Ethan chuckled, his hand resting on her skirts just over her calf. “I am glad someone is trying to rein in the Addington women.”
“Really, Captain,” Abigail said with a sniff.
“I did not say he was succeeding, Mrs. McCormick. One must give a man his due for trying.”
“Indeed,” Abigail gave her sister a pointed glare. “One must. Good day, Captain.” She turned her horse around and reined him in as he danced in place.
“Until tomorrow,” Ethan said. He caught her gloved hand, turned it over, and pressed a kiss into her palm. “Bring a list of merchants and I will have Townsend send notes of credit round to them.”
“Notes of credit?” Abigail asked.
Would she never cease her busybody ways?
“Your sister has generously offered to see to the refurbishment of my house.” There it was again, the unreadable expression and the hint of the indefinable in his eyes.
“Come along, Abigail,” Georgiana ordered and kicked Delilah into motion. “Tomorrow, Captain Dorrill.”
She and her sister had ridden halfway down Grosvenor Street when Georgiana looked over her shoulder. Ethan still stood at the gate before his house and that odd little ache set up in her chest once more.
“What are you up to, Georgie?” Abigail asked as they turned the corner.
“Why do you insist on asking me such a question?”
“Because I know you, sister dear.”
“I am simply going to redecorate his house.” Her stomach churned and a slash of heat crossed her cheeks.
“You are going to redecorate the house of a man you do not wish to marry?” Abigail snorted. “Cut line. What is your plot this time?”
Chapter Seven
Thud!
There were worse things in life than being unseated by one’s horse in front of Brooks Gentlemen’s Club. Ethan might have landed in the generous pile of manure a few feet away from his current position on the cobbles. Definitely a worse thing. The only thing worse would be…
“You just lost me twenty pounds,” a voice, unmistakably that of his brother Ash, complained from somewhere above him. Ethan, forearms on his raised knees, glanced up to see a gloved hand extended toward him. He took it and allowed Ash to pull him to his feet. His brother caught up Pumpkin’s reins and handed them off to him. Looking every bit the London gentleman, the man who had not spoken to him willingly in years sat atop a rangy bay stallion.
“Give me a minute,” Ethan muttered as he struggled to set his foot in the stirrup. Nearly two weeks of daily jaunts in the park had improved his riding somewhat. His ability to make it into the saddle, however, was commiserate with how many times he had been unseated on any particular today. This morning had been a bit…trying.
“My wife informed me this morning you had borrowed Pumpkin from my stables.”
“Eleanor made me the loan of Pumpkin two weeks ago. You just noticed?” Ethan collapsed into the saddle, rose immediately and then lowered himself a few inches at a time.
“My bills for feed and hay have dropped considerably over the last two weeks. Otherwise I might not have noticed.” Ash brought his horse alongside Ethan and Pumpkin and nodded in the direction of Grosvenor Square. They walked their horses side by side in silence for a few moments.
Ethan searched for something to say. Anything. The rancor of their first meeting after his arrival in London hung over them like a cloud. He’d fall off Pumpkin a hundred times over if it meant he might speak to his brother in a halfway cordial manner. “Twenty pounds?” he suddenly inquired.
“I had Regent Street,” Ash replied. He looked far more comfortable on horseback than Ethan might have credited, but his younger brother had spent more time ashore, especially once Ethan captained his first ship. Ethan’s going to sea had ensured Ash spent at least part of his childhood on dry land.
“You had Regent Street for what?” The noise and smells of London faded as Ethan took in the simple pleasure of a ride through Mayfair in the company of his brother.
“The next place Pumpkin would dump you on your arse. It is on the betting book at White’s.” A half-grin threatened Ash’s mouth.
“On the betting book…” Ethan furrowed his brow. A stabbing took up residence at his temple.
“Farnsworth told me about it yesterday evening when we met there to discuss some business. A line is established each afternoon as to where you will take a fall the next day. I had twenty pounds you’d last as far as Regent Street.”
“Sorry to disappoint you. Who had St. James Street?”
