The Caress of a Commander

by Linda Rae Sande

  “My brother, Stephen, but I rather think you’ve already sorted that,” Will announced as he made his way to the marble stairs, Stephen tagging along behind and to the side of his half-brother, his gaze taking in the stately vestibule and grand hall leading to the curved marble staircase.

  “Should I have a guest room readied?” Hatfield called out from where he still stood in the vestibule.

  Will turned around and regarded the butler. “That would be capital. He can take the bedchamber next to mine,” he said with a nod.

  “Your correspondence is in the study, my lord,” Hatfield stated as Will and Stephen moved to make their way up the marble stairs.

  Will paused at the bottom step. “Correspondence?” he repeated. “Already?”

  The butler arched an eyebrow. “News of your impending arrival has been noted by many, my lord.”

  “You needn’t call me that, Hatfield,” Will interrupted, rather surprised to find the butler hadn’t changed a bit since Will had last seen him. “But I am a bit curious as to who knows I have returned,” he added. He hadn’t exactly sent a note to The Times. A quick missive to his father, William Slater, outlining his plan to resign his commission in the navy and return to English shores, had been penned only a month ago and sent on a packet the following day. The mail service had obviously improved if others in the ton knew of his arrival on English shores.

  Or my father has been spreading the news, he considered.

  Taking a breath, as if he had to fortify himself, Hatfield canted his head to one side. “The marchioness has been most enthusiastic about your return,” he said carefully. “I did not mean to eavesdrop on her conversation when she hosted morning tea last week, but I could not help but overhear her comment about your imminent arrival.”

  Will stiffened. In his absence, his father had married Cherice Dubois, the widow of Baron Winslow, almost exactly a year after the viscount died. Although Will had never met the woman who was now his stepmother, he had heard of her. Even when her husband had been alive, men apparently worshipped at her feet and made sure her dance card was always full at balls. Somehow, the Marquess of Devonville had managed to court and marry her, seemingly within a week of the anniversary of Winslow’s death.

  Well, his father was a marquess. A handsome man, he supposed. And he was rich.

  Although William Slater, Marquess of Devonville, claimed to have loved Will’s mother, he certainly hadn’t made it clear to her with his early liaisons with a string of mistresses. At least the two had finally spoken of their mutual affection, for the last years of his mother’s life had apparently been spent in marital bliss.

  William Slater’s last missive to Will had included a post scriptum about how much he had loved Will’s mother. “I miss her every day, and I so wish we had more time before she passed. As a result, I intend to remain faithful to Cherice for all my days. Please accept her into our family. I have asked your sister to do the same, and she has assured me she will.”

  The words had been powerful, for Will had loved only one woman his entire life. He could only hope to find she still felt the same way about him—and that she was still available for marriage.

  He hadn’t heard a word from her in over six years.

  “Is Lady Hannah in residence, by chance?” Will asked, thinking he would like to introduce his sister to their half-brother.

  Hatfield blinked and straightened. “Lady Gisborn is in Oxfordshire at Gisborn Hall, Lord Bel... my lord.”

  Stephen’s eyebrows arched. “My lord,” he mouthed when Will glanced in his direction.

  “I’m an earl, but in title only,” Will whispered.

  Stephen blinked. “What does that make me?” he asked, sotto voce.

  “Bastard half-brother of an earl,” Will responded in a hoarse whisper, amusement apparent in his response. Raising his voice and turning his attention back to the butler, Will gave the man’s response some consideration. Although he knew the Earl of Gisborn disliked London, he still rather hoped the couple visited on occasion. Just because Henry Forster hadn’t taken his seat in Parliament didn’t mean Will’s sister couldn’t make an occasional trip to London.

  “Gisborn,” Stephen whispered, wracking his brain to remember what he had attempted to learn in the past week from an old copy of Debrett’s Peerage and Barontage Will had given him. “Learn this, and you shall have no trouble at Society events,” he had been instructed. Stephen had read the tome every night before blowing out the candle next to his hammock, so his first reaction was to frown and shake his head. “Did she truly marry an old fart of an earl?” he asked in alarm. “I thought you said she was married to a farmer?” he whispered.

