Spencer nodded sagely. “Ah. A good cellar His Grace keeps. I have twice spoken to Fleetwood to see whether a trade would be appropriate for the 1769 merlot we have, for a case of their 1782 sauvignon blanc. Naturally, he refused.”
Monty smiled. The two butlers had been in competition since he was a child, and Josiah and Harry had clattered in and out of his home in Cavendish Square. Evidently, Fleetwood had not forgotten—or forgiven—that on one particularly rambunctious afternoon, he and Harry had accidentally smashed the Devonshire supply of 1769 merlot, leaving Fleetwood utterly bereft.
“And how was young Lady Harriet?”
Spencer’s voice broke through Monty’s thoughts, but it was a few moments before he realized who he was talking about.
“Lady Harr—? Oh, you mean Harry! She was in top form,” Monty said with a grin. “Harry always is. I am not sure whether I can enjoy a social engagement without her, for she is such good company.”
His grin broadened as he thought of the second bottle of champagne they had liberated from the kitchen before escaping to the garden and the giggles as they drank it together under the stars.
“And what are your plans for today, Your Grace?” Spencer asked smoothly with a raised eyebrow. “Recovery?”
Monty bristled. “Recovery? I am quite well, man.”
Spencer had not been the butler to the Cavendishes for thirty years to be so easily taken in with that sort of nonsense. As he moved around the table, a silver platter clanged into another.
Monty winced.
“Of course, Your Grace,” the butler said with a smile. “So, you would not like a cup of my special restorative?”
There was silence, and then Monty laughed. “Have it your way, Spencer, I never could lie to you. Yes, please, a large one. I have to go to town and see to a few things.”
His servant moved to the sideboard where, prepared as only the best butlers were, he had evidently secreted a draught of his special restorative—a drink Monty had come to depend on during his university days.
“Perhaps to pick out a bride?”
Heat rushed through Monty’s stomach, and he snapped, “What the devil do you mean by—”
But as the butler turned around, his master saw the mischievous smile and relaxed.
“I do not like to be teased, man,” Monty said warningly. “No, despite what everyone in society thinks, I am not ready to pick out a bride just yet. After all, I have to find one who can put up with my bad temper in the morning!”
The butler smiled and handed over the cup. The liquid was green, thick, and bubbled in the corners. Monty swallowed. It was always worse before you drank it.
But such was the power of the mysterious brew that within half an hour, Monty was already in the stables, saddling his favorite horse. His home—this one—was but a twenty-minute ride from town. Not that there was anything wrong with his townhouse in Cavendish Square. The city was all very well, for what it was. But you could not keep horses there, and Monty looked down the stable row at six of his finest with a smile.
The journey was pleasant. He had too much to do today to complain: the bookmakers, the card table, that damned lawyer…
No. He would not give him any additional time than that which he would be forced to spend in his presence.
When his horse’s hooves clattered on the cobbles of the stable yard, just outside Paddington, Mr. Groats came out to meet him.
“Your Grace!” he bellowed. “Such a pleasure to see you again!”
Monty grinned as he dismounted. “Good morning, Mr. Groats. I see you are in fine health.”
The ruddy-faced man, once strong but run to seed, beamed. “No more than you, sir, no more than you. Now, what can we do for this beauty?”
Reaching out a hand to slap his horse’s neck, Monty said, “This is Pegasus—yes, I know, ’tis a ridiculous name, but a friend of mine named him. She had finished off some Greek tales, you know how it is with them. Pegasus needs rubbing down, some oats, and a place to stand for a few hours while I take care of some business in town. Is there room in the inn?”
Mr. Groats smiled. “If there was not, I would remove my own steed to ensure there was. Here, Pegasus.”
Gruff he may be, but Mr. Groats knew horses. Monty watched as the man expertly introduced himself to Pegasus, coming toward him slowly with a hand full of oats pulled from a waistcoat pocket, and blew on his nose gently.
Pegasus took a small step toward the food.
