How to Tame Your Duke(37)

At one time-indeed, for the last twelve years-he had dreaded this  moment. Tonight, for some reason, he found he didn't give a damn what  everyone saw.                       
       
           



       

A chair scraped. "By God. Ashland, you old bastard. What brings you to London?"

Ashland adjusted his gaze and found his mouth breaking open in a genuine  smile. "Penhallow! I'd no idea the club's standards had sunk so low in  my absence." He reached out his arm, his right arm, and Lord Roland  Penhallow grasped the stump in both hands without the smallest particle  of self-consciousness.

"You've saved my life, old man," Penhallow said heartily, a wide grin  splitting his own impossibly handsome face. He shrugged one shoulder at  the mass of curious manhood assembled behind him. "This sorry lot was  boring me to tears. Join us?"

Ashland shot a quick glance at the table from which Penhallow had risen.  Nobody he recognized, of course. A young fellow, Penhallow, still at  Eton when Ashland had left for India, but as the grandson of the Duke of  Olympia he'd traipsed across Ashland's past a few times. He had even  been among the few to visit at Ashland Abbey-my grandsire asked me to  pop in on you on my way to Edinburgh and try out this fantastical  bathing pool of yours-and Ashland had found himself rather enjoying the  lad's company. He had a way of neither staring at nor ignoring Ashland's  scars, simply carrying on as a matter of course. Rather like young  Grimsby. Rather like Emily, too, and his heart cracked anew at the  memory of her gentle kiss at the end of his arm.

"Tempting," Ashland said, "but in fact I was hoping to find your  grandfather doddering about. They informed me on Park Lane that he might  be found here this evening."

Penhallow lifted both eyebrows-he had never quite mastered the elegant  art of raising just one-and said, "Why, no. Not that I've noticed." He  turned back to his table of friends and called out, "Don't suppose  you've seen my old grandsire dodder past this evening, Burke?"

At the table, a tall red-haired gentleman set down his wineglass and shrugged. "Not once, I'm afraid."

"Ah well," said Penhallow. "Mind you, the chap's got a distinct habit of  turning up when he's least expected. Do join us, however. You must.  Burke's been trying to convince me to run off to Italy with him for a  year of monastic seclusion, and I'm having the devil of a time  explaining to him that it simply won't do."

Penhallow took him by the arm and led him inexorably forward between the  tables. One by one, the occupants turned politely away, returning to  their conversations, casting only the discreet glance or two his way.  "Gentlemen," said Penhallow, "I have the honor of presenting to you the  legendary Duke of Ashland, who's finally deigned to honor us rubbishy  degenerates here in London with a visit, so you'd better mind your p's  and all that."

At the words Duke of Ashland, the four men at the table shed their  shared air of incurious somnolence and shot to their feet in a  simultaneous volley. It was all Your Grace! Didn't know it was you, and  Your Grace! Most honored, sir, and in a moment Ashland was seated with a  bottle of best claret flowing freely into his glass.

Which was, he reflected, taking the first swallow, exactly how his last evening at the club had begun.

Except for all the Your Graces. That had begun upon his return.

* * *

I'm afraid I don't quite understand, Your Grace." The solicitor fidgeted  with his fountain pen, turning it this way and that, rolling it from  finger to finger. His face was still the same mottled red it had turned  when the Duke of Ashland was first announced into his chambers. "Do you  wish to cut off the allowance entirely?"

Ashland stretched out one leg on the expensive Oriental rug and plucked a  piece of lint from his trousers. Outside, the brown January fog had  laid against his skin with a chill that went to his bones; here, the  room was heated to tropical strength, coals sizzling hotly in the  fireplace. It reminded him of India, of that suffocating and inescapable  warmth, drenching him to the core. "Mr. Baneweather, since we made  these arrangements twelve years ago, when Her Grace first left the  protection of my roof, I have not seen her, nor made any effort to  follow her movements. In return, I have heard nothing, either of her or  from her. Having instructed you to inform me if her monthly allowance  went uncollected, I have assumed her to be alive and well. At the  moment, I simply wish to ascertain her whereabouts and mode of living,  with a view to initiating a suit of divorce at the earliest  opportunity."

"I see." Mr. Baneweather glanced down at the neat stack of papers before  him. "May I ask what brought about this change of heart? I recall you  were adamant, most adamant, that the marriage should be allowed to  stand, despite my advice at the time."                       
       
           



       

"Twelve years have passed, Mr. Baneweather. My son is nearly grown. In  addition, I have recently formed an attachment to a most worthy young  lady." The words came out more easily than he expected. He had chosen  them carefully; they sounded much more respectable than the bald truth: I  have debauched and deflowered an innocent young lady of unknown  background, and it seems I cannot live without her.

"Ah. Of course. I confess, Your Grace, I had been hoping for something of this nature. Your case has always . . ."

"To that end, Mr. Baneweather," Ashland went on, "I wish you to supply  me with Her Grace's current direction. I shall wish to make such a  delicate interview in person. I expect she is abroad?" As if a runaway  wife could be anywhere else.

Mr. Baneweather cleared his throat. "In fact, she is not. She lives-that  is to say, the address at which she collects her allowance-that  particular address is in London. Putney, to be precise."

"Putney!" Ashland started forward in his chair. A sharp pulse shot  through his blood: Isabelle in Putney, a mere few miles away. Doing  what? Living with whom? He had always imagined her in Europe somewhere,  some fashionable place by the sea, Nice or Portofino. He had allowed her  a thousand pounds a year, enough to give her an independence, so she  should not be obliged to find another protector when Somerton inevitably  left her. A thousand pounds ought to give her a luxurious style of life  abroad.

Putney. Fashionable, expensive Isabelle, living in the dreary London suburbs. What had happened?

"Yes, Putney. Five or six years, in fact."

"And you did not inform me?"

"You asked not to be informed, Your Grace. With respect." The flush was fading at last from Mr. Baneweather's face.

So Isabelle had been within reach, all this time. Within reach to . . .  what? Divorce her? Take her back? The Earl of Somerton had married some  beautiful young debutante about five or six years ago; the papers had  been full of the news. Was that why Isabelle had returned to England?  Ashland pressed his forefinger into his leg to stop the whirl of  thoughts in his head. Discipline. Focus. "Very good. So I did. You will  please write down this Putney address for me, Mr. Baneweather, and await  my further instructions in the matter. In the meantime, I have a  contract of sorts for you to draft." He reached into his coat pocket and  withdrew a few folded sheets of paper. "I have written down the salient  points. I shall need it drafted up properly within a week's time. I can  be reached at Brown's hotel."

Ashland rose from his chair and placed the papers at the edge of Mr.  Baneweather's endless and gleaming desk. The thin sheets wilted  mournfully downward in the warmth.

Baneweather was scribbling furiously. "Here you are, Your Grace," he  said, rising. His mustache twitched eagerly. "Is there anything else I  can do for you?"

Isabelle in Putney.

Ashland looked down at the paper before him. The familiar scent of fresh  ink anchored him to reality as he read the impossible lines. "Nothing  else at the moment, Mr. Baneweather." He looked up. "But I expect I  shall have further instructions for you shortly."

* * *

The hackney deposited him at the end of the street, as he instructed.  "Wait for me," he said, tossing the driver a few shillings, and settled  his hat snugly on his head.

The London fog was thick today, that grotesque and dank miasma of coal  smoke and river damp. It burned his Yorkshire lungs and obscured the  details of the houses as he passed: comfortable suburban villas,  semi-detached, stained gray by years of fog, with neatly tended gardens  and barren January window boxes.