Page 7 of Isabel and the Rogue

“Of course. Being the head of an old, storied earldom comes with many responsibilities.” The duke cocked his head. “Have you been invited to Harcourt Estate?” He snorted a laugh when Sirius raised a brow. “A silly question.”

Dropping his gaze to the glass in his hand, Sirius pondered his long friendship with the Duke of Whitfield. For all that Whitfield could be acerbic, sardonic, and biting, he was loyal as the day was long. When Sirius had returned from the Continent a broken shell of the man he’d once been, the duke had never shamed him. He had never asked about his time at war, and yet Sirius knew his friend would listen if he ever wanted to talk about the whole terrible business. Once, when Sirius had been unable to get out of bed for a fortnight, Whitfield had forced himself past his butler and valet, marched into his chamber, and yanked open the drapes, revealing his emaciated form to the blinding sunlight. After dragging him out of bed and into a bathtub, the duke had sat by his side as Sirius ate a small meal. Afterward, Whitfield had escorted him to his study, and sat silently next to him for hours, quietly reading a book. Sirius wasn’t sure why the duke had stayed, but he suspected that Whitfield simply wanted him to know he wasn’t alone.

“So if you’re not usually here at this time, why are you here now?” Sirius asked.

“I had a meeting with my solicitor. The man claimed he could only meet in the early afternoon instead of a more appropriate time after four o’clock.” Whitfield’s expression was all that was disgruntled. “And since I was awake and out, it seemed a waste to return to Whitfield Place and let my thoughts entertain me.”

“An abhorrent idea.”

“Indeed.” Whitfield sighed, all feigned resignation. “So here I sit with the elders, fortune hunters, and you.”

“You’ve fallen so low,” Sirius drawled.

“But at least I’ve fallen with you.” Whitfield raised his glass in a toast.

At just that moment, a group of men walked into the dining room, their voices carrying to their far corner. Sirius glanced over, his gaze landing on Viscount Westhope as he picked up a pool cue, a smile on his face as he spoke with a footman. When he clapped the man on the shoulder, Sirius found he was not surprised by the gesture.

Rising to his feet, Sirius tossed his napkin down on the table. “Fox and I are meeting for lunch tomorrow. Join us?”

The duke pulled his chin back. “Of course. But where are you going?”

“I’m off to play billiards.”

“You are?” Whitfield frowned. “I never knew you to like billiards.”

“I like all manner of things and don’t always feel the need to discuss them with you.” Sirius jerked his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of where Westhope was racking balls on a plush red table. “Will you join me?”

“Do I have to?”

Sirius sighed. “Do you object to billiards or Westhope?”

The duke pondered this for a second. “The viscount.”

“Truly?” At Whitfield’s decisive nod, Sirius snorted. “He seems swell. His reputation for being a genuine fellow appears accurate enough.”

“And that’s precisely why I don’t like him. You can’t trust a fellow that nice.”

“We’re friends and I’m a nice fellow,” Sirius pointed out.

“Yes, you are.” Whitfield flourished a palm. “But then you also lead a double life, so…”

Sirius cut the duke a look. He wasn’t sure that Whitfield knew of his work with the Home Office, and he knew better than to ask.

“And what of Fox?” Sirius asked, easing the conversation back on track. “He’s one of the most honorable men I know.”

“Oh, he is. A paragon of virtue.” The duke lifted his glass to the lamp. “But he also tells me to my face when I’m being an arse, so you know he has a bit of the devil in him.”

“Or a bit of backbone.”

“My father always considered both to be synonymous,” Whitfield drawled.

Sirius knew better than to ask any questions about the late duke, so he instead took one last swig from his glass and then tugged on his waistcoat. “In that case, I bid you good day.”

“Goodbye, Dawson.” Whitfield tilted his head in the direction of the billiards table. “And mind your bets. Westhope is known to be quite the player…for all that he’s a swell fellow.”

“I appreciate the warning,” Sirius said, a tad more warmly than the duke truly deserved.

But then old, loyal friends were always deserving of a bit more regard.