Page 37 of The Trouble with Tweed

Across the room, the host entered again, trailed by three young lords. It was Lord Nelson and his two friends, Lord Croft and Lord Gresham.

Instantly, Michael adjusted his newspaper higher. Please not the table next to mine, he thought.

But apparently luck was not in Michael’s favor, for he heard the host murmuring and the chairs being pulled out at the table between his and the one inhabited by the Duke of Ettrick.

“Rutheridge,” Lord Nelson called boorishly, not taking the genteel hint of the raised newspaper.

Michael was therefore obliged to lower it and blink with mild surprise as if he hadn’t yet noticed the occupants of the next-door table.

“Nelson,” he said coolly, nodding at the table. “Gentlemen.”

“Come now. We’re old friends,” Lord Nelson boomed. “You must call me Gavin.”

Michael barely held back a wince. He didn’t want anyone to think he considered Lord Nelson a friend. While it was true that they’d known each other for many years, they’d first made each other’s acquaintance back in Eton.

He had thought that Nelson was an insufferable ninny even then. Though Michael believed that, in retrospect, the insult could have rightly been levied at himself as well at the time, he’d matured a great deal in the interim. Nelson had simply grown larger in stature and become even more entitled and insufferable.

Now, Lord Nelson was the worst kind of idiot—a loud one, who believed himself intelligent because he happened to be wealthy. Never mind that he’d inherited it all. Never mind that he was spending it at an alarming rate. He wore his blond hair combed upward into a outlandish pompadour, loved a shockingly bright waistcoat, and was altogether a braggish boor.

Thankfully, their adult years had not often thrown Nelson and Michael into the same proximity, and Michael had done an excellent job of ignoring the fellow altogether. Until now.

“Rutheridge,” Nelson said, “I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.”

At least it hadn’t escaped his attention that Michael hadn’t offered Nelson the use of his honorific.

“Apologies,” Michael said politely, “but I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”

Michael was suddenly wishing he’d ordered a plain cup of porridge instead of the full breakfast—no one would question abandoning porridge half-finished.

“Why, you and Miss Preston, of course,” Nelson said, loud enough for the entire room to hear. Thank the heavens there weren’t that many gentlemen in attendance.

Michael arched an eyebrow and said nothing. It was as clear a signal as any, but perhaps Nelson’s fingers were too oily to have a good grasp on manners.

Nelson leaned forward, a smarmy smile upon his face. “It can’t be that you’re actually courting her in earnest,” he pressed. “It must be some sort of lark.”

“What kind of joke do you think I’m playing, precisely?” Michael’s words held the low undercurrent of warning.

Nelson was too daft to recognize it, though Gresham and Croft shifted in their seats and shared a look.

“I thought such a thing could be amusing myself,” Nelson said, fiddling with his cravat and smoothing his waistcoat—a terrible olive-yellow green today. “Did you know there are eight Prestons? What a collection that would be.”

“A collection?” Lord Gresham said, frowning at Nelson’s side. “What on earth do you mean? You cannot hope to marry all of them.”

“Marriage?” Gavin chortled in that disgusting way of his. “Who said anything about marriage?”

“And yet, without the mention of marriage, this conversation veers dangerously close to impropriety,” Michael said. “Unless your words have a different meaning than the obvious.”

“I’m not speaking of anything so serious as that,” Nelson said. “Just a small amusement.”

Michael frowned at him, and Nelson stupidly took the silence as an invitation to continue. “I once heard that the Marquess Rivers had three sisters all fighting for him by the time he finally chose a bride.”

“I doubt you would find much entertainment in that quarter,” Michael said. “It’s well known that Claire Preston is prudent. As a matter of politeness, I visited her only the other day, and she insisted upon reading aloud to me from Fordyce’s Sermons for upwards of an hour.”

“That only makes it more challenging. It will be all the more enjoyable when I turn her attention to me.”

Rutheridge snapped his paper irritably and changed tactics. “I can think of no faster way to die than by toying with one of Lord Cavendish’s sisters.”

“Indeed,” Lord Croft said, frowning. “It’s widely accepted that he’s dangerous.”