blades of grass entered his nose, but he lacked the will to move his head aside or the ability to complain about the sensation.
Rough hands turned him over and the world grew dim.
God damn it. He would miss
Redding
.
Chapter Four
Francis bolted down the main staircase as four grooms carried the duke’s lifeless body through the front doors between them with Lord Fairmont bringing up the rear. “What the hell happened?”