The Storybook Hero
Lessons in Love
Book Three
by
Andrea Pickens
Award-winning Author
THE STORYBOOK HERO
Awards & Accolades
RWA RITA Finalist
Regency Romance, 2002
"The Storybook Hero is a real page turner... exciting adventure and an entertaining romance."
~The Romance Reader
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ISBN: 978-1-61417-417-2
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Chapter 1
"Good Lord, given the circumstances, you might at least have made a semblance of an effort to appear in a respectable state." The speaker's patrician nose wrinkled in disgust, as if he could actually catch a whiff of the dregs of brandy and musky perfume from all the way across the room.
The figure sprawled in the worn armchair made no effort to smooth the creases in his rumpled cravat nor to rearrange his long legs in a more decorous posture. "And what circumstances are those, William? The prospect of a warm family reunion?"
The Marquess of Wright gave an exasperated snort as he turned away from his youngest brother and caught the eye of his other sibling. "You see? Bloody waste of time, inviting him. I don't know why we bothered. Uncle Ivor must be daft to have thought he might accept."
"Come now, William," murmured Thomas Sheffield in a voice designed to put out the sparks of anger beginning to flare in the marquess's heated gaze. "You promised to keep a cool head. Remember the reason we are here." Taking the ensuing silence as a grudging acquiescence, he sighed and went on. "And you, Alex. You might try not to goad him on. It has been a long time—too long. It's good to see you...." He paused as he regarded the bloodshot eyes, sallow complexion and state of dishevelment that spoke all too clearly of a night spent in reckless carousing. "...though I wish I could say you are looking well."
"Always the peacemaker, Tommy." Alexander Sheffield noticed the undone cuff of his wrinkled shirt and slowly fastened it in place. "Don't bother."
The marquess shrugged in impatience to indicate things were going exactly as he expected. "Well, will you come?" he demanded. "Or are you too busy wenching or gambling or God knows whatever else it is you do that seeks to sink the family name in further reproach."
"William," warned Thomas.
His younger brother only laughed. "Oh, I have much too thick a skin for any of Lordly William's stinging setdowns to have the least effect."
The marquess's lip curled in contempt.
"But," he added in a slow drawl. "I admit to an overwhelming curiosity as to Uncle Ivor's summons. And seeing that the chance to dine with my affectionate family occurs so rarely these days, I do believe I shall make an appearance." If truth be told, the fact that it would also irk his elder sibling to no end was perhaps the deciding factor.
"Very well. But if you think to bring another—" the marquess nearly choked on the word "—doxy into my house masquerading as a lady acquaintance, I vow I shall throw you bodily from the premises."
That had been a rather shabby thing to do, reflected the youngest Sheffield. He must truly have been four sheets to the wind to have come up with such a stunt. He had nothing against his sisters-in law. In fact, he liked them quite a bit. But then again, he had no trouble getting along with females.
"You might try pressing your coat and finding a fresh set of linen," continued the marquess. "And you might—"
Thomas put a hand on his brother's shoulder. "Tomorrow at seven, then, Alex?"
The figure in the chair nodded, his unruly long, dark locks falling to obscure the flash of pain in his eyes. His hand shot out for the glass on the sidetable and he drained the amber contents in one quick gulp. "Oh, seeing that it has been quite some time since either of you visited Town, let me know if I may be of any assistance in suggesting some entertainment. Madame Violet has a particularly lovely assortment of females—do you still favor big breasts, William?"
Thomas propelled his older sibling through the door before the growl of rage reverberating in the marquess's throat could reach a roar.
As it fell shut, Alexander Sheffield poured himself another brandy.
* * *
Alex paused before reaching for the familiar lion's head brass knocker. He usually avoided Grosvenor Square—not that his usual jaunts tended to take him anywhere near such a bastion of propriety. The imposing townhouse, city home to four previous Marquesses of Wright, had changed not a whit since his first stay, when he was a lad not yet out of leading strings. His throat tightened for just a moment as he recalled larking through the hallways and sliding down the banisters with William and Thomas—and Jack, of course.
Damnation. He knew he shouldn't have come.
But it was too late to turn tail now. He reached up and rapped with rather more force than was necessary. Almost immediately, the heavy varnished door swung open.
"Why good evening, sir." The reedy butler, already a fixture in the house in his father's time, gave a quirk of smile before composing his angular features into their normal impassive expression. "Welcome home."
"I doubt that I am," he muttered under his breath as he allowed the elderly man to relieve him of his greatcoat. To his dismay, he could feel a strange flutter in his stomach.
"The others are in the drawing room. Shall I—"
"I haven't forgotten the way, Evans. And no thank you, I shall announce myself."
