Page 4 of The Rum and The Fox

Chapter 2

Homme comme-il-faut - a man as he ought to be. He must have 32 teeth, thick, curly hair, and calves six inches diameter wide each.

- The 1811 Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, by Francis Grose.

Felix Ashwicke, the Duke of Chartley, caught a glance of his profile in the window of the tavern and found himself satisfied, then ducked under the low lintel and headed inside. To his relief, he’d noted during that brief check that he looked just as he had on leaving home. His cravat, whilst not the complex affair of the Trone d’amour (which he found rather vulgar), was neat and tied to a nicety. His dark brown hair, styled in the Brutus - naturally - was artfully dishevelled, and he found he was really rather proud of his new silk waistcoat with bold green and gold stripes, which brought out the green in his eyes.

“Ash!”

On hearing his nickname hollered across the bustling room, Felix - or Ash as he preferred, turned and made his way in the direction of a table already taken on two sides.

Lounging back in his chair, with a spotted neckerchief tied loosely around his throat in a manner that gave Ash considerable pain, was Mr Frederick Tallow.

Freddie, who fancied himself as something of an intellectual, was having what his friends referred to as a Byronic episode. This seemed to mostly consist of dressing as though he’d fallen out of bed, wearing his hair too long and his cravat in disarray, and also meant he was apt to spout incomprehensible if heartfelt lines of poetry when everyone was having a perfectly nice time. Privately, Ash thought this was rather too much affectation without substance, but Freddie was a good-hearted sort and a long-time friend, so he bore it as stoically as he was able.

On his other side was the Lord Bertram Gilray, Earl of Manston. Bertie had no such pretensions, intellectual or otherwise, which was just as well. Ash loved him like a brother and knew that Bertie would do absolutely anything for him, but he had often been moved to observe that he really wasn’t the shiniest pebble on the beach.

These two men, however, were his closest and dearest friends, and a welcome relief from the bosom of his family, who were apt to terrify or baffle him in turn.

Ash had a younger sister, Hannah. Dark-haired and brown-eyed (unlike Ash and his grandmother, who shared an unusual mossy green eye colour), she was a pretty girl, if in a conventional style. She was also spoilt, wilful, and apt to feign tears if she didn’t get her own way. Their mother, Lady Anne Ashwicke, had been a celebrated beauty in her day and was still, at forty three, considered an extremely lovely woman. Ash would have had to concede if asked that her looks were that of a woman ten years her junior. She was sweet-natured and indolent, and had the worst taste of anyone Ash had ever met.

This could not be said of his grandmother and the source of these legendary looks, which Ash had inherited a good deal of himself. She, however, was not the sweet-natured, simple creature his mother was. In fact, the woman had a mind like a steel trap and scared the wits out of her grandson on a regular basis. Ash, according to her way of thinking, was a fribble, a coxcomb and - if she was really on her high ropes - a cod’s head. That the dukedom had been left in his hands was a source of great irritation to her, and she seemed to live in daily expectation of hearing that he’d disgraced the name or gambled their fortune away.

In truth, this was vastly unfair, though Ash rarely did much to try and justify himself, having long since decided that discretion was the better part of valour, and avoided her whenever possible. Gambling, however, was not something he found diverting, and whilst he was quite as happy to kick up a lark as the next young man, he was not prone to the kind of vices that might invite scandal or ridicule.

Today, however, he was keen to escape the society of his female-dominated household and find solace among the bosom of his closest friends. His mother had just spent an ungodly amount of money on a dress, pelisse, and matching bonnet, in a violent shade of puce. His sensibilities had been so offended that it had resulted in a dreadful headache, as he was forced to consider how the devil he could persuade her not to wear the wretched outfit in public.

“You’re late,” Freddie observed with a frown, pushing aside a notebook that Ash regarded with considerable apprehension. He really wasn’t in the mood for a recital at present.

“Yes,” Ash said, agreeing with a placid smile and helping himself to the claret that his friends had made impressive inroads with already.

“Got held up?” Bertie inquired, staring at Ash’s cravat with obvious jealousy.

“Yes,” Ash said again, taking a cautious sip of the claret and smiling with relief as he found it very tolerable indeed.

“Wish you’d tell me how you do that,” Bertie said, gesturing to Ash’s cravat with an avaricious expression that made Ash grin.

“Oh, he has done, Bertie,” Freddie replied with an impatient tone, sitting forward at the table. “Now look here, Ash, I asked you to come because I’ve something important to tell you.”

Ash’s heart sank and he returned a grave look. “Freddie,” he said, keeping his tone placating and hoping to avoid an argument. “This poetry lark is all well and good, but I just don’t get it, so really, there’s no use in trying another out on me, now is there?”

Freddie glowered a little and Ash wondered if they’d have a row after all.

“This isn’t about poetry,” the young man replied, all on his dignity. “As if I’d waste any more of my time and talent on you two … jingle brains.”

“Now, steady on,” Ash said, feeling a little affronted at that description, not to mention the fact that he’d been lumped in with Bertie.

“Oh, never mind that,” Freddie replied, pushing his long hair from his eyes and looking irritated. “The thing is that I’ve heard a rumour going the rounds, and it concerns your family, Ash.”

“What?” Ash sat up, his attention fully engaged. His grandmother might not place any confidence in his abilities, but the fact was that Ash took his position as head of the household very seriously indeed. “What kind of rumour?”

Freddie looked suddenly awkward and sat back in his chair, frowning. “Now, I don’t say as there is any truth in it, mind, Ash,” he said, a placating tone in evidence now. “So don’t go and shoot the messenger.”

Ash waved away this demand with impatience and Freddie took a breath.

“Well, it seems your mother has been seen at various affairs recently, and always in the company of … Viscount Rennard.”

“Well?” Ash demanded, for whom the name Rennard meant nothing and so was none the wiser.