It grated a little that his brother-in-law knew more about the private details of his family than he did. He had yet to pay a visit to his elderly aunt, the widow of his father’s older brother. This current news only reminded him how distracted he had become.
“Who is Mr. Keel?” He despised asking, but Wynne’s husband was the only one who would not lecture him for his shameful neglect of his family.
Milroy rubbed the back of his neck with the tepid water, earning Brock’s envy. Perched against the edge of the pool, he crossed his arms and considered the question. “Not the sort of man worthy of the challenge I see in your eyes. If I were you, I’d forget all about having a private visit with her betrothed. What’s more, Aunt Moll would strike a birch whip across your hands for even considering it. Her Mr. Keel is sixty and too comfortable to be a fortune hunter. He is a well-mannered proprietor of a perfumery off Bond Street. If you insist on fighting someone, Wynne will not like it, but I can oblige you.”
“You are protecting my aunt against me?” It was too outrageous to contemplate. “Why?”
The fighter shrugged, the agile movement drawing attention to the solid muscle concealed under his linen shirt. “I’ve a keen affection for the dear woman. Spending most of my life without a family has taught me to treasure the one I’ve been granted through Wynne. You are not the only male around who knows how to look after the ones he loves.”
The message was clear. Keanan Milroy protected his own. Something shifted inside Brock, lessening the ache in his gut. He had felt responsible for protecting his family for so long that he was still uncomfortable with the notion that he had three brothers-in-law who would stand beside him if he asked. “My aunt must have adored you at first sight.”
“Aye, she did. It was Wynne who needed charming.” He nodded toward the house. “Come along. I promise to behave like a proper host since you’ve changed your mind about the milling.”
He would be damned if the heat in his face was a blush. “I did not come here to fight. I might have a reputation for unruliness, but no one has ever accused me of lunacy.”
Unconvinced, the man pressed, “What brought you here then?”
He hesitated. Clenching his teeth, he said, “Miss Claeg.”
Milroy’s easy stride faltered at the admission but he recovered quickly. To his credit, he did not laugh, for perhaps he understood all too well.
Lord Keyworth was not in his library managing his various interests as Amara had assumed. Closing the door, she realized how little she knew of her father’s affairs. There had been little interest on her side, and having two older brothers had diminished the value in educating her. Doran had shared their father’s pursuits, but was found lacking in talent. Mallory, the heir and reluctant prince, had chosen pursuits that continually vexed the family. Her mother was confident her firstborn would assume the mantle of responsibility when called upon. Amara thought it would take more than threats and bribery to sway her wayward brother.
Striding across the empty back parlor, Amara walked through the open doors onto the balcony. Potted bay and yellow jasmine added a welcoming warmth of color to the wrought-iron railing while the fragrance of the plants enticed the curious ambler down the broad stone steps that led to the garden.
On her descent, she spotted her father standing outside the aviary. The original owners of the house had built the ecclesiastical Gothic structure with the intention of using it as a conservatory. Its octagonal sides framed arched floor-length traceried glass windows. Her mother had declared it a madman’s folly. She had hoped to replace it with an edifice that harmonized architecturally with the house and surrounding outbuildings, but her father had refused. Amara had been pleased by the decision. As a child, she had raced Doran round and round the two-story structure, which had always reminded them of an ornate campanile. When the game had grown tiring, they had pressed their faces to the glass and marveled at their father’s predatory menagerie.
“Good morning, Papa,” she said softly, not wanting to disturb the falcon perched on the padded buckskin gauntlet he wore over his left hand. The bird was about the size of a crow, and a slit hood covered its head, exposing its pale yellow cere and sharp beak. The back and head of the bird was slate blue in color, whereas its throat and breast were white with vertical markings. The direction of the dark slashes switched to horizontal farther down the breast, pannel, and legs. The peregrine falcon was a stunning predator and her father’s particular favorite.
