The Duke's Night of Sin (6 page)

The guests were packed cheek by jowl at four long dining tables, each seating nearly one hundred, stretching the length of house’s grand Egyptian Hall. Footmen hurried steaming dishes of every conceivable variety to the tables for the guests’ dining pleasure.

But Sebastian had no appetite this night. He had a mission. To find the woman he had wronged in the library before his grandmother did.

He stirred the food on his plate, leaving gaps in places so as to avoid drawing his grandmother’s attention to untouched food. He speared a wedge of beef and forced it into his mouth. As he chewed, he peered across several tables at the massive fluted columns that braced the lofty, vaulted ceiling so heavily ornamented with decorative moldings. Why would the Lord Mayor require all of this?

He glanced up and squinted at an enormous chandelier positioned above the table. Like all the others in the hall, it was weighted with hundreds of sparkling crystals, casting bright light on the soaring Egyptian-patterned walls and the hundreds of guests supping noisily below.

It happened then.

Again.

He started thinking about his grandfather, father, and brother dying in improbable accidents. His grandfather, the first Duke of Exeter, had decided to walk the length of his dukedom in gratitude for the land he’d been granted. A day later, a footman returned with his charred remains, claiming that a ball of lightning shot from the sky and struck the duke when he was only strides from the border.

The second duke perished in the London Beer Flood. When vats at the Meux and Company Brewery burst, sending three hundred thousand gallons of beers into the street, eight people drowned. The duke died the next day of beer poisoning, when on a lark, he and his friends swam into a beer-flooded basement to frolic in the foam and drink their fill.

And then there was his brother Quinn, the third Duke of Exeter. He shuddered at the memory.
But then he had led Quinn to his horrid death, hadn’t he?

A breeze from one of the windows set crystals tinkling about his head, drawing his gaze. Quickly, he forced his gaze away from the heavy chandelier above, trying to block from his mind the image of crystal monster crashing down atop him. The curse of the Duke of Exeter,
The Times
would call it, and note that what a blessing it was that His Grace had no heirs, and the curse would end with the extinction of the last Duke of Exeter.

“Ages us all, does it not?” came a rich male voice from behind him. He turned to see a rather tall, grayish-haired gentleman wearing ceremonial garb of ermine. “I asked that we reserve the candles and cast a kinder glow on our ladyfolk, but have they listened? No.” He chuckled.

Good God, Sir Matthew Wood was addressing him directly! Sebastian abruptly pushed up from his chair. “I beg your pardon, my lord. I should not have had my back to you.”

Sir Matthew laughed aloud. “Then how would you eat, Sebastian …” Sir Matthew paused then and peered at him, almost as if he was waiting for something.

Sebastian—he used my Christian name.
There
was something very familiar about the man. Not something he might have read in the newspaper, or heard. Something he … should
remember.
“Do forgive me. It is Your Grace now, is it not?”

“I fear, Sir Matthew, that I am at a disadvantage. My eyes and my mind assert that we have met—though as I am only just arrived in London from Exeter, this is an impossibility.” The Lord Mayor chuckled.

The shaking of his grandmother’s shoulders caught his notice. Good God, now she was laughing at him too. Heat rose in Sebastian’s cheeks. He felt every bit the fool of the moment.

“Your Grace”—Sir Matthew clapped Sebastian’s shoulder—“we have met, many times over.”

“How can this be?” Sebastian sieved through his memory, but nothing occurred to him. “I confess, though your face is known to me, I cannot fathom when or where we might have been introduced—though I know it was not in London.”

“No, it was not,” the Lord Mayor said. “It was in Exeter.”

“Exeter?”

His grandmother turned in her chair. She smiled at the Lord Mayor. “Shall we release him from his confusion?” Sir Matthew replied with a wink. She
turned to look at Sebastian. “My dear, you do not remember because you were but a small child when Sir Matthew came to visit.”

“When I was fourteen, I was apprenticed to my uncle, a chemist and druggist in Exeter. I met your father that August. We were mates of the best sort from that day—until he left for London when he became the second Duke of Exeter twenty years ago.”

Realization dawned on Sebastian. “You are …
Matty.”

His laughter burst forth in such an undignified manner that he feigned a cough to conceal his amusement.

“Yes, dear,” his grandmother interjected, “though most refer to him as Lord Mayor of London.”