Monty nodded. “I knew I could trust you, Mr. Groats.”
“You are my finest customer,” he said, quiet at last as he befriended another horse. “You take as long as you need for your errands around town—and if you are picking out a trousseau for that bride, everyone says you’ll have soon, take extra time.”
A flicker of irritation sparked as he attempted to keep his voice calm. “Just because a gentleman reaches five and twenty does not mean he is going to be wed.”
The man was not listening. He was stroking Pegasus’s mane slowly and making little crooning noises.
“Besides,” continued Monty, “I would have to find a woman who understands horses like I do, and that is no easy task. Until this afternoon, Mr. Groats.”
It was after a rather tense conversation with his bookmaker, a stingy man who had miscalculated his bill and hoped the Duke of Devonshire would be so hungover from that big wedding not to notice, that Monty walked into someone.
“I do beg your pardon. I did not—Axwick!”
A tall gentleman stood before him, an acquaintance. The sixteenth Duke of Axwick grinned, his dark hair falling over his eyes.
“Think nothing of it, Devonshire,” Axwick said easily. “These blasted corners are impossible to navigate.”
Monty nodded. “I hear congratulations are in order. A successful delivery of a fine son, I heard.”
Axwick’s face broke into a broad smile. “I must admit, I’m delighted, Devonshire, just delighted. Tabitha has borne it like a soldier, and I can give her no higher praise than that. It turns out marriage is far better than I ever thought it could be.”
It was difficult not to smile. Monty was almost a decade younger than the Duke of Axwick, and so they had not attended Eton or Cambridge together. Nonetheless, he was renowned for the vow he had taken years ago never to marry—a vow he had broken last year. One woman had changed everything.
“What about yourself, Devonshire?” Axwick asked easily. “Have you considered settling down and popping out a few heirs?”
Monty laughed to hide the frustration boiling in his stomach. “Not until I find a lady as witty as your Tabitha. Did you see her letter to the Times?”
“Careful,” said Axwick with a grin. “She has no sisters, and I don’t want to find you knocking on my door!”
The two chuckled, and Axwick bowed and had his courtesy returned, and then they went their separate ways.
Monty tried to keep smiling, but his continuous encounters with those determined to marry him off like some young debutante were starting to grate his nerves. It was part of being a Cavendish, his father had once told him. Everyone knew your business, and those who did not, thought they did.
His mother, who had been a Broughton, had found it as challenging. Monty smiled wistfully as he strode down Waverton Street. She had borne it with dignity and calm, and that was the least he could do. Having a title made the world feel like it owned you. It did not. He would not let it.
He spied his cousin Letitia, another Cavendish. She was with a young lady, and they were peering into the window of a dressmaker, which had a rather daring display of bonnets and the latest fashions.
Letitia caught sight of him in the reflection and turned around, curtseying low.
Monty sighed. If only Letitia were not such a stick in the mud. She only curtseyed because he was the head of the Cavendish family, and she was from a junior branch. It was foolish and discomforting. They had grown up together, more siblings than cousins.
Her com
panion turned, dropping into a deeper curtsey. Monty snorted and continued walking. It would not do to stop. He had once spoken with Letitia in the street about a surprise birthday party for Harry, and within two days, it was all over town that they were engaged to be married!
Monty’s stopped at Bishops, Bishops, Needham, and Sons without conscious thought. He took a deep breath. This was his least favorite errand of the day, but if he did not do it, he would only have to come back into town again tomorrow. This could be put off no longer.
He gritted his teeth and rang the doorbell. It took less than five seconds for the door to be opened as a footman bowed him in.
Damned lawyers and their filthy money.
The younger Mr. Bishops came hastily down the corridor. “Your Grace, such an honor—we were not expecting—”
“I know,” said Monty shortly. “I wish to see Mr. Bishops, the elder, please. And quickly. I have many calls on my time.”
It was all nonsense, of course. He had but one errand after this and could then spend the day in leisure, but he wished to spend as little time as possible in this godforsaken place.
