Without waiting for a response, he signaled to a footman. “Ask Penny if they have any aged Glen Garioch whiskey in the house.”

“They don’t,” Ewan said, bowing to the gentlemen, who had stood up and were doing the pretty. “Aged malts aren’t exported for sale yet.”

The duke collapsed into a chair. “I suddenly have a deep interest in visiting our northern neighbors.”

Now that the Earl of Mayne was on his feet, Ewan could see immediately that the man was no man milliner, for all his deep red jacket seemed to catch the gleam of the firelight. He had tired eyes and a dissolute droop to his mouth, but he was a man to be reckoned with.

“Ardmore,” Mayne said. “It’s a pleasure.” He had a strong handshake. “Didn’t I see you dancing at Lady Feddrington’s house?”

“You and the rest of London,” the duke put in darkly.

“I danced most of the evening,” Ewan noted, shaking hands with Felton.

“He’s in need of a wife,” Rafe said. “And since I’m not giving him Imogen, for all she’s thrown herself at his head, I thought we could find him someone ourselves. After all, we didn’t do badly with you, Felton.”

“Least said about that, the better,” Mayne muttered.

The duke was finally showing the effect of all that whiskey and he grinned rather owlishly at Ewan. “What Mayne is trying to say is that after he jilted one of my four girls, Felton stepped in and married her.”

Mayne was looking at Ewan with just a faint curl of a sardonic smile on his face; Felton was grinning outright. Englishmen were far stranger than he’d heard. “How many wards do you have?” he asked finally.

“Viscount Brydone had four daughters,” the duke allowed, his head falling back. “Four, four, four. All sisters. One is still in the schoolroom, that’s Josie. Imogen is one of them, and Tess was the eldest, until Felton here took her away.”

Felton was smiling. Yet a Scotsman would never stay in the company of a man who had jilted his wife. Never. One look at Mayne’s face and you knew he was a dissipated trifler.

Felton must have seen that fact in his eyes, for he said easily, “Unfortunately, I had to force Mayne to jilt his bride. I decided she would do better married to me than to him.”

“Ruined my reputation,” Mayne said.

“Nonsense,” the duke snorted. “The jilting was merely one in a line of scandals you’ve tossed to the wind. So who can Ardmore here marry? You know the ton, Mayne. Find him a bride.”

Ewan waited with faint curiosity for Mayne’s response, but at that moment a plump waiter appeared.

“Your Grace, we haven’t a drop of Glen Garioch in the house. Would you like some Ardbeg or Tobermary?”

Rafe looked at Ewan.

Ewan bent toward the man and said, “We’ll try the Tobermary.”

The plump man bowed and took himself off, and Rafe said dreamily, “A man who knows his liquor is more precious than rubies.”

“In that case, may I point out that Miss Annabel Essex is doing the season,” Felton said. “The second of Rafe’s wards,” he explained to Ewan. “Dowried with Milady’s Pleasure, and since I gather that you are likely putting Warlock to stud, the combination would be quite interesting.”

So the golden-haired Scotswoman was called Annabel.

But the duke shook his head. “It’ll never fly. Begging your pardon, Ardmore, but Annabel has a penchant for rich and titled Englishmen. She’d be an uncomfortable wife for a penniless Scottish earl, and that’s the truth of it.”

Felton opened his mouth but Ewan caught his eye and he closed it.

“Ah, a dowry problem,” Mayne said thoughtfully.

The waiter returned with a decanter of the Tobermary, which was just as good as Ewan remembered.

“Do you like poetry?” Mayne asked.

It seemed an odd question. “Not particularly.”

“Then Miss Pythian-Adams won’t do. She’s got a hefty dowry, but I’ve heard she’s memorized the whole of a Shakespeare play. At any rate, she does drop bits and pieces into conversation. Maitland used to complain when they were engaged that she made him read aloud the whole of Henry VIII. Apparently it took an afternoon.”

“No,” Ewan said. “That won’t do.”

“So that’s why you’re in London.” Rafe stared at him over a mere inch of brandy left in his glass.

“To find a wife,” Ewan agreed. “As I told you earlier, Your Grace.” The duke was definitely showing his whiskey now.

“Sometimes I think that I need one of those too. She could take care of all these wards of mine. They’re going to have me in Bedlam.”

“Don’t be a fool,” Mayne said to him. “No one would marry a drunken sot like yourself unless she wanted your title and money.”

Somewhat to Ewan’s surprise, Rafe took no umbrage at his friend’s harsh assessment.

“You’re probably right,” he said, with a yawn that appeared likely to break his jaw. “I have to go to bed. Come up with a few names for Ardmore here, Mayne.”

“Miss Tarn,” Mayne said, his eyes narrowed in thought. “She’s quite beautiful; her dowry is more than adequate; by all reports, she’s an expert horsewoman.”

“My wife says she’s in love with a Frenchman named Soubiran,” Felton said. “Her father doesn’t approve of the connection, but Miss Tarn has dug in her heels.”

“In that case, Lady Cecily Severy,” Mayne said. “Eldest daughter of the Duke of Claire. Not bad-looking and the dowry is obviously magnificent.”

“This is her third season,” Felton put in.

“She does lisp,” Mayne admitted. “But her dowry surely trumps the lisp.”

“She pretends that she’s approximately five years old,” Felton said crisply. “Talks in baby talk to her suitors. Puts some men off.”

“I would consider myself one of them,” Ewan said.

“Third choice, then,” Mayne said. “Lady Griselda Willoughby. She’s a young, beautiful widow, with a large estate and a cheerful disposition. She thinks she doesn’t want to marry, but in fact she would make a happy wife and mother. And her reputation is impeccable.”

Silence followed this suggestion. Ewan thought Lady Griselda sounded just fine. He nodded.

“Lady Griselda is Mayne’s sister,” Felton said.

Ewan looked at Mayne. “Your sister?”

Mayne nodded. “Mind you, she’s been courted by many a man, and none of them has had the least success.” He eyed Ewan narrowly. “But I have a feeling that you might have more luck than most. She’s only thirty, and there’s more than enough time for children.”

“He doesn’t have an estate,” Rafe said, his voice turned to a dark-toned growl by exhaustion and liquor.

“She doesn’t need it. Her jointure alone was excellent, but Willoughby’s estate is also extensive.”

Felton nodded. “I would agree with your assessment of Lady Griselda’s holdings.”

“She says she doesn’t want to marry again,” Mayne said. “But I’m fond of her.”