London. May 13, 1804.

John crept out of the four-poster bed. He untangled himself from the sheets and, as quietly as he could, went in search of his attire. Where had his trousers disappeared to? This was beyond the pale, even for him. For heaven's sake, he was supposed to be the next Duke of Ashbourne. Not like this was any better for the Marquess of Paigton, his current title, or so the Duke would remind him at every given opportunity. Ah, there were his breeches. Now, if he could only find his shirt and cravat before she wakes up. He could hear the rustling of sheets as she reached for him.

"Come to bed, Love. It's not time to go yet, the night is still young," she drawled.

He grimaced as he found his shirt and pulled it over his head. He hated how some women always wanted to prolong the stay; he hated putting up with lingering in bed after they were finished just to appease them. "Jo, I have told you before, I will not stay the night, in fact, I already have plans to meet Robert at Whites. Go back to sleep."

Not to mention he had no desire to bump into her husband. He heard her mumbled reply, and then there was silence. She must have fallen back asleep. He finished dressing in the dark, got his cravat straightened and pinned as best as he could under the circumstances. Hat and cane in hand, he slowly led himself out of her room and crept down the servant's hallway, down the back stairs, and exited through the service entrance.

It was common knowledge to everyone in the haut ton that Lady Jocelyn Devon did not have a faithful bone in her body. After hunting him for the better part of this season, she finally arranged an assignation with him. While it had been fun at the time, he had no desire of continuing such a liaison, nor did John want to get caught by her elderly coxcomb husband. The idea of causing another scandal to irk the Duke, now that had appeal, for a moment. Self-preservation won out, however, as John had no desire to admit having bed Lady Jocelyn. To anyone!

It was raining for the better part of that evening. John hated the smells in London, but tonight the crisp cool air smelled of rain and wet dirt—a refreshing combination. It was so cold that he could see his own breath. He imagined the warm welcome that awaited him at Whites, the gentleman's club that he had become a member of this season. He placed his hat on, rubbed his hands together, and walked briskly towards St. James Street.

John could discern the outline of the attendant through the fog creeping into the city. He used his cane to tap the brim of his hat in acknowledgement, and walked into the warmth of White's. A waiting attendant took John's cane, hat, and overcoat. John headed for the main card room. As he walked in the room, he noticed Robert, the younger son of the Earl of Augustine, sitting at a table playing a hand of Whist. He peered over Robert's shoulder and saw that it would be a while yet before his friend was ready to go. He pulled up a chair and sat as an observer.

Now Whist was a challenging game. It is played in pairs, and, if you were stuck with a bad partner, you could lose your shirt and coattails to boot. Each person and their partner had to secure a set of seven tricks per hand to win the game. For every game the team won, a point is given, and the first team to collect five points takes the game. Of course, there were different ways of playing whist, but most patrons at Whites preferred this method.

John leaned back in his chair and made eye contact with the nearest attendant, who immediately walked over to him.

"I'll have a tumbler of your best brandy."

The attendant nodded and walked away. While waiting for the man to return, a deep voice drawled "Fine choice for a night such as this. A fine choice indeed!" John looked up at the newcomer and saw that it was none other than Fredrick, his old nemesis from all those years ago.

He nodded at him. "That it was." He grudgingly mumbled under his breath to maintain civility.

"Would you care to join us? My friend's partner just left, and we could use another."

"What is the limit?" asked John while thinking of excuses to bow out of having to put on a civil front while playing with Fredrick and his cronies.

He noticed a slight undertone as Fredrick looked back at his companions and replied, "It's five pounds per trick" with a smirk. After a brief pause Fredrick added, "Tell me that's not too rich for your blood, Paigton? Or has the Duke cut your allowance man?"

John smiled and said, "Not at all!" He pushed off the seat and followed Fredrick to the adjoining room.

There were two other men sitting at the table. Fredrick pulled out a chair for himself, leaving John to seat himself in the only chair left, across from a rather comically attired man. He looked to be in his early thirties, in a canary yellow vest under a bright purple jacket. His cravat was a shade close to sallow straw and had small dots on it, further completing this mismatched hodgepodge of colors. His hair was greased back in a strange fashion making him appear far older than he really was. John would swear he could see coal lining under the man's lower eyelashes.

The man introduced himself as Wilton and shook John's hand. His hands were soft and moist. Without drawing attention to himself, John quickly shoved his hand under the table and wiped off the moisture on his pant leg.

Fredrick proceeded to introduce Lambert, the other man sitting at the table with them. This one was wearing a jacket that looked like a size too large, hanging off his shoulders. He had shoulder padding, and from what John could see, the man was two stones too thin for his towering size. Lambert reminded him of the tall, scraggy rag doll their tenants used in the fields of Cedar Lane. Lambert's smile was rather creepy too, making the memory of the rag doll all the more vivid.

The attendant finally returned with his snifter of brandy, perfectly warmed. John took a sniff of the rich fragrant brew and nodded his thanks. He took a sip appreciating the way the amber liquid burned its way down his throat as he picked up the cards being dealt.

Johns first hand yielded five tricks in a row, which gave him the smug look of a player who was in his element. His partner was playing a perfect game. He was feeding him all the right cards and occasionally won a trick himself. This gave them an advantage by allowing them to win the first two games.

John was about to signal the attendant for another drink when Fredrick stood up. "I need to stretch my legs anyway, let me get it."

