The Duke's Holiday Read Online Free PDF

that was precisely Montford’s
problem at the moment, as he sat behind his desk, sipping his port and bleakly
watching his friends loaf about the room, feeling as if his head might explode
at any moment.
    Stallings returned bearing a tea tray laden with sandwiches
and biscuits. Marlowe was roused from his dozing long enough to make short
shrift of the food, then fell back against the chaise lounge, closed his eyes,
and took up his port. In that order.
    “You’re even less fun than usual,” Sebastian said fondly,
perching on the edge of the desk and molesting the box full of quills, knocking
it out of its parallel alignment with the desk edge.
    Montford gritted his teeth and tried to ignore Sebastian’s
deliberate goad. Sebastian knew precisely how much he was bothering him. They’d
roomed together at Harrow, after all. “Some of us have important business to
attend to, Sherbrook,” he muttered.
    “Last time I checked, the House of Lords was recessed.”
    “Last time I checked, I had a dukedom to manage,” Montford
retorted.
    “You have old Stevenage for that.” Sebastian craned his
neck around the room. “Where is your
shadow?   Don’t tell me you pack him
up in one of your drawers at the end of the day.”
    Marlowe, who had begun to drowse with his snifter of port
balanced precariously on his burgeoning gut, started awake. “Drawers?” he
blustered, looking wildly around the room, only just catching his port before
it sloshed onto the upholstery. “Never wear the blasted things. Chafe like the
devil, what,” he declared before dropping back into his stupor.
    Sebastian grimaced. “Didn’t need to know that .” He turned back to Montford, who
was trying very hard not to visualize what Marlowe was not wearing beneath his extremely snug breeches. “I do hope you
allow Stevenage out of this room sometimes,” Sebastian continued playfully.
    “Clearly I do, as he’s not here,” he sniffed.
    “I am speechless.” Sebastian paused, took up one of the
feathers, and began twirling it in his fingers. “Well, what have you done with
him?”
    “He’s in Yorkshire on business.”
    “You don’t sound very sure of that.”
    “I’ve not heard from him in a fortnight.”
    He must have sounded strange, because Sebastian dropped the
quill into his lap and blinked in surprise. “You’re really worried, aren’t
you?”
    “It’s very unlike him not to keep me informed.”
    “Yes, one would expect an itemized accounting of every
minute of his trip,” he said dryly. “This is Stevenage we’re talking about. A
man even more meticulous than you. And where in blazes did you send him?
Yorkshire? Nothing but bloody sheep in Yorkshire last time I checked.”
    “I sent him to sort out some business on one of my
estates.”
    “Aren’t we vague
tonight. As you have so many damned estates, it would help if you were more
specific.”
    Montford did not want to be more specific. He knew exactly
how Sebastian would react if he brought up Honeywell. God knew how Sebastian
had ferreted out the story of the Montfords and the Honeywells. God knew how
Sebastian came to know most of the things he did. One wouldn’t suspect from
glancing at the self-avowed model of indolence currently perched on the edge of
his desk that behind that bored, cynical face dwelled a very acute thinking
organ. Sebastian was quick. Quicker than Montford had ever been. And he had the
memory of an elephant.
    Especially in regards to matters pertaining to the pursuit
of pleasure.
    Like Honeywell Ale.
    “What are you hiding?” Sebastian asked, eyes narrowing.
    Damn . He supposed
Sebastian would find out eventually. “Alyosius Honeywell is dead.”
    “Honeywell …   wouldn’t mind one, if you have one on hand,” Marlowe murmured, roused by
the possibility of more beverages.
    “Gads, Marlowe, you sot. He said Honeywell is dead!”
Sebastian exclaimed, rising from the desk.
    Marlowe’s florid face went white as a sheet. He jumped to
his feet