Now, for once, he wished to be truly deserving of such sentiments.
The amber spirits spun in a slow vortex as Marcus swirled his glass before the light. The look of bemusement on his features only deepened on thinking more of the budding friendship that was beginning to take root between the two correspondents. Not only had Firebrand given him encouragement, but the fellow had also begun to share his own doubts and fears. It seemed both of them had developed enough of a trust to reveal theirmost intimate feelings. With a start, he realized how much the rather odd relationship had come to mean to him.
And yet it was ironic, really. They were probably acquainted with each other, and had even conversed on occasion at one of the frivolous entertainments they no doubt both attended. His friend claimed that only family obligations forced him to go out, and even then, he avoided most conversation and remained aloof from the usual inanities. But they were sure to have met at some point. Why, his new friend could be Heppleworth, the gouty old Baron who hobbled about with the aid of a silver-tipped walking stick, or Symington, the quiet gentleman from the north who was said to collect butterflies and beetles.
Indeed, it could be anyone!
He shook his head. It was doubtful he was the only one who took care to disguise his true views behind the mask of rigid manners and studied indifference that thetonall but demanded of its members. No wonder that society seemed so shallow. After a sip or two, the earl found himself moved to put down his glass and take up his pen to put such thoughts to paper.
The next morning, he rose early and spent the morning in his library, putting the finishing touches on his work, all the while fighting down a fluttering of nervous anticipation, as if he were a callow schoolboy about to embrace a woman for the first time. His carriage was brought around. He took one last look in the mirror to straighten the already perfect folds of his cravat and brush the imaginary wrinkles from his coat, then took up his hat and a slim Moroccan leather portfolio and descended the marble steps of his townhouse.
It proved not quite so difficult as he imagined. Though he found his mouth dry as cotton and his throat so constricted that it seemed no words could possibly squeeze out, he managed to rasp out a hesitant beginning. As confidence took wing, his voice steadied and rose, his sentences soaring through the vaultedchamber. The faces before him betrayed a gamut of emotions, from total shock to wary speculation to outright amusement.
When he was done, a smattering of applause was overwhelmed by simple silence. No one was quite sure how to interpret the true meaning of his carefully chosen words. He could hardly blame them if they were all wondering what the deuce the Earl of Dunham was about, giving a speech in the House of Lords. No doubt they found the notion a bit absurd, but perhaps that would soon change.
“I say,Dun, tell me what blunt you managed to wrest out of Copley’s pocket by pulling such a stunt!” cried Lord Becton as the earl handed his walking stick and hat to the porter at White’s. “By God, I nearly wept with laughter at hearing of it. Wish you’d let me place a wager of my own, for no matter how daunting the challenge, I know you always find a way to win in the end.”
“Aye,” chimed in another of his friends. “Always knew you were the cleverest of us all, but how even you managed to pull off such a feat has me in awe.” He raised a glass in salute. “I vow, it’s the best joke yet this Season.”
A chorus of laughter rang out, followed by more friendly gibes. “Whoever did you find to write the bloody speech? Haddington says it actually made some sort of sense—that is, if you’re some prosy bore with radical ideas.”
Marcus walked slowly to a chair near the crackling fire and sat down, Motioning for a newspaper to be brought over, he opened its ironed pages with a decided snap. “It was no joke,” he answered from behind the printed sheet.
A few more chuckles sounded, though this time they sounded more tentative.
“Oh come now, Dun, you’ve no need to play the charade any longer,” said Becton, a broad grin stretched out across his pudgy face. He gave a conspiratorial wink. “Tell us who you have roasted ,so we may go stick a fork in him.”
The earl lowered the newsprint. “Perhaps I’ve become a prosy bore with radical ideas.”
The smiles faded, replaced by expressions of uncertainty.
“You can’t be serious!” exclaimed Viscount Grenwald. “You have too much sense to … to become a sensible fellow on us, Dun.”
“Come to think of it, he ain’t been around much these past few weeks,” groused Becton. “The devil take it, next thing you’ll tell us is you’re contemplating getting leg-shackled.”
There were groans all around.
“I’ve not sunk quite that far into lunacy,” replied the earl dryly.
Grenwald shook his head mournfully. “Far enough, though. I was about to propose a toast, but perhaps it had better be a eulogy to the hearty fellow we once knew.”
“I’m hardly dead, Fitz. It’s more like I’ve just woken up to certain things.”
His friends looked at him with something akin to bewilderment. “Dash it all, I need a glass of claret to help swallow all this,” grumbled Becton. The others quickly voiced their agreement. “Coming, Dun?” he added as they all got to their feet.
“I’ll join you in a bit, as soon as I finish reading this article.”
Becton turned away, muttering darkly under his breath.
As the small group quitted the room, another man rose from one of the oversized armchairs by the fire. “You would do well to heed the advice of your friends, Dunham. It’s rather foolish of aman to get involved in things he knows nothing about,” he said in a light voice.
The earl cocked one dark eyebrow. “You are entirely right. So you may rest assured that I mean to learn as much as I can about the subject.”
The other man looked taken aback. “Whatever for? What possible interest can it be to you?” His eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “After all, one would hardly think of you as possessing the … temperament or the inclination for such causes. I can’t fathom why you should risk making a cake of yourself in public.”
“I’m touched by your concern for my reputation,” replied Marcus coolly. “But if I choose to make a fool of myself, that is my concern.”
The gentleman shrugged and made a show of brushing a mote of dust from the sleeve of his immaculate burgundy coat. “I merely wished to offer some friendly advice. You know what they say—a little knowledge can be a dangerous thing.” The casual smile still on his face, he took his leave of the earl and continued on his way out.
