“Oh I have,” Lady Caroline was firm, and in her own way as deadly as Mr. Black; “That awful woman and her lump of a son won’t darken the door of any balls or soirees that I attend.”
“That’s a rather considerable amount of balls your Aunt won’t be attending,” Lord Sutherland explained with a broad smile to Aurelia, who felt overwhelmed with gratitude for their support.
“Thank you my Lady,” she said gratefully; “My Aunt is such a snob, she will be horrified to think she has been blacklisted by the ton.”
From the corner of her eye Aurelia saw Sebastian roll his eyes, and she remembered what Lydia had said to her about his being an “inverted snob” himself.
“I’m sure Mr. Black would consider being blacklisted by the ton as a blessing rather than a punishment,” she said teasingly, giddy with laughter as he responded with an amused smile.
“I’d happily have my Almack’s vouchers rescinded,” he said glibly; “Not that I have ever attended.”
“How is it you have Almack’s vouchers you do not want?” she asked, shocked. Almack’s was reserved for the cream of the ton, as a place for marriage minded men to meet the most eligible of the aristocracy’s daughters. Vouchers were hard to come by, and the Lady patronesses were notorious for withdrawing the privilege of being invited, for any minor indiscretion.
Sebastian gave a Gallic shrug, his white teeth flashing briefly. He reminded Aurelia of a wild animal of some kind. A wolf perhaps; beautiful but deadly.
“The ton are always trying to sell me their daughters. My fortune in exchange for a step up on the social ladder,” he said his tone bland, but a glint of anger visible in his ice blue eyes.
“Sebastian!” Lady Caroline interjected, her sensibilities offended by the direction the conversation had taken; “Really, we are eating.”
There was a momentary lull, during which the now empty dinner plates were removed by the servants - almost invisible and soundless on their feet.
“Tea.”
Caroline’s tone was firm as she ushered the trio towards the drawing room apparently determined to restore a civilized tone.
“You will be able to have another season when your brother is found Miss St. Claire,” Caroline began once the tea was wheeled into the room by the maid. Caroline passed delicate china cups of pale tea around, which her brother looked at rather askance, his handsome face almost comical, such was his displeasure. Aurelia suspected he was more accustomed to brandy and cheroots after dinner.
“I hope so my Lady,” Aurelia replied; it was actually strange to be in London during the season and not attending every party in pursuit of a husband. Her late father, compensating for the fact that she was motherless, had taken an over-interest in finding her a husband. With the end result being that Aurelia’s seasons had almost resembled campaigns of war. Armed with a copy of Debrett’s the Late Lord Epsom had taken a very masculine approach to finding Aurelia’s new beau: Only the Best Would Do.
As such, Aurelia had found herself forbidden to speak with second or third sons (of which there were plenty, and many quite charming), and instead her dance card was filled with dull Dukes, eerie Earls, vagabond Viscounts and occasionally - a boring Baron.
She could feel Sebastian watching her across the room, and a shiver of desire ran down her spine. Her father would not have approved of a bastard, even if he was the offspring of a Duke and one of the wealthiest men in London - nay the whole of England. As someone who liked everything in its place, Sebastian Black upset her sensibilities in a way that both scared and excited her. Aurelia began to smooth out the creases in her skirt, a habit she had when she was nervous, and she was so engrossed in the rhythmic motion that she scarcely noticed Lady Caroline leaving.
“If you will pardon me for two minutes Miss St. Claire,” the Marquess said, checking the door to make sure his sister really was gone; “I’ll just run and imbibe a thimble full of brandy. For the gout, of course.”
“Oh of course,” Aurelia said, stifling a smile; the lithe Marquess of Sutherland did not strike her as a sufferer of gout. Once he had left, and the double mahogany doors closed with a soft click, Aurelia became acutely aware that she was now alone with Sebastian Black.