The butler inclined his head a fraction. "As you wish, sir."
Once again, he hesitated slightly, his eyes drifting of their own accord to the gilt framed portrait of the first marquess hanging at the head of the ornately carved staircase, then to the massive crystal chandelier dangling in the center of the entrance hall, missing several baubles due to having served on occasion as target practice for four unruly boys. With a mental shake, he banished such thoughts and forced his steps down the polished parquet hallway.
"Ah, Alexander!"
His Uncle Ivor, the Earl of Chittenden moved from a spot by the crackling fire and extended his hand. "I appreciate your coming."
Alex felt his throat constrict. He said nothing as he shook hands.
His two brothers rose from their seats. A cousin, his uncle's only son, laid aside the book he was perusing and looked up as well.
"Alex," murmured Thomas in greeting, a tentative smile on his face.
&nbs
p; William glowered and gave only a curt nod.
His cousin Richard, following his father's lead, also came over to greet him. "Good to see you, Lex. It's been too damn long," he murmured, leaning in close to Alex's ear as he gave him a firm handshake.
"I believe you are acquainted with your sister-in-laws, are you not?"
Alex nodded and sketched a bow towards the marquess's wife, Augusta, and Thomas's wife, Olivia.
For a moment, there was an uncomfortable silence.
"What can I get you to drink?" continued his uncle in a hearty tone which sought to dispel the underlying tension in the room.
"Anything, as long as the bottle is full," muttered the marquess.
Their uncle shot him a dark look, then went on. "Sherry? Brandy?"
Alex shrugged. "Whatever you are having."
The earl returned with a glass of sherry and motioned for him to take a place in one of the armchairs by the fire. Alex accepted the drink but ignored the invitation to be seated. He merely polished off the contents in one gulp and shifted the glass from hand to hand, his lips curled in a willful belligerence that challenged any reproach.
"Let us not waste time with strained civility, Uncle. Why did you ask me here?" he blurted out.
His uncle's brow furrowed slightly but he kept a smile on his lined face. "Plenty of time to discuss business after dinner."
"Ah, you mean we should spend some time in convivial family chatter?" The mocking tone of his voice could hardly be mistaken.
"Well, at least you have had the decency to appear before us in a pressed coat and properly tied cravat," muttered William.
"Oh, Squid is capable of starching a neckcloth or polishing a boot, if he is so directed."
His brother's brow furrowed. "Squid?"
"My valet."
"A deucedly queer name for a gentleman's man, but then again, you might—"
"An interesting moniker. And just how did he come to be called that?" interrupted Olivia, seeking to deflect the barbs being tossed by her elder brother-in law.
Alex's lips quirked slightly. "Because he was accorded to have rather slippery tentacles in his former line of work."
There was a snort of disgust from the marquess, while Olivia ducked her head to hide a grin.
"Actually, the ladies prefer to call him 'Angel' for his cherubic looks," continued Alex. He paused to pick at a thread on his sleeve. "And from what I hear, he does transport them to heaven—"
"For God's sake, hold your tongue! Have you forgotten there are true ladies present, and not your usual sort of company?" snapped the marquess.
Augusta didn't attempt to repress an amused laugh. "Oh, come now, William. Have a sense of humor. Can't you see that Alex is merely trying to pull your cork? Besides, we are hardly schoolroom misses here, that we cannot sully our ears with anything more bland than the state of the weather or the latest modiste."
"But I was referring to true ladies, dear brother," went on the marquess's youngest sibling, a wicked twinkle in his eye. "I assure you on the several occasions we have exchanged places, Squid has comported himself in a most gentlemanly manner. Most gentlemanly. Why there are more than one wealthy widows in Brighton who are no doubt pining the departure of the blond Mr. Sheffield—"
The marquess's fist came down upon the table with a resounding bang. "That is enough, I say."
On that note, dinner was announced.
The meal was a strained affair. Despite the earl's attempts to keep conversation flowing, seconded by the efforts of the two ladies, a number of awkward silences punctuated the clink of crystal and the scraping of silverware. Alex hardly spoke a word, responding to the questions from both his uncle and his sisters-in law with little more than monosyllabic replies. It was to everyone's relief when Ivor finally pushed back his chair and suggested the gentlemen forego the ritual of port and cigars at the table so that they might all retire to the drawing room to take their coffee.
The earl cleared his throat after the cups were passed around, signaling that he was at last ready to discuss why he had gathered them together. "I believe you are all familiar enough with family history to know that my wife's mother, your grandmother, had a younger sister," he began, fixing all three Sheffield males with a pointed look. "This sister fell in love with a Russian count attached to their embassy here in London. They married, and when he was posted home, she naturally returned with him."
