Page 65 of A Scot on Duchess Square
While his bags were taken upstairs, he strode into his study and quickly sorted through the correspondence piled atop his massive desk. Most were invitations, probably the same as those Miranda had received. He would bring them along when he called upon her tomorrow and they could sort through them together.
Gad, this was difficult. He was already missing her to the point of distraction. The thought of dining alone this evening had his gut churning.
He ought to have invited Miranda and Gwenys to dine with him tonight. Fool that he was, it hadn’t crossed his mind until now.
Well, he would make use of his evening alone and stop in at White’s to see if any of his fellow Scots were there. He hoped to find the Duke of Camborne, share a drink with him, and perhaps engage in a serious chat, because Camborne’s situation was not far removed from Bram’s own.
His friend had been a notorious rake and confirmed bachelor until shocking thetonby succumbing to love a few years ago. Bram wanted to pick his brain and learn how married life had worked out for him.
After sorting through his correspondence and setting aside the business matters that would take more time to address, heretired to his bedchamber and readied himself for an evening at London’s most elite gentlemen’s club.
The house he was letting came with a full staff that included a valet for himself. The fellow was a decent chap by the name of Caulfield who had a refined eye for fashion, a trait Bram unquestionably lacked.
“Well, Caulfield? How do I look?”
“Like a dashing duke, Your Grace,” Caulfield said, taking a moment to measure the distance between the end of Bram’s jacket sleeve and the cuff of his shirt peering out from it.
“I’ll be off, then.” He was sorry Miranda was not here to see him, for he rarely looked as finely garbed as he was tonight. He had worn his formal best one evening while on the road to London, but any fool could see that he had dressed himself and not used the services of a valet. Apparently his cravat had been askew and his shirt cuffs must have poked out too much, because Miranda had spent a moment fussing over him in order to straighten out those finer details before they had marched into the dining room of the inn at York. Thanks to her, he had made a decent enough impression on the Lawsons.
But tonight…he was impeccable.
To his good fortune, the steward at White’s advised him that Camborne was at the club. “Your Grace, he is seated in one of the private rooms, sharing a brandy with two of his friends, the Duke of Lynton and Duke of Bromleigh.”
“Ah, thank ye,” Bram said, striding off to find his friend, although it was proper protocol to have the steward escort him.
But Bram was too impatient for this formality. And he would not be rebuked. Dukes were never rebuked unless they earned the ire of someone with a superior title. For him, that would be the royal family.
No royals here tonight to voice complaint.
Camborne, Lynton, and Bromleigh had once been known as the Silver Dukes, all of them notorious rakes in their early forties and determined never to marry. The famous betting book at White’s had seen much action because of them.
As the years came and went, each year bringing speculation about the beautiful ladies they escorted around Town, the club members would wager on which duke would be the first bachelor to fall into the parson’s mousetrap, or whether they would ever fall at all.
Well, they had all fallen. Within the span of a month, no less. All three had gone from rakehells to faithful husbands, and the news had left thetonreeling.
But the entertainment was not yet over, because these three, having found themselves happily captured, next set up betting books on their bachelor friends.
None of their bachelor victims had complained once ensnared, as far as Bram knew, for all were rumored to have made love marriages.
This gave him hope that these dukes could impart some wisdom when it came to winning Miranda’s hand in marriage. He believed quite strongly that he already had her love, which ought to have been the hard part, but it was not.
Bram spotted the three of them seated in soft leather chairs around the hearth in the cozy, wood-paneled room. He was relieved they were not already tight as ticks, for he needed to engage them in a serious discussion about married life and wanted them sober.
Camborne cheerfully waved him over. “Over here, Solway! Come join us. Ye know my friends, of course.”
“Aye, I do.” Bram greeted Bromleigh and Lynton, two men he much admired even though they were Englishmen. But they had brains, something often lacking in English peers.
“What brings ye to the club?” Camborne asked.
Bram sank into a chair beside his kinsman. “I came in search of ye, hoping for a bit of advice.”
Bromleigh set aside his glass. “Shall we leave you to talk in private?”
Bram motioned him to remain seated. “No, actually, all three of ye would be helpful.”
Lynton arched an eyebrow. “How so?”
“I’m curious to learn how married life has worked out for ye.”
