Page 75 of How to Capture a Duke

The noise level in the room increased as more men arrived to take their places. Tristan turned his attention to the business at hand. He spotted Lord Dumfries with a group of gentlemen who were taking their seats. Lord Ware was not with Dumfries. Without his friend, Dumfries looked like a petulant child.

Excitement thrummed in Tristan’s veins when the speaker called all to attention and listed the items on the agenda for the day.

“The first member who added his name to speak for the bill is His Grace, the Duke of Keswick.”

Eyes turned to him. A hushed murmur came over the crowd. Tristan pushed aside his trepidation at the attention. The members were surprised, that was all. He’d never entered his name on the speaker’s list before. He controlled his breathing. He loosened his throat, his lips, his tongue, his jaw.

He stood and began. “I’d like to begin with the first proposed amendment, line fifteen, of the Soldiers Bill.”

…

Hours later, Tristan left the chamber and made his way to the Prince’s Chamber. His body positively hummed with the thrill of success, an elation for finally accomplishing what he’d dreamed so long of doing. He felt fully alive and gloried in the moment. Others might think it easy, but nothing about it had come easily to him. He’d overcome great odds, and all his hard work had paid off. He’d stumbled only twice, but rather than panic and continue to stutter more, he’d employed the techniques he’d learned and controlled his heart rate and waylaid the dreaded anxiety to successfully finish.

A hand clamped over his shoulder. “I do believe congratulations are in order.”

He turned to see Spencer. “I hardly believe congratulations are in order. I spoke as others have done for years. Voting is not until next month.”

“Do not downplay your efforts. You were very persuasive,” Spencer said. “It’s all everyone is talking about.”

Tristan stopped to look at him. “The fact that I listed my name on the Speaker’s list and argued in favor of a bill?”

“Not just that.”

“Then what?”

“You haven’t seen it?” Spencer pulled out a paper from his leather satchel, unfolded it, and handed it to him.

It was one of London’s gossip pages—the most popular of the rags, The Scandal Pages. At first, Tristan didn’t understand, but then a cartoon on the front page caught his eye. A man stood atop a bench in the House of Lords, dressed in a red robe and white wig, with one hand slapped across his mouth and a group of laughing gentlemen surrounding him. The face of the man was unmistakable.

His own.

Beneath the cartoon, the words read: “Even dukes need help speaking up.”

The rag went on to mention the Duke of Keswick’s meetings with Horace Higgins, a London charlatan who proclaimed he cured men who spoke like toddlers.

A low humming penetrated Tristan’s ears as he clutched the paper in his hands. He suddenly had a heightened awareness of the lords in the Prince’s Chamber, their glances darting to him, and their whispers to one another. Tristan’s gaze met theirs for a brief moment, sufficient for him to recognize the humor in their eyes, enough for a prickle of unease to travel down his spine and cause him to flash back to his past—back to his school days, back to when his professor had called on him and he’d had to answer—and the jeering and taunting of cruel boys. His only saving grace was that Dumfries had already left the building.

“You never told me you were receiving treatment,” Spencer said. “Although after hearing you speak so effectively today, I should have suspected.”

How did this happen? Once more, Tristan’s eyes returned to the caricature. It was so realistic, it made him want to howl in outrage. Perspiration beaded on his brow. The gossip rag only named one anonymous source.

Higgins was sworn to secrecy. The man had assured him their sessions would remain private. The article did not mention what occurred during their meetings, only that they had repeatedly met, and Tristan didn’t think Higgins could have been the source of the leak. It would be professional suicide. No one would pay for Higgins’s services if they believed he would reveal their identity. And Horace Higgins was smart enough to know not to betray a wealthy and powerful duke who could crush him.

Which led him to conclude that someone else had done the dastardly deed.

Tristan’s mind turned over the possible culprits. Could his wife be the anonymous source? No, he couldn’t believe it, wouldn’t believe it. But only two others knew of his association with Horace Higgins.

Olivia and her sister, Ellie, Lady Vere.

Had Olivia slipped by mistake? Mentioned something accidentally to another?

Or had Lady Vere told the gossip rag? It was no secret she’d disliked him from the beginning. Looking back, he couldn’t blame her. Her sister had been forced to the altar because of his deception, and then he had suspected his bride of the worst treachery. He hadn’t been kind to his new bride then, but things had changed. But Lady Vere wouldn’t know that, would she?

Had Lady Vere’s distrust festered and she’d seized the first opportunity to gain revenge for his treatment of her sister and humiliate him?

The paper crushed in his fist. He strode away from Spencer and out the front door.

He’d demand an answer.