The duke seemed to be swaying, and Georgiana narrowed her eyes. His face was flushed, and the strands of his blond hair lay flat against his forehead, darkened in color as if he were battling a fever.

Or something more nefarious.

One didn’t live in slightly less than fashionable areas and not see someone drunk. The singing that graced the streets on the edges of Mayfair were never of the proper sort, sung by trained opera singers who’d had each note assessed by plump Italian masters who viewed the accomplishment of each note as a greater feat than any show of athletic prowess.

The singing in Norfolk seemed confined to sailor ditties, whether sung by actual sailors, refined men who were in their less sober moments still enthusiastic about their days at sea, or those who had never been to sea at all but had romantic urges toward piracy, best expressed in counting imaginary rum bottles and the merits of Spanish ladies.

The duke was not singing, but he had begun to whistle, and though he might be trying to impress Charlotte with his ability to carry a tune, it was not something he had done before.

The duke was also not known to stumble, but his eyes were narrowed, as if concentrating to reach the door, an exploit no doubt made more difficult by his sudden inclination to sway.

Papa shut his book, and his bland expression firmed. “Are you quite alright, Your Grace?”

“Yeth.” The duke waved his hand with such force he nearly tipped over. “A walking stick would be nice.” He turned to his brother, and his gaze developed a dreamy aura to which she was not accustomed. “Remember when we used to carve walking sticks from branches in the woods?”

“Ah.” Lord Hamish Montgomery gave a condescending smile. “That’s a sign of your great imagination.”

“That ith not true.” The duke’s face reddened.

“My brother is quite prone to fantasy,” Lord Hamish Montgomery said conversationally.

“He also seems prone to drink,” Papa said pointedly.

“Mr. Butterworth!” Mama gave an outraged sigh. “What exactly are you implying?”

“Just that,” Papa said. “He’s an imbiber. A topper. A—”

“He must have become inebriated,” the duke’s brother said. “I do apologize. It only happens when he is most bored.”

There was a silence.

“He must have had a flask,” Lord Hamish Montgomery said. “It is so very kind of your daughter to marry my brother.”

“Kind?” Mr. Butterworth’s eyes widened predictably, and Georgiana’s heart tumbled. The man was trying to besmirch the duke.

Lord Hamish Montgomery nodded. “Yes. Kind, given my brother’s propensity to alcohol.”

The silence continued, and Georgiana shifted her legs, contemplating whether she could contradict the duke’s brother.

“He’s no such thing. Our new son is sober and dutiful,” Mama said.

“He’s not your new son yet,” the duke’s brother reminded her parents.

“Perhaps His Grace is not my new son yet in a strict mathematical sense,” Mama conceded, “Though when one applies the law of averages...”

“How very true,” Lord Hamish Montgomery said. “How kind you are here given my brother’s propensity toward distemper.”

“Violence?” Mama’s eyes widened.

The duke’s brother’s face reddened, and he did not meet Georgiana’s eyes. “Well. Er—not precisely violence. But he knows how to grumble.”

“Ah, but so do I,” Mama said, her voice once again merry. “She’ll be quite at home, I’m certain.” Mama turned to Georgiana’s father. “Did you hear that, dear? My new son likes to grumble too. And you said I did it with too much frequency. But now it will help dear Charlotte’s marriage!”

“Good,” Papa murmured with the dispassion of a man who knew just which word to say.

“I want a walking stick,” the duke drawled from his settee.

“Mr. Butterworth, fetch the poor man a walking stick,” Mama ordered.

“But I haven’t got one,” he protested. “The pavement in London does not require it.”

“Our son is in pain, and you are spending the time boasting about your ambling abilities?” Mama’s face was stern, and Papa’s face crumpled.

“I didn’t mean—”

“Of course you didn’t mean,” Mama said. “You never mean, despite all the time thinking you claim to do with all those supposedly great philosophers to help you.”

Papa’s face reddened. “Perhaps a servant will have one.”

The servants were not in possession of a walking stick. Apparently they were also adept at walking, a fact that no doubt helped them maintain their positions, and none of them were in the habit of mirroring Beau Brummel’s expensive yet stark dress sense and were in possession of canes.

“How unfortunate that my brother is in an inappropriate state,” Lord Hamish Montgomery said with such innocence that Georgiana frowned.

Perhaps he was the brother of a duke, and perhaps she should attempt to act less impulsively, but Lord Hamish Montgomery couldn’t allow her parents and sister to have any unwarranted doubts about the duke.  

“Are you by any chance referring to the fact that you put a strange substance in your brother’s drink?” Georgiana asked.

He widened his eyes, and she gave him her sweetest smile.  

“Is that true, My Lord?” Papa asked, managing to convey both sternness and confusion.

The duke’s brother’s face whitened. Perhaps he was reminded of the fact that Papa was a vicar and had given morals a great deal of consideration.

“I do not approve,” Papa said, managing to convey such authority that Georgiana almost felt sorry for Lord Hamish Montgomery. Papa might be hoary-haired, but he could intimidate.

“Sibling teasing,” Georgiana suggested. “Am I correct?”

“Er—yes.” Lord Hamish Montgomery guided his brother from the room, making use of the sturdy arms which Georgiana wished she were not quite so aware of.