“I want you to know how grateful I am for all your assistance sir,” Aurelia said, turning on the sofa to face Sebastian who was standing at the wide marble fireplace. In her flustered state however, Aurelia managed to upend the serving trolley, sending the - thankfully empty - tea pot and milk jug flying.
“Oh drat,” she whispered, her cheeks flushing at her clumsiness. She hunkered down to pick up the scattered China, only to reach for the lid of the tea pot at the same time as Sebastian.
“Oh,” she started as their hands touched.
“Oh?”
Never had a man implied so much with a monosyllable. Sebastian seemed terribly amused, his dark eyebrow quirked in question.
“Your jacket sir,” Aurelia composed herself, trying to shake off the shivers running through her body at the mere frisson of excitement the moment of contact had induced; “The button on the cuff of your jacket is hanging off.”
And so it was.
Taking charge, Aurelia sat Mr. Black down on the sofa, and from the pocket in the folds of her skirt retrieved her Purse of Practicality (which is what her brother had named it), inside of which was, as ever, a needle and thread, a thimble and a small scissors.
“Stay still,” she said taking Sebastian’s arm and placing it in her lap. Too late she realized the intimacy of her action, and Sebastian’s even more amused expression made her so flustered that she struggled to thread her needle.
“Are you always this organized Miss St. Claire?” his tone was genuine, curious.
“Always,” Aurelia replied faintly, as she focused on stitching the button. She could not tell him of the almost obsessive need for order that had begun when her mother had died, and had then been exacerbated by the passing of her Father followed by Theo’s going missing. She needed to keep control of everything, have everything perfect - so that the feeling of being lost would not overwhelm her. The feeling that, like a dandelion, just a gust of wind would scatter her completely.
Her pernickety nature had cost her the friendship of girls her own age, who had sniggered at her sensibilities - and now Aurelia was beginning to admit that all the cleaning, the hand washing and counting her steps had not helped. Her parents were still dead and Theo was still missing.
“I like to feel prepared for any eventuality Mr. Black,” she said as she finished off her stitching with a neat back-loop; “Because so many things can go wrong. As you know.”
“Oh I do, I know,” his voice sounded almost sad. Aurelia lifted her head and their eyes locked. Once more she felt that everything she was feeling was being reflected right back at her from the blue eyes that had arrested her own. Only this time it was something more than desire, something deeper.
The air stilled, and Sebastian reached out and took her hand in his own, in a strong determined grip -
“- Honestly Gabe you can’t leave your guests alone so you can smoke cheroots,” Lady Caroline reentered, shepherding her abashed brother before her. “Forgive us Miss St. Claire, Sebastian.”
Sebastian dropped her hand like a hot coal, leaving Aurelia feeling almost bereft.
“Do not apologize on my account Caro,” he said, flashing her a smile; “But if you’ll excuse me, I must away to my club.”
“I thought you were being blackballed from Boodle’s?” the Marquess questioned suspiciously, not wanting to be alone in his deprivation of after dinner libations.
“My…other club,” was Sebastian’s response. From the meaning he inflicted in the word “other” Aurelia took it to mean that he was referring to the gambling hell he ran in Pickering Place.
Lady Caroline pursed her lips in disapproval at the hint of ill-deeds, but waved him off anyway.
“Until tomorrow Miss St. Claire,” Sebastian said, bowing at the door. His eyes
held hers for a fraction more than was necessary, and then he was gone, leaving Aurelia to count down the hours until the morning.
CHAPTER NINE
.
Gas lamps dimly lit the courtyard of Pickering Place, throwing shadows on the walls and allowing the night time revelers a modicum of privacy as they went about their debauched business. Sebastian kept his head down as he made his way into Nuit Noire, not wishing to be accosted by any of his clientele. The upstairs office was empty, though a small fire was lit in the grate when Sebastian unlocked the door. Gratefully he also noted the bottle of brandy and tumbler that was left on the desk, and said a silent prayer of thanks to Briggs, who was alway prepared when it came to libations.
