then?’
‘My tenants supply some grain for the distilleries in Speyside,’ Ewan said.
‘No wonder you know your drink so well.’ The duke seemed quite struck by this. ‘Been thinking about giving up the tipple,’ he said suddenly.
‘Indeed?’ Ewan had to admit that the duke was putting away the best whisky there was to be had in Scotland at a fantastic rate, and showing little signs of it. Perhaps he had fallen into the way of drinking too much.
‘But not tonight.’
Ewan decided the appropriate response to that revelation would be to pour the duke another generous portion, so he did so.
‘Your estate is in Aberdeenshire?’
Ewan nodded.
‘There’s a lovely horse up there,’ the duke said, thinking it over. ‘I haven’t seen him for a year or so, but –’
‘Warlock,’ Ewan put in. ‘He strained a fetlock last July.’
‘Exactly! Warlock. Belongs to a friend of yours, does he?’
‘I own Warlock,’ Ewan said.
Now the duke’s eyes were definitely warm. ‘Good man. Out of Pheasant, wasn’t he?’
‘Pheasant by way of Miraculous,’ Ewan said.
‘I don’t suppose you’re thinking of breeding his line, are you?’
‘I already have a yearling who’s showing definite possibilities.’
The duke had shed his sleepy, pleasant manner and was sitting bolt upright, looking more awake than Ewan had seen him, except perhaps at the ball when he was in such a rage. ‘I’ve three offspring of Patchem sitting in my stables, two mares and a colt. The daughters are my wards, and each one of them came with a horse for a dowry. Their father was a bit of a featherhead and he doesn’t seem to have thought carefully about the business. I was thinking of breeding the mares, since neither shows much racing ability.’
A horse for a dowry? He’d only heard of such a thing once, and that was from the golden-haired beauty at the ball. Who had told him to look elsewhere, because she only had a horse for a dowry. Apparently she didn’t think it important to note that the particular horse was from the line of Patchem.
‘I should like to see a horse with Warlock’s and Patchem’s bloodlines,’ he said.
They sat in comfortable silence for a few moments, the duke slumping back into his boneless, indolent stance.
‘You’ve gone about finding a wife the wrong way,’ Holbrook said, after a while.
‘I’ve gone to fourteen events in the last week,’ Ewan observed. ‘Four balls, a number of afternoon gatherings and one musicale. I did ask a young lady to marry me this evening, but she declined.’ He didn’t think it necessary to note that the woman was apparently one of Holbrook’s wards, not when the duke had only barely gotten over his annoyance at Ewan’s behaviour with another of those wards.
‘That’s not the way of it. These things are handled between men. The key is to figure out which woman you wish to marry before you go to the ballroom.’ The duke’s voice had just the slightest husky edge now, a golden burr of whisky. But all in all, Ewan thought he held his liquor better than any man he knew except old Lachlan McGregor, and McGregor had given his life to the practice.
‘I’ll take you along to my club,’ the duke continued. ‘We can have it all fixed up in a moment.’ He rose and Ewan was rather amazed to see that the man wasn’t even unsteady. ‘Not that you can have Imogen,’ he said with a sudden roar, ‘even if she does come with a mare for a dowry. We’ll do the horse breeding on the side.’
‘I wouldn’t think of it,’ Ewan said, looking around for the card case that Glover had brought for him. He didn’t find it, so he simply followed the duke out the door. The only sign that Holbrook had imbibed the better part of a flask was a certain talkativeness.
‘You see,’ the duke said in the carriage as they were trundling off to his club, ‘the poor girl lost her husband a mere six months ago. The man fell on the racetrack, racing one of his own horses: a yearling that should never have been put to the bridle.’
‘Aye,’ Ewan said. He’d heard that story somewhere, but as was often the case, the name of the rider eluded him.
‘Imogen had loved him for years.’ Holbrook was leaning back against the cushions, having no problem whatsoever keeping his balance as the carriage swung around corners and rumbled down cobblestone streets. ‘She picked him out when she was a mere nursling, and they ended up eloping. And then he died but a matter of weeks later.’
‘Weeks!’ Ewan said, struck by the misfortune of that. And then: ‘Of course, that would be Draven Maitland.’
‘The same.’
‘Ah,’ Ewan said. He had met young Maitland a few times, since the man used to race the Scottish cycle before returning to England for the English racing season. Maitland was a rash, foolish young man whom Ewan had rather disliked.
The duke took a little flagon out of his pocket and took a sip, but shook his head. ‘This is like drinking pisswater after that whisky of yours. At any rate, poor Imogen is not quite herself, due to the shock of the whole thing, as you can imagine.’
The carriage stopped in front of an imposing, pillared building. Ewan had no idea what part of the city they were in. ‘Aren’t these clubs for members only?’ he asked.
The duke waved his hand dismissively. ‘No one will question my bringing a guest in for a drink. I’ll put you up for membership, if you’d like. But it is a hell of an expense,’ he tossed over his shoulder. ‘Not worth the money, I should think.’
Ewan agreed with him. Surely men stewed in liquor all offered the same tedious company, and if it was their society he wished, the men in his local tavern would do.
The duke seemed to know precisely where he was going. They were greeted by a solemn-faced individual, who bowed deeply and intoned a welcome to ‘White’s’. Then the duke trundled past a few rooms that seemed to be filled with gamblers and finally arrived in a library.
It was a magnificent room. The few bits of wall that weren’t covered with books were papered in a deep crimson. There was a fire burning in a generous hearth, and comfortable chairs scattered about the room in groupings that offered intimacy. The duke didn’t hesitate. ‘Come,’ he threw over his shoulder, heading to a corner.
Four high-backed chairs were grouped with their backs to the room. In one of them was a scion of English nobility of just the sort that Ewan disliked. He had black curls tossed in one of those styles that Ewan had just figured out was a style, rather than the effect of an unexpected rain shower. And he was wearing a waistcoat of such riotously embroidered beauty that Glover would have grown weak at the knees. Ewan could only be glad that his manservant was not with him: the last thing he wanted was to find himself dressed in a garnet-coloured jacket, as if he were a man milliner.
Ewan saw with one glance that the gentleman seated next to the man milliner was a man of power. He had a face that bespoke
