Nick grabbed hold of the duke’s boot, and his father stuck his head down the opening. “That you, Nicolas?”
“It’s me,” Nick said grimly. “Now clasp my hand and I’ll help you down.”
“No,” his father said stubbornly. “I’m making an announcement.”
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
“Hush. My audience awaits.” His father popped his head back up the opening.
Nick sighed. Bodily force it was, then.
“As I was saying, I lost the marquess at cards,” the duke proclaimed. “To a wealthy baronet. So you see, fair Venus, he won’t be yours much longer. He’s to be married to Miss Alice—”
The end of his announcement grew garbled as, with one swift tug, Nick grabbed his father’s boots and pulled him into his arms.
Not a moment too soon.
The rotting deck splintered as Nick carried his father down the ladder.
Nick shielded the duke as a wooden beam jarred across his back.
Safely away from the collapsing ship and off the stage, Nick placed an arm around his father’s shoulders.
“You’re all right,” he soothed, as his father stared wildly about him, frightened by the sound of splintering wood and the shouting from the gentlemen in the audience.
Captain Lear helped Venus off her shell and draped his evening coat about her shoulders.
She glared at Nick. Her expression did not bode well for the night of debauchery he’d planned.
Lear made a chivalrous bow and kissed her hand. “Captain Lear, at your service, Miss Venus.”
“Sally’s the name,” she cooed in her smoky, sensual voice. “Though you may call me anything you like, Captain.” She tossed her long gold curls and narrowed her eyes at Nick. “If you take me away from here.”
“I believe that could be arranged.” Lear glanced at Nick.
Nick gave his friend a brief nod. Who could blame the lovely opera singer for wanting to leave? They hadn’t even become lovers yet. Nick had promised her sensational success and the adulation of every gentleman in the room, and delivered only farce. She’d no doubt be happier with Lear tonight.
Lear flashed Nick a triumphant grin as he led his prize away. Goddess, he mouthed. Mine.
Nick groaned. This evening was plummeting to hell faster than a bishop in a bawdy house.
Members of the acting troupe had already cleared away the ship’s wreckage. Nick caught the manager’s eye and gestured for the next act to begin.
The show must go on.
Nick placed an arm around his father’s shoulders and helped him across the room, shielding him from the swarm of inebriated gentlemen who all seemed to be speaking at the same time.
“Did you truly wager the marquess, Your Grace?”
“Who’s the lucky lady?”
The Earl of Camden’s heavy jowls wobbled into Nick’s peripheral vision. “Not to worry, Hatherly.” He laughed. “I’m sure the girl will be gentle with you on your wedding night.”
Loud guffaws.
Elbow jabs to the ribs.
Everyone howling with merriment.
Nick laughed along, pretending this was all a huge joke.
With such an unpredictable father, he’d learned to hide his emotions and appear cavalier no matter what happened.
“Back to your seats, gents,” he called. “You won’t want to miss what comes next.”
When they were safely away from the ballroom, Nick relaxed his grip on his father’s shoulders. “That was a fine show, Barrington. You could have injured yourself.”
His father grinned sheepishly. “I’ve always loved a good climb. Haven’t I?” His voice wobbled as he asked the question, filling with uncertainty.
He’d been an adventurer before the madness claimed him, scaling mountains the world over, finding rare orchids for his collections.
“Always.” Nick smoothed his father’s wiry white hair down but it sprang right back up. “Let’s find your bed, shall we? Where’s Stubbs?”
“Don’t know. Maybe still at the Crimson?”
The Crimson? Had his father truly visited such a notorious gaming hell? Didn’t seem probable. His many vices had never included gambling, and Nick trusted that Stubbs would never have allowed the duke to enter such a place.
“You didn’t really gamble, did you?” asked Nick.
His father cast his gaze to the carpet. “I did.” He clutched Nick’s hand. “It was you or Sunderland. Had to make a choice, you see?”
The aging duke loved Sunderland House with the desperation of a drowning man clinging to a scrap of driftwood—the house was his last, tenuous link to sanity. Here, in the familiar surroundings of his childhood, with his orchid conservatory and his son to care for him, the duke remained relatively tranquil and his malady harmed no one.