A Duke in the Night(43)

“Tell Charleaux we are ready to be served,” August instructed.

“Of course.” The man set the bottle in the center of the table and vanished as silently as he’d appeared.

“I understand you had trouble with some soldiers,” the baron said without warning.

August froze. “I beg your pardon?” An image of Clara trapped against a stone wall before they’d been interrupted suddenly filled his mind. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Clara take a long swallow of her wine, which told him that she was imagining the exact same thing. Jesus, if he was going to start this negotiation with Strathmore calling him out, it was going to be a very short discussion indeed.

“Ran into a patrol southwest of town the other day while rendering assistance to a young boy, as I understand.”

The boy. Of course. “I didn’t run into them, exactly,” August said. “Avoided them, more like. Though my horse was not so lucky.”

The baron’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Your horse?”

Strathmore had obviously been speaking to someone other than the staff at Avondale. The nameless child, perhaps. Or perhaps someone in his family. The baron was a doctor, after all, one who seemed to spend a great deal of time in the community, and it wasn’t far-fetched that he might have heard the tale in the course of his travels.

“A flesh wound from a reckless bullet. The horse will be fine,” August said.

“You never said anything.” Clara sounded horrified. “Are you all right?”

“It was nothing, really. No real harm done. I was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Or the right place at the right time.” The baron was still watching him.

August nodded. “Or the right place at the right time, depending on one’s perspective.” He didn’t elaborate. Because that would provoke questions about his actions that he had no interest in answering. Neither Clara nor her brother needed to know why he had done what he had for a boy he didn’t even know.

The baron was watching August intently. “The last years have been difficult. Hunger is a powerful motivator.”

“I understand.” Strathmore and Clara had no idea how much.

“You must eat here often,” the baron remarked, looking around at tables of well-dressed ladies and gentlemen and the occasional table occupied by naval and military officers. “Given that you are on such…familiar terms with the hotelier.”

“Occasionally,” August replied. He picked up his glass and took an appreciative sip. “I confess I enjoy the selection of wines.”

Clara made an inarticulate noise. “The duke owns this tavern and inn.”

“I had no idea,” Strathmore murmured. Brother and sister exchanged a look that August couldn’t decipher.

“I don’t generally advertise it. Monsieur Charleaux manages the day-to-day affairs.”

The baron fingered the stem of his wineglass. “If you own this place, surely you can do something about the sign out front. The first time I was here, I thought the place to be called the Rotted Raven.”

August glanced at Clara, who had suddenly become fascinated with the edge of her napkin.

“As it turns out, Strathmore, that is being addressed as we speak. I shall have a new one in place in the very near future.” August sat back in his chair. He had no interest in speaking of his businesses. “I was asking your sister about your own profession. Whatever made you decide to become a physician?”

Strathmore was eyeing him shrewdly. “It’s something I’d wanted to do for as long as I could remember. And I was fortunate enough to have a family who supported me.” The baron glanced at his sister. “We all were.”

“Why not practice full-time?” August asked casually.

The baron’s brows shot nearly to his hairline. “If I could make a copy of myself, I most certainly would,” he said, and there was a faint bitterness to his words.

August sighed in commiseration. “Ah. I can understand that. The business left to you by your late father must be incredibly time consuming.”

“Something like that,” Strathmore muttered, downing the rest of his wine.

August took a moment to choose his words. “Have you ever considered taking on a partner?”

“A partner?” Strathmore repeated, going quite still.

Beside him Clara visibly stiffened.

“Your comment about making a copy of yourself made me think of it.” August felt the first faint stirrings of misgiving. Perhaps he had misjudged—

“No,” the baron said.

“No, you have not considered it, or no, you wouldn’t consider it?” he asked.

“Both. I have two partners already. One of them is sitting next to you.”

August forced a chuckle. “And a formidable one she is. I learned that the hard way, if you recall.”

“I recall.” The baron was unsmiling.

August tried a different tack. “Forgive me if I spoke out of turn, but in my experience, sometimes to make something truly flourish and reach its full potential, one must occasionally look for assistance. Or break things into pieces that might prove more manageable. A change to the structure, if you will.”

“A change to the structure?” Strathmore reached for the bottle of wine and refilled his glass. “Tell me, Your Grace, is that what you suggested to Walter Merrill?”