Page 71 of Disciplined by the Duke
The Earl of Rothchild snorted. “One can imagine. When a man like the Marquis de Lafayette discovers he’s been cuckolded, it’s best to have a large body of water between the two of you.”
“Rothchild,” Marcus said, a note of warning in his voice. He rested his arm on the back of Liz’s chair. “Mind your language.”
“You’re wasting your breath with that one,” Summerset drawled. “If I hadn’t seen his name inDebrett’sI never would have believed Rothchild to be an earl. He is about as unrefined a peer as one could be.” He nodded at the man on his left. “Well, except for this lout here.”
Sutton rolled his eyes. Liz had to admit that the olive-skinned man with the untamed facial hair was unlike any other peer she’d ever seen.
A server stopped at the table, her long skirts swinging. “Refill on those coffees? And what can I get for you two?”
“A coffee sounds lovely, thank you.” The odor of baked pastry and roasted meat made her stomach gurgle in protest.
“And two pies,” Marcus added.
Dunkeld watched the woman’s backside as she left, an appreciative smile curling his lips, before turning back to Marcus. “What brings you here with your lovely friend?”
“A favor.” Marcus took the plates from the server’s hand and placed one in front of Liz, a mug of steaming coffee joining it. “I might need one soon.” He looked each man in the eye. “And it will be a big one.”
Sutton’s dark eyes flickered to Liz before landing back on the duke. “Does this favor come from you or from our mutual friends?”
Liz kept her hands and mouth busy eating the delicious pie, but her mind spun at the implications. Spies. They were all spies. After reading Marcus’s letter, she’d known that he was involved in the Crown’s most secret affairs. Were all lords involved in espionage for the state?
“This is from me. I have a situation that I hope to resolve through regular channels, but it might need a stronger touch.”
“A stronger touch.” Sutton smirked. “I can see that is where Dunkeld and I would come in, but I don’t think Summerset would be of much use to you. He might muss his hair.”
Summerset ran his hands over his short curls, two locks on each side of his forehead artfully coiling up towards his crown. He gave the men a pitying look. “Imbeciles. You don’t have to ignore fashion to be a real man. Besides”—he kicked one of his booted feet up on the table—“I could take down any of you brawny beasts with the judicious placement of this one heel.”
Rothchild burst out laughing and picked up his friend’s foot, lifting it high in the air and dumping Summerset backwards. “Look at the size of that heel! Are you overcompensating for some other deficiency wearing that?”
The other men hooted while Summerset struggled to reclaim his leg. He yanked it from Rothchild’s grip and slammed it down on the floor. Tugging on the lapels of his coat, he adjusted the knot of his starched white cravat. “Imbeciles,” was all he said.
“Gentlemen, can we get back to the matter at hand?” Marcus’s hand slid from the chair back to rest on her shoulder, squeezing lightly. “This favor is not something to take lightly. And I’ll understand if you want no part of it.”
Rothchild leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes on the spot the duke’s hand lay. “You know we stand with you. What do you need?”
Liz glanced around at the other customers. No one seemed to pay them particular attention, but with so many people it was hard to be sure. She leaned into Marcus. “Perhaps we should discuss this somewhere more private. Anyone might hear you.”
“You’d be surprised at how many secrets are discussed within these four walls.” The corners of his eyes crinkled. “Sometimes it’s best to have covert discussions in plain sight.”
“Besides,” Dunkeld added, “it’s so loud in this place no one can hear what is said.”
Liz focused on the table to their left, and conceded he was right. She couldn’t hear a word of those men’s conversations.
“Liz’s sister is at Newgate,” Marcus said, getting down to it. “The man we are looking for is responsible for keeping her there.”
“Keeping a woman trapped in that hellhole on purpose?” Rothchild asked. A muscle throbbed in his jaw. “Who’s behind it? And how is our traitor connected to your maid’s sister?”
From the raging heat of her cheeks, Liz knew her face matched the burgundy of the gown she wore. The redheaded man choked on a swallow of coffee, and the dandy rested his chin in one palm propped up on the table, as if he were watching a fascinating opera. Her stomach cramped, and she put down her fork, unable to eat another bite. Bad enough that her folly be exposed to these men. But her actions also exposed Marcus to ridicule and contempt.
He continued stroking her collarbone, his finger never skipping a beat. “Liz is no longer my maid, and that topic is no longer up for discussion. Is that clear?” A smile graced his lips, but the tone of his voice matched the granite in his eyes.
Marcus waited until each man gave a nod of acknowledgment before continuing. “Westmore is the man we’re looking for. He tried to steal the correspondence I received from France.” The men around the table cursed, except for Dunkeld, who stared into his coffee with brows drawn. “Liz and I are heading to Newgate now so I can assess her sister’s situation. If I am unable to remove her from the prison or get her a new trial”—Liz stiffened and he squeezed her shoulder—“a fair trial, then I will want to call in some favors to help remove her from Newgate.”
“A jailbreak on English soil. I’ve never done that before,” Dunkeld said, scratching his cheek.
“What about Hindu—”
“I said English, not British.” Dunkeld glared at the Baron of Sutton for a moment before breaking into a wide grin. “But that was fun. Count me in.”