He had just sat down, with his legs stretched out before him, boots on the table, when there was a loud knock on the door. The door swung open before he even had a chance to shout “Come in”. There was only one person in the world who didn’t wait for his permission to do anything, and that was -
“Michael,” Sebastian eyed his older brother warily.
There were few people who made Sebastian Black feel even slightly nervous - and his older brother was one of them. It had nothing to do with his rank, more the feeling all younger brothers get around their elder sibling.
“Sebastian,” Michael said with a smile; “Don’t look too enthusiastic, it’s only been two years since we last met.”
Realizing his rudeness Sebastian pushed back his chair, and fetched a second tumbler so he could pour his brother a brandy of his own; they were not the type of brothers who hugged.
After Michael settled himself, and they had caught up on news from Vienna, he got down to the business of why he was there.
“I was wondering if you knew anything about the Viscount Courtnay?” he ventured, avoiding Sebastian’s inquisitive gaze. Usually Michael was more forthcoming when he was asking for information.
“He has designs on a friend,” Michael elaborated, the tips of his ears burning red. Sebastian stifled a smile - so his big brother was in love.
“Well. He’s in up to his head,” Sebastian told him honestly.
“With you?” the Duke asked curiously.
“He owes me a small amount,” Sebastian conceded; “But you know me, I am loathe to extend credit to the aristocracy.”
Michael snorted with laughter at this comment; he knew that Sebastian loathe to have anything to do with the upper classes after his time at Eaton - bar fleece them for every penny they had.
“Well who does he owe money to?” Michael asked again, once his mirth had faded.
“A nasty chap called Hamley in Whitefriars,” Sebastian said uncomfortably, for anyone who owed money like that had a serious problem. Hamley had a reputation for taking a digit or two from any man who owed him money as a warning. And if they failed to pay after that, they were as good as dead. “He deals with the heavy gamblers that no one else will touch… your friend owes him thousands.”
Sebastian gave his brother a few moments to register the information. He wouldn’t say that Michael looked pleased, but there had been a flash of triumph in his eyes as he was told of Courtnay’s financial woes.
The conversation faltered, and a moment of complete silence ensued. Sebastian tried not to feel awkward, he had long since learned that his brother was a man of few words.
“How does one confirm a soldier died in battle?”
The Duke blinked, this was probably not the question he had been anticipating.
“At Waterloo,” Sebastian added, and his brother’s eyebrows shot to heaven.
“I don’t think I need to tell you how huge the battlefield was…”
Michael spoke slowly as he described the scene on the plateau of Mont-Saint-Jean, where the battle had been fought. Over fifteen thousand English men had died or were injured, and their bodies lay amongst the many thousands of French soldiers who also perished.
“It was hell on earth,” Michael finished; “There’s no way that I can convey to you how bad it really was. Bodies stacked upon bodies, with no respect for the dead. Most men were unidentifiable…not even their uniforms remained.”
“The person I’m looking for was in the Dragoons,” Sebastian ventured, as his brother’s reminiscences drew to a close.
Michael grimaced before he answered, his face deadly serious.
“Then your friend is almost definitely dead,” he said bluntly; “The mounted cavalry staged their attack quite early in the day. They ended up behind French lines…not many came back Sebastian.”
It took a moment for Sebastian to realise that the hollow feeling in his stomach was despair. Could his brother be right, was Theo St. Claire buried in a field in the Belgian countryside?
“It has happened though,” Sebastian began, clutching at straws; “Men have returned, men who were thought dead in the battle.”
“Aye,” Michael conceded, though his handsome face retained a doubtful expression; “But I would not want to offer you false hope. If this lad was a Dragoon, then he’s most likely never returning home. I’m sorry.”
The night-time sounds of the revelers below in Nuit Noire filled the silence that fell between the two brothers. The sounds of raucous laughter and drunken shouting sounded so frivolous to Sebastian’s ears as he contemplated the aftermath of the battle. So many lives lost, someones son. Someone’s brother.
“Who’s the lad?” unusually it was Michael who broke the silence.
