The Duke's Bidding

Chapter 2

London. May 13, 1804.

John crept out of the four-poster bed. He untangled himself from the sheets and, as quietly as he could, went in search of his attire. Where had his trousers disappeared to? This was beyond the pale, even for him. For heaven's sake, he was supposed to be the next Duke of Ashbourne. Not like this was any better for the Marquess of Paigton, his current title, or so the Duke would remind him at every given opportunity. Ah, there were his breeches. Now, if he could only find his shirt and cravat before she wakes up. He could hear the rustling of sheets as she reached for him.

"Come to bed, Love. It's not time to go yet, the night is still young," she drawled.

He grimaced as he found his shirt and pulled it over his head. He hated how some women always wanted to prolong the stay; he hated putting up with lingering in bed after they were finished just to appease them. "Jo, I have told you before, I will not stay the night, in fact, I already have plans to meet Robert at Whites. Go back to sleep."

Not to mention he had no desire to bump into her husband. He heard her mumbled reply, and then there was silence. She must have fallen back asleep. He finished dressing in the dark, got his cravat straightened and pinned as best as he could under the circumstances. Hat and cane in hand, he slowly led himself out of her room and crept down the servant's hallway, down the back stairs, and exited through the service entrance.

It was common knowledge to everyone in the haut ton that Lady Jocelyn Devon did not have a faithful bone in her body. After hunting him for the better part of this season, she finally arranged an assignation with him. While it had been fun at the time, he had no desire of continuing such a liaison, nor did John want to get caught by her elderly coxcomb husband. The idea of causing another scandal to irk the Duke, now that had appeal, for a moment. Self-preservation won out, however, as John had no desire to admit having bed Lady Jocelyn. To anyone!

It was raining for the better part of that evening. John hated the smells in London, but tonight the crisp cool air smelled of rain and wet dirt—a refreshing combination. It was so cold that he could see his own breath. He imagined the warm welcome that awaited him at Whites, the gentleman's club that he had become a member of this season. He placed his hat on, rubbed his hands together, and walked briskly towards St. James Street.

John could discern the outline of the attendant through the fog creeping into the city. He used his cane to tap the brim of his hat in acknowledgement, and walked into the warmth of White's. A waiting attendant took John's cane, hat, and overcoat. John headed for the main card room. As he walked in the room, he noticed Robert, the younger son of the Earl of Augustine, sitting at a table playing a hand of Whist. He peered over Robert's shoulder and saw that it would be a while yet before his friend was ready to go. He pulled up a chair and sat as an observer.

Now Whist was a challenging game. It is played in pairs, and, if you were stuck with a bad partner, you could lose your shirt and coattails to boot. Each person and their partner had to secure a set of seven tricks per hand to win the game. For every game the team won, a point is given, and the first team to collect five points takes the game. Of course, there were different ways of playing whist, but most patrons at Whites preferred this method.

John leaned back in his chair and made eye contact with the nearest attendant, who immediately walked over to him.

"I'll have a tumbler of your best brandy."

The attendant nodded and walked away. While waiting for the man to return, a deep voice drawled "Fine choice for a night such as this. A fine choice indeed!" John looked up at the newcomer and saw that it was none other than Fredrick, his old nemesis from all those years ago.