“Don Sebastian, wasn’t it? Have you seen Fine shoot?” Sebastian was suddenly the recipient of Lord Valemount’s full attention as the man pretended to cock and fire a gun. “Fine’s aim is almost magical.”
Coincidental choice of words? Or was the duke implying something? Sebastian carefully didn’t look at Wesley. “We practiced trap shooting aboard theGaston. He is the best shot I’ve ever seen.”
“That he is, that he is,” Valemount said agreeably. “And how are you finding our English winter,Señor? Cold and wet enough for you?”
Thornton made a disapproving cluck. “I’m sure the young man could do with a bit of cold; it’s good for the constitution. Soft weather makes for soft men.”
Before Sebastian could figure out how he could possibly respond to that kind of backhanded comment,Valemount waved it off. “Balderdash. The Valemount line has Spanish blood, you know.”
“It does?” Sebastian said, trying to sound surprised.
“Oh yes,” Valemount said. “It goes back many generations but the first Duke of Valemount married a Spanish countess.” He gestured at Wesley and Geoffrey. “They’re cousins; perhaps you’re secretly cousins with the Valemounts too!”
He said it with a laugh, like it was an outrageous idea. Sebastian forced a smile.
“Thornton!” A few yards away, another man in a red coat was waving at their group. “Beagles versus bassets, come settle the argument.”
Lord Thornton perked up. “Excuse me,” he said, turning.
As the marquess left their group, Wesley turned to Valemount. “How are things, the past months?” he asked, which seemed like a tactful way to say,Been involved in any clandestine attempts to wipe magic off the face of the earth, perchance?
“Keeping busy.” Valemount cocked his head. “And what of you, Fine? Never took you as the adventuring type, then next I hear you’re gallivanting across Europe and America. Making new friends,” he said, with a nod at Sebastian, “and coming to parties.”
“Hardly,” Wesley said. “I’m just waiting for an excuse to leave this ballroom for something I can smoke or shoot.”
“Christ, yes, I could use a smoke myself,” Valemount said. “I haven’t any use for dancing or gossip; I say we sneak off to Thornton’s gun room. We can at least have a look, and then shoot billiards, if not the guns.”
“Lead the way.” Wesley set his glass down, still mostly full. “Don Sebastian, would you care to—”
“Don Sebastian!”
“There you are!”
Two women Sebastian hadn’t met yet had suddenly materialized out of the crowd. “You simply must come dance again,” the taller woman said, as she took Sebastian’s arm. “I love a waltz.”
“Or what about bridge?” said the shorter woman, taking his other arm. “And there will be the Christmas play starting too, and the party games—you can’t miss any of that.”
Wesley, Valemount, and Geoffrey faded from sight as Sebastian was pulled back into the crowd.
* * *
“Take the most handsome man you’ve ever met and dress him to the nines,” Wesley muttered under his breath, as he followed Valemount down the hall. “Surely that’s a bloody great idea, Wesley. That could never backfire on you, Wesley.”
“What was that?” Valemount asked.
“Nothing.” Wesley pushed away his reprehensible possessive grumblings and focused on the man next to him. Geoffrey had gone to the gambling tables, leaving Wesley alone with Valemount, and he needed to make the most of this opportunity.
“How did the season treat you?” he asked, gaze on Valemount out of the corner of his eye as they walked.
“Barely had time to make my own opening meet,” Valemount said, shaking his head. “Damn busy autumn. I’ve cursed Alfred more than I did when he was alive—which, let me tell you, is a feat—though I suppose youknow a thing or two about elder brothers leaving you a mess to clean up.”
“I suppose.” The duke—Louis Fairfield, at the time—had been sent home from the war early on, but Wesley had been on the battlefield when he’d learned of the deaths of his father and elder brother, which had left him unexpectedly a viscount. There hadn’t been much cursing, only numbness.
“But then, you’ve been busy too, apparently,” Lord Valemount continued. “Picked up a Spaniard friend—son of a count, you said? How far can his line be traced?”
“Fifteenth century,” Wesley said, quite truthfully.
“Scandalous time in Spain,” Lord Valemount said, which truly wasn’t how Wesley would have chosen to describe the Spanish Inquisition. “His accent is a bit unusual.”