“Of course,” bowed Mr. Bishops, a gentleman a few years older than Monty but wearing a ridiculous gray wig. “My father is upstairs. I will fetch him. If you will come this way.”
Monty had more patience for the older man as he stepped into the room to wait.
“Your Grace, what a pleasure this is,” smiled the elderly man.
Monty nodded. “Please, sit down, Mr. Bishops. I have no wish to stand on ceremony.”
They sat on either side of a large mahogany desk, and Mr. Bishops blinked. “And what can we do for you today?”
Monty leaned back in his chair. “A few things. Firstly, I would like to see the new tenancy agreement your boy mentioned the last time I was here. New rules about enclosures, I hear?”
Mr. Bishops smiled. “I just so happen to have it here—yes. As you can see, the changes made are slight, in clauses…”
Monty allowed the legal jargon to wash over him. Just happened to have it with him? It was probably the first thing he pulled from a drawer when the Duke of Devonshire was announced. Clever man.
“…as each tenant signs it,” finished Mr. Bishops. “You have over eighty tenants, is that correct?”
“Eighty-four.” Monty prided himself for knowing all of their names, though some of their children escaped him. Every time he visited a tenant’s cottage, there were more.
Mr. Bishops nodded. “I will make an appointment with Mr. Briggs, your land manager, and I can explain it to him in turn before they sign it. Or young Bishops can if I am unable to make the journey. Devon is so far away.”
Monty nodded.
The paperwork disappeared, and the lawyer blinked. “And there is the small matter of…of succession, Your Grace.”
Every nerve in Monty tensed. “What exactly does that mean?”
“Well, as you know,” said Mr. Bishops delicately, “every family, every gentleman, no matter their social standing, has the obligation to…to consider who will come after. When it comes to a family as great and noble as yours… We need to start putting in place the legal procedure for your second cousin to inherit.”
“I am hardly near the grave!” Monty exploded. “And Daniel is my younger brother, why in Heaven’s name cannot he take the damned title? Dear God, man, is this about my blasted marriage again?”
There was stunned silence in the room as Mr. Bishops sighed nervously.
Monty could feel his breath fiery in his lungs, red hot and flaming, ready for a row—but the sight of the quivering lawyer calmed him. This was not the old boy’s fault. Not directly, anyway.
Mr. Bishops swallowed. “Your Grace, by the terms of your grandfather’s will—”
“The will you helped him write,” shot Monty swiftly, failing to keep the frustration from his voice.
Mr. Bishops stood rather shakily.
“If you would rather consult with another partner, I believe Mr. Needham is—”
Monty raised a hand. “I must apologize, Mr. Bishops. I have had…let us say, a few people ask me today when I intend to wed. I am afraid you were the straw that broke my camel’s back.”
Mr. Bishops lowered himself into his chair. “You…you have a camel, Your Grace? I thought you were a horseman.”
It was impossible to stifle a laugh. “No camels, Mr. Bishops. If I am candid with you, and I always am, I believe it will be some time before I am wed. The Devonshire estate is so complex, it takes such a great deal of management—I would need a wife who could leave the fripperies and bright parties of town behind and spend most of it examining field drainage and crop rotations. Those women are few on the ground.”
Monty knew exactly what was coming; knew it before the lawyer opened his mouth. That damned will.
“But, Your Grace, you have a legal obligation to marry,” Mr. Bishops said slowly. “A legal obligation due not only to your line but by your six and twentieth birthday. The line must go to the eldest born, your brother is immaterial, but your second cousin—”
“That damned will,” Monty said aloud. “Everyone seems to know about it. Everyone seems to have heard! My damned grandfather! Who decides to put that sort of pressure on a gentleman?”
Mr. Bishops looked at him keenly. “’Tis the obligation of every title of note, and you are the Duke of Devonshire—the twelfth if my memory does not do me a disservice. You are wealthy, and I am informed by my granddaughter that you are considered a rather handsome chap,’ I think was her wording.”
