"Before, after, during," Rob replied, raising his glass of brandy in salutation, "It is amazing how many minutes there are to drink during the day, if one just puts one's mind to it."
"Ah-ha," Staffordshire replied, so cheerfully that Rob knew he had not been listening.
"Where have you been, to return so cheerful?" Rob asked, though he momentarily wondered if he really wished to know the answer.
"Out," his father replied, striding toward the desk where the brandy bottle and decanter lay, and pouring himself a generous measure.
"Busy trying to dethrone Satan, no doubt," Rob muttered under his breath, but again, his father was not listening.
"Do you know, lad," the duke said, as he took a seat on one of the leather Chesterfields, "I think that I have underestimated you."
"Er?"
Had Robert consumed more brandy than he had realised? For it sounded as though his father had offered him a compliment.
"I heard word that you were involved in a kerfuffle at Cavendish's masquerade—what you were doing at that, I do not know—from my chums in Boodles."
"Oh," Rob closed his eyes; yet another false tale of the Marquess of Thornbrook's excesses was now in circulation.
"It is not what it seems, father," Robert began to protest, but the duke cut him off with a lazy wave of his hand.
"Imagine my surprise—and just when I was readying myself to be enraged—to hear that you were not the instigator, but that you tried to play peacemaker."
"Oh."
Rob glanced up to find his father watching him with a look that could almost be described as affectionate. But surely not? Perhaps he had something in his eye.
"Then," Staffordshire continued, "Lord Laurence arrived, full of tales of his son's good deeds. I was half tempted to shut my eyes and take a nap whilst he droned on, but then he mentioned you."
"It's not what it seems," Rob began to protest, certain his father would find a way to take umbrage with his charitable deeds.
"So, you have not offered your time, money, and patronage to help the reverend build a school?" Staffordshire queried, raising one bushy brow.
"Well, yes," Robert mumbled, preparing himself for a lecture, "I suppose it's exactly what it seems."
"My boy," Staffordshire slapped his knee with glee, "I can't tell you how proud I am of you."
"Er, you could try," Rob suggested, inwardly marvelling at having his father utter the word proud in a sentence involving his only son. And, not only that, he had also used the possessive "my boy", instead of his usual "that boy", which he trotted out whenever he wished to distance himself from Robert.
"Immensely proud," Staffordshire beamed, "You have finally cast off your irresponsible youth, and have decided to embrace your future. The only thing that could make me more proud is if you were to tell me you had secured the hand of that chit you've been chasing."
The duke looked at Rob in hopeful expectation, who gave a sigh in return.
"Well, the world has not tilted completely on its axis," he said with a grin, "I can resume disappointing you. I am afraid that my chit refused me; my reputation came back to bite me in the bottom, as you had so often said it would."
"Ah."
Staffordshire did not look at all happy to be proved right, in fact, he looked rather concerned as he peered across at Robert. Perhaps there was something in his eye, Rob thought, for that was twice that he had looked at him so unusually.
"'Tis better to have loved and lost, and all that," Rob replied glibly, as his hand reached for the brandy bottle.
"Poppycock," Staffordshire growled, with some enthusiasm, "There is no pain worse than lost love."
Silence fell between the two men, as Rob nervously wondered if he should probe further. As a rule, his father never discussed Robert's mother, and should anyone mention her, he was liable to be in a foul temper for weeks.
"Do you miss her?" he ventured, and Staffordshire nodded, closing his eyes against the pain.
"Every day," his father mumbled, "Every morning I wake hoping to see her, every morning I am faced with the crushing realisation that she is gone."