“I do beg your forgiveness.” The eyes of everyone nearby were fixed upon him. Some gazed in horror, others in sheer amusement.

The Lord Mayor turned when a distinguished-looking gentleman neared. “Ah, there you are Aster. This is the lad I was so desirous that you meet, Sebastian Beaufort, Duke of Exeter.”

Lord Aster studied Sebastian, almost critically, then smiled and offered a quick bow. “Your Grace, I am honored to finally meet you.”

“Finally, Lord Aster?” Sebastian looked quizzically at the man.

“Yes, the crowd at your gala prevented me, and my daughter, Delilah, from being introduced. Though, as a miss just out, she employed every stratagem possible to reach you.” He winked at the Lord Mayor, and the two men laughed.

Sebastian was a little late in understanding the ribbing. “Lord Aster, it is a privilege to know you now, and I would greatly enjoy meeting your daughter when the opportunity presents itself.”

“She is a fair child, I have no doubt you would.” The Lord Mayor chuckled softly as he grasped Sebastian’s hand and shook it. “Good to see you again, Your Grace.”

Lord Aster echoed the sentiment.

Sebastian exhaled with relief.

The Lord Mayor was about to depart when he turned back to Sebastian. “Before you leave this night, I should be desirous that you speak with my Sword-bearer.” He inclined his chin to a portly fellow, standing several strides to his left. “I would like to discuss a committee that greatly interests me and Lord Aster … and I would think you might be interested in it, as well.”

Sebastian bowed again. “It would be my honor, Lord Mayor.” When he straightened, he saw a
fleeting smile of appreciation cross his grandmother’s lips. The Lord Mayor tipped his head to them both as he bid them good eve.

“Not in London a week and already you have the support of the Lord Mayor.” He turned his head to see a well turned-out gentleman with casually swept ginger hair and thick, ruddy eyebrows taking the vacant seat beside him. “Didn’t mean to eavesdrop, Your Grace, but I had neared with great hope of catching the Lord Mayor’s notice myself. But you did, so now I vow I must become your best mate.” He grinned. “Mr. Basil Redbane.” He snatched Sebastian’s hand and enthusiastically shook it. “Actually, we met, though only in passing, at your gala.”

“Yes, of course.” Sebastian hesitantly returned the smile. The fact that they had supposedly met, though he had no recollection of it, relieved him of the need for a gentleman to properly introduce them. Such a
faux pas
would have distressed his grandmother since she had made abundantly clear that he must not follow his father’s example of correct behavior—but the first Duke of Exeter’s. He shifted his gaze to her, but she had already drifted away from the table with two older ladies. He looked back at the gentleman. “Redbane, I am—”

The other man laughed. “Good heavens, I know.
Everyone
knows, Your Grace. You are the fourth Duke of Exeter. One would think you were royalty given the way people queue up just to meet the bachelor duke. Did I hear correctly that Lord Aster’s daughter has sought an introduction?”

“So it would seem.” Sebastian saw Redbane’s cheek muscles tighten, but then what almost appeared a sneer transformed into a grin.

“She’s a fine one, that chit. Fair as Helen of Troy, but not too bright. Ripe for the plucking, I’d say, if you get my meaning.”

Sebastian struggled for a well-mannered response to Redbane’s rudeness. “I understand she is very young. Only just out. I am sure, given her father’s standing in the House of Lords, that she is quite intelligent.”

“Mayhap you are right, Your Grace. She is no doubt naïve because of her young age. Though she is out … and as I said, ripe for the plucking.” He laughed and clapped Sebastian’s back good-naturedly. “Shall we adjourn and chat about our future friendship?”

Sebastian thought to resist the invitation for several reasons, but the most important was so that he might search for the Scottish lass.

Before he could refuse, Redbane spoke again.
“Come along, Your Grace, the whole of table one, save the two of us, has withdrawn into the next room.”

Unfortunately, he was quite correct. A packed crowd funneled like sand through the pinch of an hourglass as they made their way through a large doorway then flared into the room beyond.

Redbane raised his hand, gesturing for Sebastian to pass. “After you,
Your Grace.”

Why did it seem that there was slightly mocking edge to his tone?

