Free Bewitching by Jill Barnett Page B

of Belmore, Marquess of Deerhurst, Earl of Fife, the right to marry without the posting of banns and at a time and place of his convenience.
    A raucous cheer broke his concentration, and he looked up at his friends, who were involved in a high-stakes game of darts. In this small inn there was no private parlor, just the common room, with its stark white plaster walls speckled with hay and crossed by dark beams, a room filled with a thick fog of smoke, the sharp stench of ale, and the heavy aroma of greasy mutton and fresh baked bread that drifted from the back kitchen.
    The innkeeper was a rotund man whose smudged and faded pink vest showed red where the seams had been let out at least three times. He stood in a crowd of locals, jolly farmers who wore the black dirt of their labors and who whooped and stomped and hawed when one of them scored over the London swells.
    Downe's blond head stuck out above the crowd, and Alec watched as he threw back his fifth portion of frothy and potent ale from an old sheep-horn stein. There was no doubt in Alec's mind that his friend would soon begin another drunken attempt to prove to the world that he was an obnoxious rake who held everything and everyone in contempt. When sober, the Earl of Downe was one of the best men Alec had ever known, but when drunk, a state that of late seemed more the rule than the exception, he was intent upon making everyone around him as miserable as he was.
    Alec glanced at the oak plank door of the retiring room into which the local leech, who had been summoned to attend the girl, had followed the innkeeper's wife. The duke glanced at his ale, but a drink was not what he needed. He doubted it would relieve the throb in his head, nor would it do anything for the burning in his eyes resulting from exhaustion and the rancid air. The truth was he was tired. He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes, fighting back a yawn.
    A commotion sounded from his left. After a moment of trying to ignore the noise he gave up and willed his tired eyes open—just in time to see Lady Agnes Voorhees—the biggest baffle-headed busybody in London —swell into the inn with her entourage. His fatigue disappeared, replaced by the urgent need to get the devil out of there before the bird-witted woman saw him. He rose abruptly, not out of courtesy but to avoid detection, and stepped back against the wall, intending to creep toward the kitchen.
    "Your Grace!"
    Alec groaned.
    "Imagine that, Eugenia! It's His Grace, the Duke of Belmore! What a small world!" The woman moved toward him faster than a dart to the board, her companions toddling along behind her.
    He was stuck as surely as if the inn floor were mired yard-deep in mud.
    "Why, we were just chatting about you," she said, standing directly across from him. "Henry dearest"—Lady Agnes turned to her weakling of a husband—"please go and retain a private parlor." She scowled about the room, waving a lace handkerchief in front of her beak of a nose. "The air's bad." She turned back and blabbered on. "I cannot believe the exquisite luck of finding you here. You see, Eugenia—of course you know Lady Eugenia Wentworth and Mrs. Timmons . . . ”
    Alec nodded to the other women—the second and third biggest gossips in London . A flock of bird-wits.
    "As I was saying, Eugenia said she heard from Mrs. Dunning-Whyte, who heard from Sally Jersey, that Lady Juliet Spencer— your Lady Juliet—had eloped! Piffle! I said. That just was not possible! Everyone knows that Your Grace would do the thing proper. A Duke of Belmore would never do anything so devil-may-care! Besides, it was my understanding that you had yet to declare yourself. Of course we were sure that you would do so any day. It was just a matter of time. But you can imagine my shock when Eugenia said that you were not the groom. Well, I just laughed. Hah-hah-hah!"
    Her companions giggled.
    "I mean after all, no lady in control of her senses would throw over the Duke