Balls were impossible places to find peace of mind.

James Campbell, the Duke of Durham, had quite possibly met every marriageable miss within the entire city of London, and it was only a week since the official London Season had begun. He watched the dancers with a certain boredom that came of too much perfection.

His gaze rested on each dancer in turn. It seems an odd complaint. They each spend so much time on dress and hair with the intent of presenting a visually-pleasing spectacle, that more often than not they neglect what’s important.

Was he too particular? He saw Melanie Rothchild look his way and suppressed a shudder. Melanie was everything he loathed about these affairs, and unwittingly he had met her eye. He was duty-bound to nod in her direction, knowing it would only set her toward expectations.

Expectations of young girls were things to be assiduously avoided in his world. He was now beholden to ask Miss Rothchild to dance, and he’d already had that honor once. To do so again would be tantamount to announcing an engagement.

“Excuse me, you are the Duke of Durham, are you not?” The young man standing at his elbow seemed obsequiously out of place among such finery. Not a servant, or at least not obviously so, he was dressed in a plain, well-cut blue jacket, and — shockingly — wore trousers considered fashionably acceptable only during daylight.

Not one to stand on propriety, James smiled all the same, especially when saved from making a spectacle of himself on the dance floor. “I am, sir. And you are?”

“A messenger only, Your Grace. I am most regretful to interrupt your festivities.”

“At Almack’s with dinner about to be served? Such can only be construed as a blessing.” Gesturing for the man to precede him into a private alcove, James asked, “Come, let us find a quiet corner to talk. What message is so important that it could not wait until morning?”

The man took several folded papers from inside his jacket. “I am afraid it is bad news, Your Grace. These papers will explain all.”

“Bad news?” The Duke took the documents, noting the seal as that of his partner, the man who had charge of his entire fleet for the American venture. Feeling somewhat uneasy, to say the least, he broke the seal on the packet and examined the letters, growing more and more agitated as he moved from one page to the next.

“A hurricane,” he said, at last, feeling the room pitch and sway about him, as though he himself were trying to stand in such a gale. “Is it, as they say, the entire fleet gone?” He couldn’t breathe. He’d been against the idea from the start. One didn’t send the entire fleet on one trip. He’d been talked into the venture, and now it was as precisely as he’d feared.

“I am most regretful to tell you that this is indeed the case. The young man bowed. “Lord Collins should have outlined the matter to you enough in the papers presented.”

James rattled the papers at the messenger, knowing full well that he was placing blame on the wrong man. “He more than outlined it. He also made it disturbingly clear that my partner, Mr. Fortesque, was responsible for a rather sizeable loan toward the building of additional ships, but that I had been signed as the holder of that note. Is that not also the case?”

The young man nodded, his voice coming somewhat hoarse as he replied. “I am afraid that is the case, Your Grace.”

“Speak up, man. Do not be afraid to speak plain. According to this, I am a pauper now, am I not?” James threw the papers upon the floor and sank into a chair.

“Not a pauper, Your Grace. You still have, according to the terms of the loan, your estate and the house near the port—”

“Little good that will do me, with no ships arriving in that port again. Where is Fortesque in all of this? Tell me that, will you?”

The boy shuffled his feet, not quite meeting his gaze. James recognized him as being the younger son of the very man who’d sent him. He wasn’t accustomed to playing messenger boy but had in fact been training to take over his father’s business interests someday. “Dead, Your Grace. He heard the news same as you and he…”

“Do not finish, boy. I can guess the rest.” James got to his feet and paced the small room, thankful that space was empty and that the others at the ball were already at their dinner, such as it was. Almack’s was not known for its fine dining. “Quit looking at me so. I am not going to kill myself. It is a cowardly thing to do. Just give me but a moment to think.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” the boy said, looking only marginally relieved.

“I am done with this incessant Season. Send word to my man, to pack up the London house. We will leave for Hull in the morning. I will make a few stops first, but I want him to be ready to leave when I get there. Though I suppose I cannot afford his salary either right now, can I?”

The Duke ran a trembling hand through his hair, thinking rapidly. “Lord Collins will be at his club, I suppose?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Right. I will see him first. In the meantime, I best make my excuses.” James laughed then, though the sound was rather mirthless. “There is not a maiden in the place who would have me now. A title without wealth is an empty thing, is it not? Though I suppose in my dreams, there is one who is beautiful inside and out and will care little of how many pounds I can claim per annum.”

“Your Grace?”

“Never mind, boy. I am fine.” The Duke turned to the messenger. “Or I will be. Be off with you. We both have our tasks before us, do we not? So it is, the world changes, all in one moment. The only thing left for us is to move forward. Onward and upward, boy, in the noblest of fashion!”