Page 19 of Dick Stone, Regency Stud
The Regency Stud Makes a Ménage
Elizabeth Roubaix
Chapter 1
London, 1816
“They said we’d find him at the sign of the barber’s pole.”
“The barber’s pole with two wash balls at the bottom? An appropriate sign for his line of work.”
The two men guffawed like schoolboys and gripped their trousers. They hovered at the entrance of the barber’s shop on Fetter Lane as if terrified that coming any further would cause the forfeiture of a good molar to the tooth-pulling prowess of Mr. Rymer, said barber.
From his rented office in the back of the barber shop, Lord Edward Richard Stone watched the men. He turned the pages of the gazette he’d been reading and sipped his weak tea, obscuredfrom view by a fabric panel that marked the boundaries of his very modest place of business.
What business did a Marquess’s second son have with business, you ask? It was a long tale, and one he preferred not to dwell on — although he seemed to be the only one in London with those sentiments.
“They say he refused to execute a lad for desertion on the eve of Waterloo. Was saved from the firing line himself by his Papa,” said one of the young blades, making his way towards the back of the shop.
“Imagine if every army captain was that soft-hearted. We’d likely be under the heel of Boney now!”
Lord Edward rose from his seat, preparing to greet the fops.
“If I were on the battlefield with Wellington, I’d have been a true asset, never questioning—”
The young man ran into a solid wall, which turned out to be Lord Edward’s chest.
“Beg your pardon. We’re looking for Dick Stone,” he said.
“Are you now?” drawled Lord Edward, not so removed from his aristocratic upbringing that he couldn’t sneer with the best of them.
“Oh, I hope you aren’t sore about what we said on the way back here,” said the other man, his eyes widening when he caught sight of Lord Edward’s face. “Whathesaid.” The gent gestured to his friend, ready to betray him after just one raised eyebrow.
“What brings you here, lads?” asked Edward.
“See here, we’re not lads,” said the first gent, puffing up with his own importance.
His mate grabbed him by the sleeve. “Hold on there, Jack. We’re here to plead our case.”
The young buck quickly reconsidered and took a different tack. “You’re Lord Edward Stone. Is it true what they say about you?”
Edward reflected on all that could be said about him, true and untrue, and merely stared at the young man.
“Well, it’s just that our good mate—”
“Our best mate—”
“Yes, our best mate, Charley, got saddled with a bride. Quite a bad business.”
“Drunk for days. Despairing.”
“Yes, so he finally agreed to the marriage to wrap up the whole wretched mess, and what does his father do next?”
“Demands an heir of the cursed union.”
Lord Edward let them talk. He estimated they were in their early twenties and Lord Something or Honorable Something by their general air of entitlement.
They were running out of their entitlement to his time.