“Farnsworth. Eleanor said you ran into Thomas a few weeks ago.” With the sudden change of subject, Ash turned his full gaze on Ethan.
Ethan should have expected this. Had he done so, perhaps he might have made a better, safe answer. “He summoned me here, Ash. He’s after Margaret. And you. Keep your wits about you. He’s been meeting with Clem Peabody. My sources say he’s been doing so for months now.”
“What has Margaret got to do with anything? She’s in Yorkshire.”
“She’ll be coming to London for the Season. Schools don’t keep them forever, you know. No matter how much money I send them.”
“You send?”
“Did you really think Thomas would pay?” They exchanged a glance and for a moment they were young boys again, trying to avoid one of their grandfather’s beatings. It should have pained Ethan. It didn’t.
“Rumor has it, Peabody does business with slavers,” Ash mused as they turned up Grosvenor Street. “He’s a right arse in business dealings.”
“He’s as sharp a blade as Thomas, make no mistake. Stay away from both of them, Ash. Have nothing to do with either of them. I’ll take care of it.”
“And what has Margaret to do with this?” Ash’s tenacity was the reason he was still alive after a childhood at sea. It made him a formidable businessman and a pain in the arse of a brother.
“Nothing, so long as I am successful. Have you placed your bet for tomorrow?” Ethan drew Pumpkin up before his house.
“Successful at what?” Ash followed suit. “I have twenty pounds on Bond Street. Farnsworth has Hatchard’s.”
“You’re out another twenty pounds,” Ethan said as he slid out of the saddle and tossed the reins to the stable boy lounging at the gate. “I won’t be riding to Bond Street after today.”
“Oh? Why not?” Ash remained on his horse, glancing at Ethan’s door and then up the street as if in search of something.
“I’ve been staying at the Steven’s Hotel for the past fortnight whilst the house was being refurbished. Apparently, our grandfather’s taste is somewhat lacking.” Ethan shoved his hands into his pockets and remained outside the gate even as Pumpkin was led away to her stall in the mews behind the house. Oddly enough, Townsend had yet to open the door.
Ash snorted. “I could have told you that. Did you hire a decorator?”
“No, Lady Georgiana asked to do it.” Ethan looked over his shoulder once more. Still no Townsend. He didn’t mind. He was having a civil conversation with his brother. Eleanor, no doubt, was the cause, but he didn’t care. He didn’t want it to end.
“Georgiana, the Duke of Addington’s daughter? The same Lady Georgiana you are reputed to be courting. The woman who dragged you to hear Dedham’s caterwauling mistress? And demanded you ride out with her every morning in spite of the fact you’ve never been on a horse in your life? That Lady Georgiana?”
“How do you know all—”
“Holy hell! Is your butler supposed to look like that?”
Ethan followed his brother’s horrified gaze. The front door was wide open now.
“What the devil? Wait here,” Ethan ordered as he kicked the gate open and started up the walk.
“The hell you say,” Ash replied as he caught up to him. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”
Ethan scrambled into the foyer and tried to slam the door as quickly as possible. An act thwarted by the imposition of his brother’s body i
n the doorway. With an oath, Ash caught the heavy oak slab, slipped inside and pushed the door closed behind him. After which, he broke into choked laughter, stopped, looked at poor Townsend again, and gave up all attempts to stifle himself. The arse stood in the middle of the foyer bent over, hands on his knees, howling with laughter.
Townsend, however, was not laughing. In fact, if there was a word for that state farthest removed from laughter, Ethan’s butler would be the epitome of said word. And with more than just cause. Someone, a specific someone with hair the color of polished mahogany and eyes as blue as a summer sky, had outfitted one of the finest butlers in London in a red and gold frock coat, black breeches, a billowy white shirt with lace at the throat and cuffs, cavalier boots, and…
“Is that a cutlass in your belt, Townsend?” Ethan asked without thinking.
“A cutlass?” Ash reined in his guffawing to ask. “Your butler is decked out like the veriest pirate king and all you see is a damned cutlass?”
“If you don’t stubble it forthwith, I will use the damned cutlass to skewer you.”