When Fredrick returned with four drinks, they all toasted beginner's luck. John gritted his teeth and forced a smile, and lipped, "I make my own luck." He took a few small sips as Fredrick shuffled and distributed the next hand. The brew felt much stronger, burning all the way down. Within minutes, John had the buzz of a full nights drinking and was marveling at his hand. He could not keep up with the cards or remember what he had passed on or needed to finish his hand.

***

Robert finished his game and collected his notes. Remembering that John had walked off with Fredrick, he started to search for him, only to find him a few minutes later surrounded by a small group of observers, whose silence was broken only by an occasional chorus of grunts.

He walked over there and looked over John's shoulder. As he waited for the next set of tricks to finish, he noticed that there was something odd about the behavior of the other three players. Consistently, they would score two points for every one point John and his partner would score, and in two different occasions Lambert, John's partner lost the hand with a lower card, even though during the next hand he discarded a higher value card.

As the man across from John picked up the deck and started to reshuffle for the new hand, Robert leaned in and whispered "John, you have to stop playing."

"Nonsense, I am about to start winning."

Robert, who had been observing the game, knew that was not the case. In fact, John was far from being able to keep track of the cards and the possible tricks to win any game. He even missed the discard pattern his partner was using repeatedly.

"John, you already wagered your quarterly allowance, I think you are done for the night man. You are besotted and, as your friend, I feel obligated to stop you from losing your next quarterly allowance."

Robert grabbed him under the arm and helped him rise. "Gentlemen, I am afraid our friend here has outstayed his coffers and can no longer oblige you."

John smiled sheepishly and executed a rather sloppy bow, "I'll be back, fellas. Mayhap tomorrow."

"Don't forget to pay up, John, or I would have to take your note to your old man," Fredrick snickers.

As they started to walk away from the group of onlookers, Robert whispered, "How many brandies have you had?"

The attendant that had served John earlier joined them and helped by holding John under his other arm. As they shuffled John out, then he whispered to Robert, "His lordship only ordered two snifters but I am afraid he may have been drugged. We have been suspecting foul play for some time now, but I am afraid we have not been able to prove anything substantial, especially since everyone who has been losing to those gentlemen were in their cups so they can't remember much the next day. I suspect they target them since they are generally heavy drinkers, so they just think it's the usual game."

Robert digested this information and asked the attendant for the names of all the men John had been playing with. According to the attendant, Fredrick William Martins, the main suspect, was the nephew of the Earl of Danbury, in line to inherit the title, but Robert was already aware of him. He had remembered Fredrick the instant he had sat down to observe. His appearance had changed a great deal. He was no longer the leggy youth they had been tormented by, but had grown into a rather hefty fellow, loud and somehow more menacing than before. He got Wilton and Lambert's names and the fact that neither were patrons at Whites but attended as Martin's guests.

Robert thanked the man by slipping him a one pound note. The attendant stepped up to the sidewalk and stopped a hackney for them; he then helped get John inside, while Robert gave the man directions.

***

The hackney driver took the most efficient way to John's rooms. The unsteady drive over the cobbled stones was most effective in helping John cast his insides. He barely had the wits to stick his head out the window to avoid retching all over the cab.

Robert found himself musing across from a passed out John, about what the attendant had said. Fredrick and his cronies were cheating their opponents out of their money by spiking their drinks, or at least something close to that effect. Fredrick always liked to prey on the weak and unsuspecting. In either case, the game had been public and no one had noticed the problem. John was going to have to pay up. He was not going to like it; Ashbourne was going to hate it even more if he ever found out. Robert sighed, no point in worrying about it now, maybe when John comes around they could devise another visit with the bucket for dear old Freddie.

The driver pulled up in front of the suite of rooms John was using for his stay this season. Robert helped John out of the hackney and put John's arm over his own shoulder to drag him up the stairs.

"Let's get you home, man."

The three story red brick building stood tall next to the smaller homes around it. Robert still did not understand John's preference for these rooms over the stately family house on Kensington. As they started up the stairs towards the tall mahogany doors, they swung backward illuminating the entrance. Robert always found it startling that John's butler knew the exact moment when the door needed to open. What shocked him more was that at this late hour, Watson was still wearing his perfectly starched black tailcoat over his immaculate white shirt and starched cravat. Just looking at how stiff that neck cloth was, made Robert want to reach up and loosen his own.

Robert nodded to the man and helped John into the foyer as Watson closed the door behind them.

"Help me take him up will you? When did he get so heavy?" Watson grabbed under John's other arm and helped heft him up the stairs and to his rooms.

"There is no need to alarm his valet, just let him sleep it off. I will stop in the study and pen him a note. You can give it to him tomorrow."

Robert put John into the bed and helped remove his Hessians. Leaving his friend to enjoy his drunken slumber Robert headed for the study. This room was an exact contradiction to everything John portrayed himself as. The walls were filled with shelf after shelf of books, volumes sat open haphazardly strewn across the tables and chairs in the room. Robert was always surprised to see how many of the books lay open around the study. Sometimes he thought John purposefully set them up to give the appearance of reading them while at other times he was sure this was the real John, and the way he acted outside his study was a mere façade, aloof and carefree for the benefit of enraging Ashbourne. He had once asked him about it, and John had brushed his comment aside and challenged him to pick any volume and ask details of its content. Robert had laughed it off but he knew his friend often put on a show just to get a rise out of his old man.

John,

Take two hundred pounds to Fredrick's rooms on Gossamer Lane, or he will take your note to Ashbourne for the funds. Meet me after.

-Rob.

Author's Note: Thank you for reading part 2 of The Duke's Bidding. Please STAR and COMMENT! Follow me to  find out what happens next! Happy reading!