Turning his head, he acknowledged the affection laced in her salutation with an answering smile. Lord Keyworth was an athletic man for the estimable age of fifty-two. The blond hair of his youth had darkened to brown and was accented by white streaks at his temples. He was balding at the crown of his head, but he concealed the flaw by wearing hats or, if the occasion demanded, a peruke.
Years of enjoying the outdoors had scored lines around his eyes and mouth. Nevertheless, it had not extinguished completely the devastating handsomeness of his youth. At their country estate, a painting commissioned by his mother when he was twenty hung in the gallery. Walking beside him, she still saw the glimpses of the young ambitious lord who had secured her mother’s heart.
“There you are, my dear. I had called for you earlier, but no one could find you.”
Despite the jesses tethered to the falcon’s legs, Amara kept her distance. The hood calmed the bird; however, she had witnessed on numerous occasions the natural pugnacious tendencies of her father’s prized pets.
“I arose later than usual.” Hanging back seemed cowardly so she edged closer to the servant assisting her father. She could not recall the young man’s name, but she recognized him as one of the gamekeeper’s sons. “I see I am in time for the entertainment.”
The sardonic tone drew a bark of laughter from her father, unsettling his plumed companion. The bating falcon settled with an expert touch and a few soothing words.
“You never did have the heart for this sport. If you would rather wait for me in the library—”
“No, no,” she declined, glancing down at the square wood and wirework cage that contained half a dozen grouse. “There is nothing quite like the display of the falcon when it stoops on its quarry.” She tried to insert the right amount of required enthusiasm. It was not as if she had an extraordinary fondness for the distressed birds fluttering in the cage. Grouse fricandeau with red currants was one of her favorite dishes. She just preferred not to have her supper slain before her.
“On that we agree, daughter.” He addressed the servant supervising the prey. “My Ellette grows impatient. Start the quarry.”
“Aye, milord.” Reaching into the cage, the servant withdrew a grouse and closed the lid before the others could escape.
Removing the leash, Lord Keyworth tensed with anticipation. “Ready, man?” At the servant’s concurrence, he removed the leather hood. “Release the grouse.”
The quarry, sensing danger, took to the sky. The advantage gained was soon lost. The hungry falcon ascended above the grouse, and then in a burst of speed plummeted toward the bird, its long narrow wings pulled inward almost like a scythe in form. The two birds collided in a breathtaking midair spectacle. Stunned or perhaps already dead, the grouse tumbled, striking the roof of the stables before hitting the ground. Claws splayed, the falcon alighted on its quarry. Bowing its slender, dark head, it ripped the grouse’s throat out with its razor-sharp beak.
“What a truly gruesome display!” Piper exclaimed, joining them.
Her cousin had not yet bothered to close her mouth as she watched with horrified fascination the falcon feast on the grouse. To the uninitiated, the scene was rather disconcerting. “Good morning, cousin. I trust you slept well.”
The falcon lifted its head, watchful that no one violated its territory. It warned off its audience with an occasional, “Kee, kee, kee.”
“Well enough, thank you.” Gaining Lord Keyworth’s attention, Piper curtsied. The viscount turned and offered his cheek. Pip
er dutifully stepped forward and gave him a kiss. “My lord, pardon my ignorance, but since the birds have been caught, would it not be kinder to have Cook wring their necks?”
He removed the gauntlet and handed it to the servant. “A practical observation, would you not say, Amara?” Lord Keyworth winked at his daughter, including her in the jest.
“Yes, Papa. Our cousin is nothing if not practical.”
Miss Novell might have questioned the sincerity of the compliment if Lord Keyworth had not cordially taken both of them by the elbow and steered them away from the falcon. “The grouse was for Ellette,” he explained. “Most of my birds reside in the mews at our northwestern estate, Arras Green. Still, I cannot part from my favorites. When we are in town, I usually take her to one of the commons for the hunt, but I have too many commitments this day to indulge my pleasures.”