“My wife will kill you if you start poking holes in me. What the devil do you intend to do?”
“Do?” Ethan scrubbed his hands over his face. “What do you mean, do? Townsend, for God’s sake, please change out of those clothes before the neighbors see you. And—”
Ash, coughing like an old lord with a bad hand at whist, interrupted his train of thought. Ethan opened his mouth to tell him to leave when he followed his brother’s pointing finger up the stairs to the first-floor landing.
“Holy. Benighted. Hell.” Ethan’s stomach sank and then threatened to dance out of his chest. The two footmen at the top of the stairs were dressed in tandem—black shoes, white trousers, red-striped shirts, white kerchiefs around their necks and red Monmouth caps on their heads.
Ash sidled alongside him. “I cannot wait to see what the maids are wearing. Umpf!” He rubbed his sternum where Ethan had landed a well-aimed elbow. “Damn it, Ethan. No fair.”
Ethan was enveloped in a maelstrom. His brother was in his house, reacting to being elbowed as if they were boys once more, playing in Mama’s parlor. His butler looked ready to commit murder, as much as the straight-faced butler might evince such an intention, and he was armed to do so. His footmen merely appeared…bemused. And over it all he saw her face, Georgiana’s face. What message was she trying to send? And why?
“You need to come in here, brother. Lady Georgiana has outdone herself.” Ash had apparently wandered into the downstairs drawing room.
Ethan glanced at Townsend. “How bad is it?”
The butler’s gaze flitted from the sailor-garbed footmen to a spot across the foyer. A huge anchor fixed on a circular, wheeled platform sported an intricately carved perch, and on that perch sat a large, bright-green bird. The creature screeched once and then let loose a stream of oaths fit to put the saltiest tar to the blush. Like a condemned man, Ethan paced into the drawing room, the parrot casting aspersions on his antecedents behind him.
Where there had once been faded carpets, bare floors stood. A ship’s wheel occupied pride of place in the center of the room. Drapes had been replaced with sailcloth, tied back with pieces of netting. The largest skull and crossbones he’d ever seen hung over the fireplace. Buxom figureheads in the form of mermaids stood guard at either side of the hearth. Chairs fashioned from large barrels had been arranged around the room, with small rum barrels serving as footstools. Various model ships occupied tables, also fashioned from barrels and other ships’ furnishings. Narrow beds he recognized as having come from officers’ cabins aboard ships had been fashioned into settees.
“The ale tankards with flower arrangements are a nice touch,” Ash offered, his voice shaking.
“I thought you weren’t speaking to me.”
“I am making an exception. This occasion is entirely too good to pass up.”
“I really hate you right now,” Ethan muttered.
“I know.” Ash sighed heavily and patted him on the shoulder as he walked back into the foyer and started for the stairs.
“Where are you going?” Ethan ran after him and caught him on the landing. The footmen had disappeared, probably in hiding in the hope of not being seen.
“To see precisely how badly Lady Georgiana wants you to raise the white flag in this courtship. Library.” Ash disappeared inside the double doors.
White flag? How was it his estranged brother knew so much about Ethan’s courtship? More to the point, how was it Ethan knew so little? Women. Women talked about such things. Eleanor, Abigail McCormick and even Lady Arthur stood in Georgiana’s corner and he was glad of it. Save when he wasn’t. His dear sister-in-law was obviously in possession of more information as to Georgiana’s state of mind than she let on and she had shared that insight with his damned brother. His brother, with whom he’d somehow managed a fragile truce.
“What makes you think Georgiana is trying to put me off courting her?” he demanded as he strode into the library after his brother.
“Admiral Nelson is sporting an eye patch.”
What the devil? “I beg your pardon? Are you foxed?”
“Sober as the Blind Beak himself.” Ash stood in the middle of the bare-floored library, turning slowly in place to give their surroundings a thorough perusal. “Although, I think a brandy or ten might help.”
Ethan had once found his ship under fire between two French frigates. In the first few minutes of the engagement, the cannon fire rained down on them from all sides. The bombastic bursts of smoke and flames had he and his men so confused they did not know where to look first. Walking into his newly decorated library made that memory pale in comparison.