The lawyer looked so disapproving, Monty could not help but grin. He had been blessed with good looks, and he was not blind to the way ladies looked at him.
“My point, although rather ill-made, is this, you should have no difficulty finding a wife.”
Monty sighed and shook his head. “It is not just the finding of someone, it is finding the right one. Marriage lasts forever, Mr. Bishops.”
The older gentleman raised an eyebrow. “I am, of course, no expert in the aristocracy or nobility, but from my dealings with them, I have found once the line of succession is secured, there is typically no need for husbands and wives to even live together.”
“That is not the marriage I want.” Monty tried to calm his breathing down again, his fiery temper rising at the very thought of being that kind of husband.
One saw them all the time, women draped in placatory diamonds sent by their husbands to ward off any complaints as they lived with their mistresses. Poor things, pitied by all and ignored by anyone of good standing in society.
He would not marry just to cast his wife into that sort of ignominy.
Mr. Bishops was speaking, and Monty forced himself to concentrate.
“This marriage has to happen, and in the next six months,” said the lawyer with a frown. “Bear that in mind the next time you are introduced to a fine young lady.”
Monty breathed in the cool, fresh air as he left the. It was too stuffy in there, in temperament as well as temperature. He needed to stretch his legs and started to walk swiftly back toward the stable yard in Paddington.
So, he had to find a wife and quickly. He turned six and twenty in six months, and that would be too late.
His thoughts turned back through the day at all the bridal requirements he had mentioned to people. They were all true, and more’s the pity, he wanted so much more: beauty, wit, and a good conversationalist to boot. He was never going to find a woman like—
He crashed into a woman as he came around a corner.
“Oh, my dear lady, I cannot apologize enough for—God’s teeth! Harry!”
She was standing before him, her bonnet askew after their collision, but a smile on her face.
“Head in the clouds?”
“Better than in the gutter,” grinned Monty, which made her laugh.
“That was never your style,” she said good-naturedly. “Where are you going in such a hurry?”
He shrugged. Ev
ery scrap of bad temper had vanished. “I have no idea.”
The sunlight caught her chestnut hair and made it glow. “Me neither. Let’s go together.”
As they meandered down the streets of London in no particular direction, Monty found the tension in his shoulders from that damned lawyer’s office was gone.
“Still recovering from last night?”
Monty grinned. “I would have thought you would be the suffering one—I had two whole cups of Spencer’s restorative!”
“Oh, God, two cups!” Harry pulled a face as they turned onto another street. “You must have been feeling awful, but then you did have an entire bottle of champagne more than I!”
It was so simple, talking with Harry. Monty remembered the disorientation of his first ball when as a whippersnapper of sixteen, he had walked up to a gaggle of young ladies and attempted to draw them into a conversation about horse racing. One of them had turned up her nose at him. The others had laughed.
But it was easy with Harry. Perhaps because they had known each other for so long. Perhaps because she simply wasn’t a complicated woman like the rest of them.
“You did not come here by coach, did you?”
Monty shook his head. “No, I rode on—”
“Pegasus,” supplied Harry. “Do not look like that! Pegasus is a beautiful name, the only good name for a horse.”
“But how did you know?”
Harry grinned, and Monty took in those brilliant eyes and that chin jutting out whenever she felt challenged. “It was rather simple. Caesar doesn’t like this cool weather, and you mentioned at Josiah’s wedding yesterday, Brutus had thrown a shoe. That left Pegasus and Max, and Max is getting old for that sort of journey, don’t you think?”
“You actually listened,” said Monty with a grin. “It’s a miracle really, for I speak so much nonsense.”
He had expected her to make another witty retort back, but instead, Harry’s cheeks flushed, and she looked at her feet as they walked. “Of course I do.”
Her voice was low, a strange look in her eyes. An emotion he did not recognize.
Always the Best Friend (Never the Bride Book 4) Page 2