“Theo St. Claire,” Sebastian replied; “He was Lord Epsom, but his Uncle now holds the title. And the current Lord Epsom is giving the previous Lord Epsom’s sister a rather hard time of it.”
“The poor girl,” Michael’s eyebrows shot up to heaven; “She’s lucky to have you as her champion.”
Sebastian did not like the quirk of amusement that accompanied his brother’s smile. Apart from Sutherland only Michael had been privy to his previous romantic notions of a daughter of the ton - and its disastrous ending.
“She is a friend of Lydia’s,” Sebastian answered mulishly; “And as such it is my duty to defend her honour. And yours as well for that matter.”
“Mine? I have never met the girl in my life!”
“Well you’ll get the chance soon,” Sebastian answered smoothly; “She needs to be seen to have powerful friends - and the only man more powerful than you is Prinny himself.”
“That slob,” Michael rolled his eyes. There was very little love amongst the higher ranking army men for the Prince Regent, who was vain and frivolous with the Crown’s money. The Duke of Blackmore had no time for men who shirked their duty to their country - even the Prince.
“Indeed,” Sebastian replied; “Sutherland and Lydia are taking Miss St. Claire to the theatre tomorrow evening. I don’t doubt you’ll be delighted to escort them.”
The expression on Michael’s face said that it was the last thing the Duke of Blackmore wished to do with his evening, but ever the gentleman he simply agreed and held his grumbles to himself.
“I shall see you tomorrow evening so,” Michael said as he took his leave.
“Aye,” Sebastian responded absently, still mulling over all they had talked of.
“I shall relish the chance to see what type of girl it is who could make you overlook the inferiority of her birth…”
“Pah,” Sebastian grumbled at his brother’s teasing tone; “It’s not Miss St. Claire’s fault she was born into the ton.”
It was only after his brothers echoing laughter had faded, that Sebastian realized that what his brother had said was true. He was very much so interested in Miss St. Claire, and the chit had made him overlook her status as a daughter of the aristocracy.
Good gracious, he thought to himself reaching to pour another brandy; I’ve finally healed the wounds inflicted by Petra.
And Aurelia St. Claire had been the balm.
A dark ceiling of cloud obscured the stars, as Sebastian made his way home a few hours later. One brandy had turned into rather a few, and he h
oped that the cool night’s air would sober him slightly before he turned in to bed. The brandy had rendered him melancholy, and his thoughts drifted to Petra; the daughter of the Earl of Lancashire had been his first true love, or so he had believed at the time.
In the first year after he had returned from the Orient and was building his fortune at an alarming pace, he had been an object of curiosity for many members of the ton. Many of the old families believed that they were too dignified to become involved with the industries which were springing up in the North of the country or with the trading imported goods. But still they watched the wealth that people like Sebastian were accruing with greedy eyes and jealous hearts. They might have felt that sullying their hands with industry and trade was beneath them, but they needed money to keep their crumbling country estates running.
And so, Sebastian became a target – which was something he had never anticipated he would be.
Lady Petra Deveraux had been the epitome of his childhood fantasies. Blonde and petite, with large blue eyes, she had enraptured his thoughts and his soul in the instant that she brushed past him in a crowded ballroom. He had plagued Sutherland to make the introduction to the angelic looking young woman, and once all propriety had been respected, Sebastian began his courting of her like it was a campaign of war.
At every ball he filled Petra’s card with his name, reserving as many dances as was politely permissible, so that he could spend just a few minutes with the love of his life in his arms. If his brain had been working in any way, shape or form, Sebastian would have realised that as well as being exceedingly dull, vain and frivolous – Lady Petra Deveraux was a complete and utter snob. Something which Sebastian had always detested.
When he was dancing with Petra however, his brain was somewhere in the upper Highlands, and her caustic remarks about others went unnoticed.
That is until the one night at the Vauxhall Gardens, he discovered exactly what the object of his affections really thought of him.
The Duke's Brother Page 7