He blinked to gain his bearings, then slowly prowled the perimeter of the room, as if something might explode at any moment. The large bust of Nelson atop the Grecian pedestal to the right of the library doors did indeed sport an eye patch. The bookshelves, half-empty before, now held one of the most unfortunate collections of pirate’s treasure ever to assault the eye of an English seaman. Monstrous sea shells, hideous gold chains, starfish and sea urchins, spy glasses, a hook meant to replace a man’s hand, a selection of native blow guns, several wooden chests, a pair of ancient pistols. A variety of stuffed exotic wildlife from a cobra to a large green lizard to some sort of oversized rat with big teeth. And…a shrunken head?
“I do like this,” Ash offered from across the room. He sat sprawled in an ebony chair which might only be described as a throne—carved to look like a dragon, wings spread wide, with clawed feet as the arms and legs of the chair. It was piled with red velvet cushions. Ash sat, one leg thrown negligently over a chair arm. Ethan wanted to tip the chair over and dump his brother on the floor, but the throne appeared to weigh as much as a fully loaded mail coach.
“I am overcome with joy that I am able to provide you with entertainment,” Ethan said as he cast about for a place to sit.
“You look a bit peaked, brother. Perhaps you need to have a lie down.” Ash pointed to the far end of the room where an arrangement of horsehair chairs and matching settee had once stood.
“Good God,” Ethan murmured. He rubbed his eyes. Which did nothing to abate the explosive assault on his vision. The entire alcove was now draped in exotic silks and Persian carpets. Beneath the Bedouin canopy stood a low set captain’s bunk piled high with cushions, bolsters and pillows in jewel-toned fabrics of every hue. Some sort of animal rug lay before it. Spindly ship’s tables stood to either side of the bunk and each was piled with a stack of books. Rather familiar books. He crossed the room and flipped open the first book. A smile curved his mouth in spite of himself.
A tentative tap at the doors drew Ethan’s and Ash’s attention.
“Should we prepare to repel boarders?” his brother asked as he pushed out of the throne and joined him near the monument to potentate excess.
“Damned if I know,” Ethan muttered. “Come.”
One of the sartorial
ly beleaguered footmen entered pushing a loaded tea cart. Oddly enough, the young man was undaunted by the library’s new incarnation. He’d had a bit of time to grow accustomed to it. Ethan was not certain he’d live long enough to do so.
“Mr. Townsend thought you and Captain Dorrill might care for some refreshments.” He looked about as if in search of an appropriate spot for the tea cart, an aberration in the present surroundings.
Ash glanced about and finally settled onto the captain’s bed turned pirate’s harem. Ethan sighed and sat down next to him.
“Here will do, John.” Ethan perched on the edge of mounds of cushions and bolsters and buried his face in his hands. His head began to spin, images crowded into it like eels in a fishmonger’s basket. Georgiana’s smiling face the most prominent of them. Truly smiling, as she did on the rare occasions he’d said or done something to reach the true Georgiana. His brother, speaking with him as if the past ten years had never happened. His ridiculously redecorated home. Thomas at Hyde Park, threatening Margaret, threatening them all—the very reason for his unwanted courtship.
Unwanted.
“Have you had a falling out with your cook?”
Ethan raised his head and gave his brother a quizzical look. Ash handed him a wooden bowl. Wooden, and filled with a grey substance that smelled like…
“Gruel?” He made use of the wooden spoon sticking out of the bowl.
“Lady Georgiana provided Cook with menus and recipes for the month,” the footman offered.
“She has a recipe for gruel?” He dropped the bowl onto the tea cart.
Beside him, Ash had made some sort of sandwich out of thick crusted bread, cheese and dried beef. He bit into it and set about chewing it into submission.
“Are the servants consigned to this repast as well?” Ethan searched the top of the cart and found a strip of dried beef and a bowl of oranges.
“No, sir.” The footman smiled brightly and immediately dropped his head. “We had ham and potatoes at midday and we’re to have the same for supper.”
“The ham the Duchess of Mitford sent up from the country?”
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