While her cousin asked various questions about falconry, Amara remained a silent companion throughout the exchange. If she felt a twinge of jealousy, she blamed it on Miss Novell’s intrusion. Private moments with her father were scarce when they resided in London. Encouraged by the captivating attention Miss Novell bestowed, Lord Keyworth relinquished his hold on Amara as he gesticulated while making a point. Keeping pace with his stride, she smiled slightly at his fervor.
“Then we are in agreement?” Lord Keyworth said, a touch of his hand drawing Amara back into the conversation.
“I believe so,” she replied, too stubborn to admit she had no hint to what they were discussing. Had they not been discussing falconry?
“Fine, fine. I shall send a note to Prola, notifying him that you shall be home to receive his card.”
“This afternoon?” she queried, twisting the tip of one of her gloved fingers. “Heavens, it will not do.”
Accustomed to his daughter’s fickleness, he clenched his jaw. He was losing patience with her daily excuses. He gave them both a minute, until he trusted his ability to hold a rational dialogue with his youngest child. “I was not aware you would be out.”
“Miss Novell has ruined her slippers. Mama had suggested an afternoon of shopping.”
“Delay it,” he ordered.
Her cousin touched him on the arm. “Naturally, we will choose another afternoon.”
The charitable twit had Amara choking on her own resentment. What argument could she offer that would not be perceived as stubbornness? There was something about the conte that disturbed her. She was not the type of woman who inspired such devotion. Brock Bedegrayne’s attentions only added to her confusion. What she needed was solitude, and she felt fenced in by everyone’s demands.
She made a final attempt to dissuade her father. “My commitments extend beyond shopping, Papa. I promised Mallory I would pay him a visit.”
Lord Keyworth’s face took on a reddish hue. Almost sputtering, he said, “Taking into account Mallory’s numerous indiscretions, he must be well acquainted with false promises by way of acquisition and execution.”
“He has asked me to sit for a portrait.” Sensing his refusal, she added, “It is a gift for Mama—a surprise.” Amara silently begged the other woman for support. “Miss Novell was present when he made his request.”
Her cousin pursed her lips. “I do recall Mr. Claeg expressing a fervent desire to paint his sister.”
Lord Keyworth fisted his hands in an agitated manner. “My treasure, I praise your noble intentions toward your mother. However, as always, your deeds are inopportune and hinder mine.” He gave her a considering stare. “One might believe it is deliberate.”
Amara clasped her hands. “No, Papa. I thought only of accepting my brother’s generous offer before he was distracted by a more appealing whim.”
She had not lied about her brother’s mercurial temperament, and her father’s grim expression revealed he concurred. “Very well.”
The reprieve made her light-headed. “Oh, thank you, Papa!” She rolled onto her tiptoes and gave him several ecstatic kisses.
His annoyance gradually yielded under her delight. “You are a good daughter. Leave our conflict in my care, and all will be well. When you see your brother, remind him that he has been neglectful of his mother.”
“I promise.” Amara could barely contain her excitement as she watched him walk away to check on his falcon’s progress with her quarry.
“Will I be joining you when you call on Mr. Claeg?”
She started at the question, forgetting her cousin had remained at her side. “I can think of no reason to insist.”
“Good,” Miss Novell said, sounding pleased. “While I enjoy viewing the achievements of an artist, I find the implements of the craft too odorous.” Breaking off a spray of red campion, her cousin trailed down the path after Lord Keyworth.
Leaving the pair to continue their discussion on the minutiae of falconry, Amara returned to the house. A carriage would have to be readied. She grimaced, critically assessing the dress she wore. It was simply inappropriate for her purposes. Rushing up the stairs, she contemplated whether or not she should send a note ahead warning her brother of her subterfuge. In the end, she decided an unannounced visit was best. Dodging family obligations was a trait the surviving siblings shared.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Brock regarded his uninvited call to the Keyworth residence as an impulsive act, but in reality he was feeling apprehensive. Several days had passed since his visit with Wynne and Milroy. Their advice had not been helpful, and he had a slight suspicion that had been their intention. Oh, they had been friendly and sympathetic to the plight he had presented. However, they must have guessed he had not disclosed all the reasons for his interest. Even in his frustration he could not regret his silence. The truth was not his to tell.
