He positioned his hat on his head at a bit of an angle, then picked up his cane. He had received an invitation to Stanwood House to celebrate Stanwood taking his seat in the Lords. John fully expected Eleanor to be there, and he had to speak to someone before then. “I will most likely be away until midafternoon.”

“Yes, my lord.”

He left his house and reached the pavement. The day was overcast, but the early rainstorm had passed and the sun was trying to push through what was left of the clouds.

“Good morning, Montagu.” Exeter’s cane swung as he strolled toward John.

“Exeter.” Exactly the person John should ask, and the walk to Westminster was sufficiently long to hold a conversation. “Good morning.”

“My stable master said it will be a fine day.” Exeter smiled as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

“It looks like it will be.” When John was young there was an old groom who knew just what the weather would be. He was never wrong. He opened his mouth to start the conversation about his difficulty with Eleanor and couldn’t do it. Exeter was a friend, but not a longtime one. Blast it all. Who the devil was John to ask?

They turned right on Bond Street, and he saw Turley. “Good morning.”

“Good morn to you.” He inclined his head. “Exeter, good day. I’m glad the rain stopped in time to allow a stroll to Westminster.”

John was as well. He’d missed riding this morning. He’d missed seeing Eleanor. “We are fortunate.”

He glanced at Exeter and Turley. John knew Turley much better, and he knew that he’d had problems too. But he couldn’t talk to him with Exeter present.

Someone grabbed his arm and pulled him to the side. “What the deuce—”

“Horse apples.” Exeter indicated a pile in the street. “You need to watch where you’re going.”

“Thank you.” John really did need to pay more attention. “I didn’t see them.”

His friends barked laughs, and Turley said, “That was obvious. I’ve never seen you so distracted.”

Now was the time. What did it matter that Exeter knew? “I don’t think I’ve ever been so at a loss about what to do.”

“This wouldn’t have anything to do with Lady Eleanor”—Turley raised a knowing brow—“would it?”

Hell and damnation. “How did you know?”

“Let me see.” Turley tapped his cheek with one finger. “Could it be that since the Season began, you have been focused on her to the exclusion of every other lady?”

“That must be it,” Exeter agreed. “Even the ones that have been attempting to catch your attention.”

“I’ve been making a cake of myself.” How lowering.

“You won’t be the first gentleman to have done it and you won’t be the last.” Exeter’s dry drawl spoke volumes about his own quest.