Inside, an orchestra hurriedly settled on a narrow dais at one end of the room, while liveried and be-wigged footmen passed through the guests with salvers of sloshing crystal goblets holding crimson wine.

Sebastian availed himself of a goblet, thinking to drink it down quickly and excuse himself for another, and thereby purchase himself a few minutes alone to search for his Scottish miss. But Redbane, who seemed oblivious to manners, lifted three goblets from the tray, setting one in Sebastian’s free hand.

“With this horde, another waiter mightn’t pass by for an hour—best to be prepared, eh?” He waggled his eyebrows, and Sebastian could not disagree.
In the few minutes he’d known Redbane, Sebastian had found him to be an entirely likeable, and occasionally uncouth, chap. He seemed at ease here, in the company of aristocrats, politicians, and liverymen—an elected group of powerful merchants to which Sebastian assumed from his manner that Redbane belonged.

Redbane leaned close, as if not wishing to be overheard. “Fancy all these bluebloods in one room.” He nudged Sebastian’s arm with his elbow, nearly causing his wine to spill. “Not like you though, eh?” He chuckled, but as if forced.

Sebastian was exhausted from lack of sleep and was sure that Redbane was not intentionally insulting him. It only seemed to his tired mind that he was. “I confess, I do not take your meaning, Redbane.” Sebastian straightened to his full height and cast his gaze downward at Redbane, challenging the man to clarify his statement.

“Come now. Everyone knows your grandfather bought the title from the king.” Sebastian winced at that. Redbane’s misstep was purely intentional. “You’re no more a nobleman than the commoners in the other two rooms.”

Sebastian bristled. “I truly do not understand you, Redbane. You claim to wish my friendship, and yet you intentionally offend me.”

Redbane widened his eyes. “Surely you do not believe my intent was to insult you—I only meant for you to understand how we’re the same, you and I. Far closer than you know. Though I didn’t earn my status as warden through servitude; I bought it. Nothing wrong with that if one has the means. I reckon being cut of the same homespun, we might be able to help each other if the need came about. That’s all, mate.”

“My grandfather earned his patent through service to His Majesty King George III. The Duke of Exeter’s title is one of honor.” Sebastian shifted abruptly to slam both his goblets onto a passing footman’s tray.

Redbane stepped before Sebastian before he could leave him. “Is that so? Is that why you are trying so desperately to fit into his robes? Your father didn’t even try. He knew what he was and accepted it.”

“I am
not
my father.” His fingers coiled up into a fist, and his temples pounded as he envisioned Redbane’s pulpy mug in one minute’s time.

“Excellent vintage, dinna ye agree, Grant?”

Sebastian dropped his fist and listened.

“Weel, I wouldn’t use the word excellent … yet. It’s a wee bit early to free it from the bottle. Another year,” said a second man.

Sebastian knew those voices. He had heard them amongst the elms at Vauxhall Gardens. And now he was hearing them again, not far behind him. He spun around, instantly forgetting Redbane. There, just on the other side of a circle of ladies, were three extraordinarily large men—who were taller than even himself. The lady’s brothers. They could be none other.

Redbane clutched Sebastian’s coat sleeve. “I vow, Your Grace”—Basil Redbane gently turned him so that they faced each other again—“I admit my language is too coarse. I only wished to establish our similarities when outwardly there may seem to exist none at all.”

He had no time for this, especially when Redbane had shown himself for the ill-mannered lout he was. He’d have to be as mad as the king to desire any sort of alliance with him. “Redbane, sharing a glass of wine with you was most enlightening. But if you will excuse me, there is someone I must speak with about an important matter. Good evening, Redbane.”

With a quick bob of his head, Sebastian spun around in the direction of the Scotsmen—but they were no longer there. He looked this way and that around the room, stretching his neck to allow a more elevated view. Nothing.

“Looking for the Sinclairs?” Redbane asked from behind.

Whipping his head around, Sebastian snared his gaze. “The Scots? Sinclair is the family name?”

“If you mean the statuesque family quitting the room at this moment, yes, they are the infamous Sinclairs.”

Sebastian’s eyes flashed to the door. He just glimpsed the crowd closing behind a tall, ebony-locked woman and several gentlemen as they disappeared through the doorway to the Egyptian Hall.

“Their father is a Scottish duke—from one of the oldest noble families in the realm,” Redbane added. “Have you a connection to the family?”