"Soon, I shall find the prize, and the cursed Duke of Pembroke shall gasp in shock at my victory. With any luck at all, he'll drop dead in his tracks."
-From the journal of Lord Ulridge, November, 1862
With a grimace that often followed imbibing too much bourbon, Edward Mercer, the Duke of Pembroke, forced his brow to lift in hopes the eyelid beneath it would follow suit. It did, giving him a welcomed, if not blurred view of the empty bourbon bottle on his bedside table. Emptying the bottle had seemed like a brilliant idea at the time, but now his thumping head and vile stomach had joined the empty bottle in calling him a fool.
Or maybe it wasn't the bottle accusing him of foolery.
"To whom are you referring?" he grumbled, knowing as he did, exactly to whom his valet had addressed his comments.
"Well, your grace, I only see one other in the room, and I'm not in the habit of speaking to myself." Hobbs continued to scurry around the room, jerking open draperies and allowing the sun to add insult to injury. Or would that be injury to insult? Whichever, it bordered on insolence. Hobbs must be in a good mood.
"You do realize I should relieve you of your position?" Edward asked, throwing his arm across his eyes.
"Yes, your grace, and I am forever in your debt."
Swoosh. Another drapery flew open adding the final touch to the attack of light and purity forced on Edward at this ungodly hour.
"Is there a reason for this early morning assault or do you simply have a twist in your nappies?"
Hobbs snorted but didn't alter course. "It's well past noon, and you have a visitor."
With a quick flip, he whipped the blankets from Edward's body before heading to his wardrobe.
"You're a whoreson," Edward grumbled, turning to sit up on the side of his bed. He paused for a moment to allow the room to cease spinning as his feet hit the floor. Only one wore a boot.
Where in the hell was his other boot?
Hobbs responded from the wardrobe to his earlier comment, "Indeed, your grace," as though Edward called him a whoreson on a daily basis. Hmmm. Come to think of it, maybe he did.
"Who is this visitor and why does he have the audacity to assume he could attain an audience with a duke without appointment?"
"It is the paleographer sent by Mr. Macintyre, your grace."
That changed everything. He'd been waiting for this man's arrival for weeks. Quickly, he removed his orphaned boot and dropped his rumpled trousers, knowing that Hobbs was already collecting the clean expertly-tailored clothing that would return Edward to the impeccable state expected of a duke.
