A Duke in the Night(42)

“It’s a swan, not a flamingo. And you sound like my sister, though she called it a bat,” August grumbled.

“You should have listened to her.”

August paused, his hand halfway to the door. Perhaps Clara had a point. Perhaps, in an effort to bridge the gap between them and reassure Anne that he had not intended to be dismissive of her talents, he could have a new sign made. One that would be crafted from her sketch. He had no doubt it would please her immeasurably. And it would prove to her that, while he was still her brother and responsible for her future, he was making an effort to listen and not simply trying to control her life. What harm could it do, really?

Anne’s drawing would still be on his desk. He would send a note to Duncan to have a new sign made and shipped immediately.

“Come, Miss Hayward,” he said, buoyed by his decision. He grasped the heavy iron door handle. “Tell me about your brother. What made him want to pursue medicine?”

Clara stepped past him into the din of the tavern. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

August followed her gaze and gestured to a man sitting against the far wall, a tankard of ale in his hand, speaking with an individual dressed like a seaman. It had been a long time since August had seen Strathmore. The baron had nearly the same dark mahogany hair as his sister and the same dark eyes. He was dressed neatly, his hair pulled back into a queue, but his tidy appearance couldn’t disguise the weary, worried lines of his face. August recognized that look. He had once worn the same haggard look for too many years. Perhaps this would be easier than he expected.

August strode toward the far side of the tavern, weaving his way through the long tables and benches. The tavern was busy tonight, just as Miss Baker had said, and it pleased August to no end to see trays of ale and bowls of stew being served with a most satisfying swiftness.

Strathmore must have seen them coming, because he broke off his conversation and rose. The man he was speaking to turned, and August noted his battered coat and the old-fashioned tricorne he held in his hand. A sea captain perhaps, though one who looked more like a pirate, given his dark beard and the small braid at his temple.

The baron stepped forward, grasping Clara’s hands and kissing her lightly on the cheek before he turned to August. “Your Grace, it is a pleasure,” he said. “My apologies for the change in plan. I hope it didn’t cause you any inconvenience.”

“Not at all,” August replied, avoiding looking in Clara’s direction. “And the pleasure is all mine. I did not mean to interrupt your conversation.” He let his gaze settle on the sea captain.

“Captain Black at your service, Your Grace,” the man said, not waiting for introductions and sketching a brief bow. His dark eyes returned to August for a second before they settled on Clara. He swept his tricorne in front of him and his bow became exaggerated. “And you must be Dr. Hayward’s beautiful sister, who he speaks of so often.”

“One of them,” Strathmore said drily. “Clara, may I present Richard Black, captain of the Azores. Captain, my sister, Miss Clara Hayward.”

“Enchanted,” the captain said, smiling widely at Clara.

“A pleasure,” Clara replied, looking amused.

“It could be,” the captain replied with a wink.

August stiffened, but the baron merely laughed. “You’ll excuse us, Captain?” Strathmore said.

“Of course, of course.” Black settled his tricorne on his head. “I must be away as well. People to see, ships to sail. Enjoy your evening.” He tipped his hat and melted away into the crowd.

August watched him vanish in the crush. A man to remember, August thought to himself. Not because he particularly wished to make the man’s acquaintance, but because any sea captain clearly so familiar with the baron might just be an invaluable source of information when it came to Harland Hayward. Or Strathmore Shipping.

“I’m sorry if we interrupted your conversation before you could finish,” August said to the baron. “Would you care to have him fetched back? He would have been welcome to join us—”

“Hemorrhoids,” Strathmore said succinctly. “We were speaking of hemorrhoids. More precisely the means by which one may reduce them. Not a suitable conversation for dinner, I can assure you.”

“Of course.” August eyed the baron. That had been neatly done. A subject meant to stall a conversation before it ever got started. “Shall we make our way into the dining room then?” He gestured toward the wide, arched door that led farther back.

“Yes, please.” It was Clara who spoke. “I’m quite famished.”

August led them into the room, characterized by ordered tables with proper tablecloths and proper tableware laid out and a noise level that was a third of that in the main tavern. The tables were all occupied save for the largest one on the far wall, set in front of a wide window overlooking the harbor.

“Please.” August gestured for his guests to sit. The baron pulled out a chair for Clara, and once she was seated, both men took theirs. He had barely gotten comfortable when a server materialized at the side of their table.

“Good evening,” he said, and August was pleased to see that the man’s appearance wouldn’t have been out of place in any fine dining room in London. August had worked hard with Charleaux to ensure that the service was impeccable. Along with the French chef, it added to the popularity of the dining room. The man produced a bottle of wine and set to pouring the ruby liquid into the glasses on the table with a subtle flourish.