"Yes, yes," grumbled the marquess. "We have all heard stories of our great aunt and her adventures in that cursed land of ice and bears. Interesting perhaps, but I don't see what it has to do—"
"Perhaps if you allowed Uncle to finish we would find out." Alex regarded his elder brother through the amber contents of his brandy glass. He alone had chosen to remain standing, and as he leaned nonchalantly against the carved mantel his eyes found the spot on the intricate acanthus molding where he had once carved away a scroll of leaf with a new jackknife. "But then you always think you know it all, don't you William?"
The marquess opened his mouth to reply but was waved to silence by his uncle. "Might you try not to act as if you were six instead of thirty six, William?"
The marquess clamped his jaw shut.
"And Alex, at twenty nine you are no mere boy anymore either. I ask that you not try to intentionally provoke your brother."
Alex lowered his eyes and took a long swallow of brandy.
"Well then, as I was saying, your great aunt went to live in Russia. Though she never returned for a visit, her son Nicholas spent a year at Oxford when... Jack was there."
"I remember him," interjected Thomas. "Jack brought him down one weekend to visit. You were at Eton, Alex, so you didn't meet him, and William, you were away shooting at a friend's estate in Scotland. He was a nice chap."
"Yes, a nice chap. He, too, married an English girl—Lord Brougham's youngest daughter—before returning home." He paused and let out a heavy sigh. "I received some bad news a week ago. Nicholas was killed in a skirmish near the Polish border some months ago."
"A pity," murmured Thomas.
"Aye," agreed his uncle. "But that is not the worst of it." He removed a letter from his coat pocket. "This arrived on its heels. It is a letter from Nicholas's wife, and it contains some very disquieting news. It seems she mistrusted her husband's relatives enough to fear for her young son's safety. She appeals to us for help in removing the boy from Russia until he has reached his majority."
The marquess's brow furrowed. "Why does she not bring him here herself?" he asked. "Or appeal to her brother."
"She was quite ill when she wrote this. Apparently an epidemic of influenza swept through their estate. Your great aunt was among the first to succumb." He stopped to take a swallow of brandy. "I met Brougham yesterday—the countess did not survive either."
There was a rustle of silk as the two ladies shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. The marquess made a slight grimace as he took a swallow of port, while Thomas stared into the dregs in his coffee cup. Only Alex showed no change in expression, but his eyes remained locked on his uncle's grim visage.
"So the sole survivor of that branch of the family is their only son, Nicholas's namesake," continued the earl. "A boy the age of twelve."
"I am sure we all agree that it is a terrible pity," remarked William. He tugged at a corner of his immaculate cravat. "But surely the concern is more Brougham's than ours. After all, he is her brother."
"The new Lord Brougham will not bother to lift a finger. He is an indolent fool, caring only for cards, claret and whatever willing female will tumble into his bed," snapped the earl.
Thomas darted an involuntary look at his younger brother.
"What is it you are suggesting, Uncle Ivor?" asked Alex softly. "That we should take responsibility for the boy?"
"His mother and grandmother were English, and Sheffield blood runs in his veins. He belongs here, with his family, so that we may care for him and see to it he may live to take up his rightful inheritance."
"Actually, I wasn't going suggest we hire someone, William."
The marquess was speechless for a moment. "You can't mean, that... that you want us..." he sputtered.
Alex looked faintly amused.
"That's precisely what I meant, though 'us' is rather broader than I had in mind." He turned to his youngest nephew. "Actually, it is you I planned to ask, Alex."
There were several murmurs of shock. Ignoring them, the earl went on. "You have always shown a gift for languages, and I happen to know that you picked up a working knowledge of Russian from the mathematics professor who spent a term at Oxford. Why, your tutor at Merton—"
"Alex was sent down from Oxford," barked the marquess. "In disgrace. In case you had forgotten?"
"You certainly haven't," countered his uncle, and the marquess had the grace to color slightly. Turning back to Alex, his uncle continued, "Your tutor felt you were one of the brightest students he had ever taught."
Alex tugged at the cuff of his coat. "As William says, that was in the past. Long in the past."
The earl fixed him with a penetrating look, one that mingled both exasperation and sympathy. Under such scrutiny, it was Alex who finally looked away.
"What on earth made you think I might agree to such a proposal?" he asked softly. His usual cynicism quickly reasserted itself and he gave a curt laugh. "Obviously it would solve a great number of problems—William would be free of the burden of my quarterly allowance and the rest of you would no longer have to fret about what blot will fall next on the family name."
Andrea Pickens - [Lessons in Love 03] Page 1