Brock had knocked on the door and was told by the butler that the family was not at home. He had handed the man his card, but if the servant recognized the name, he showed no reaction. Resigned, Brock had been about to depart when one of the Keyworths’ liveried grooms had halted an empty gig in front of the residence. One of the ladies of the house was preparing to leave. He could only hope it was the lady he sought.
Not wanting his presence to worry the servant, he approached and introduced himself as one of Miss Claeg’s lovesick suitors. The young man was appreciative of Brock’s predicament. He was explaining his woes relating to the courting of one of Lord Lumley’s housemaids when Amara emerged from the house.
This afternoon she wore a cream round dress of thick refined India muslin with a flowing jonquil mantle. A straw bonnet was secured with a tidy bow along the right of her chin. Harried and muttering under her breath, she was almost to the street before she noticed him.
“Mr. Bedegrayne!” She glanced back at the house, probably concerned she would be caught speaking to him. Her caution always brought out the recklessness in him. If she could have read his thoughts, she would have run back into the refuge of her house.
He walked around the gig, joining her. Executing a stiff bow, he held out his hand. “I fear it is too late for discretion, Miss Claeg. I left my card with your butler.” It was a declaration of sorts to the Keyworth household. He would not apologize for it.
“Then you must also be aware no one is at home this afternoon.” Her movements were skittish, as she accepted his hand, allowing him to help her step up into the gig.
“We must talk.”
She slid over, making room for the servant. “I agree. Regrettably, I have another appointment.”
“Then we will not tarry.” Climbing into the gig, he settled in the seat beside her.
“You—you cannot do this!”
Deliberately misinterpreting her protest, Brock grinned. “Jimmy will not mind sitting aft, will you, man?”
“No, sir!” Moving to the back, the servant climbed up on the small perch.
Brock and Amara both seized the reins. A childish tug-of-war ensued. “You cannot drive me. Think of the gossip!” Amara asserted.
He had underestimated her strength, but t
here was no doubt in his mind who would be the victor. “How can I, when all I think about is you?”
Her grip slackened at his confession. Taking up the ribbons, he paused. Their struggle had ruined her perfect coiffure. Wispy mahogany strands framed her flushed face. She looked pleasantly rumpled, although he guessed she would not appreciate the compliment.
“Where is your appointment?” There was a wealth of suspicion injected into the question. He believed she had made up the ruse so she had another excuse to avoid him.
Comprehending that nothing but force would remove him, Amara surrendered. “My brother’s residence. It is on Bury Street.”
His right brow lifted. “Bury Street it is.” He gave an expert flick of the ribbons, and the horse commenced their short journey. “I thought Doran was the favored brother?”
Shoulders set, she seemed more interested in the horse’s backside than him. Usurping her gig, he mused, had not placed him in a flattering light. Mentioning her beloved Doran had most likely doomed him to her silence.
“Doran is gone,” she said simply. “His death has taught me an appreciation for the only brother I have left.”
“No offense, Amara, but you and Mallory have nothing in common.” Two years older than Brock, the eldest Claeg sibling had always been arrogant and wild, rejecting his father’s guidance. His elopement six years ago with Lord De Lanoy’s mistress had sealed his fate among the notorious.
“Mallory is painting my portrait. It will be a gift for Mama.”
“You can not always be the peacemaker, little dove.”
She finally looked at him. Those stormy dark blue depths ensnared him, touched his soul. “No, not always.”
He could not recall when he had first given her the sobriquet. It had just seemed apt. It had probably started with her father’s odd collection of predatory birds. Brock had thought the family had more in common with the birds, and Amara with the quarry. He had watched over the years as her family easily trounced her gentle nature. Nonetheless, it never deterred her from stepping between her brawling brothers, a fact he was certain neither brother had appreciated.
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