  Will glanced from his brother back in the butler’s direction. “My first thought, as well,” he admitted, hoping Hatfield would provide some more information. “But I know his name is Henry, and he’s an inventor and a farmer, and the old fart was much older.”

  The butler angled his head again. “Henry Forster, Earl of Gisborn, inherited his title over two years ago when his uncle died without issue. He has not yet claimed his seat in Parliament, although there is some thought he might do so for the upcoming session.”

  Stephen straightened, his head angling back as if someone had attempted to take a swing at him. “Henry?” he repeated. “The nephew. So he is the farmer and inventor.” This last was said with a hint of satisfaction, as if he was proud of having correctly remembered his study of Will’s copy of Debrett’s Peerage and Barontage.

  Hatfield nodded. “The very same, Mr....” The butler paused, as if he just then realized he hadn’t been introduced to Stephen by any name other than his given name.

  “Slater,” Will piped up. “Father recognized Stephen as his son when he was born,” he added with an arched eyebrow.

  Stephen’s eyes lit up. Oblivious to the conversation between his brother and the butler, he appeared to have reasoned out something. “Since my half-sister is married to an earl, what does that make me?” he asked, a grin splitting his face when he realized he could claim two brothers as earls and a marquess for a father.

  “The bastard half-brother of a countess,” Will replied, giving Stephen a quelling glance.

  “With an uncanny resemblance to you, my lord, if I may be so bold,” Hatfield stated, his hands clasping behind his back.

  Will and Stephen turned their attention on the butler and then on each other. Dressed as they were, in similar breeches, waistcoats and topcoats, they only appeared a bit different due to their hairstyles and footwear.

  “Point taken,” Will acknowledged. Realizing they had been loitering too long, Will motioned with his head toward the stairs. “Seems we have correspondence to read,” he said with an arched eyebrow.

  Stephen nodded and turned to the butler. “Thank you,” he said, giving the man a slight bow.

  Will rolled his eyes. “There’s no need to bow to a servant,” he admonished his brother, missing Hatfield’s bow in Stephen’s direction.

  “I know, I know, I grew up with them, too, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t acknowledge their service,” Stephen said sotto voce.

  Nearly pausing on the stairs at his brother’s comment, Will angled his head and instead considered the words. He supposed Stephen was right. An occasional nod or ‘thank you’ couldn’t hurt, he supposed.

  The two of them had made their way up the steps and to a set of large double doors left slightly ajar. Will opened them and strode into one of the most elegant rooms Stephen had ever been in during his entire life as the bastard son of Lord Devonville. Although his mother’s country manor in Kent was beautifully appointed—Marie St. Clair wouldn’t have it any other way—this room was richly paneled with dark woods, the coffered ceiling ornate but understated, the draperies made of tapestry, the furniture dark and heavy. A scent of tobacco—probably from a cheroot rather than a pipe—hung in the air. This is a man’s room, no doubt. He couldn’t imagine his mother in here.

  “Whose room is t
his?” he asked as he watched Will open a set of drapes. Light flooded the mahogany-paneled room. A massive desk backed by a leather chair took up the middle. A series of paintings lined the two walls that didn’t feature shelves and shelves of leather-clad books. A Grecian couch sat in front of the window that overlooked the side yard.

  “Father’s study.”

  Stephen’s gaze fell onto a painting of an aristocrat, his visage appearing as if it were an older version of himself. “Our father, I presume?” he half-asked.

  “Grandfather,” Will corrected him. “He was an admiral when that was painted. Took his seat in Parliament, attended sessions maybe one or twice and never again, so our father made sure to do so,” he explained with a wave. “He was shipboard most of his life, but finally agreed to take a desk at Whitehall for his last few years.”

  Stephen frowned. “What about his other son?” he wondered, remembering there was an uncle somewhere in the world.

  Will had to suppress a laugh. “You really did study that book, didn’t you?” he teased, giving another glance in the direction of his grandfather. “Uncle Donald lives in Northumberland. Owns a distillery. Makes the best damn scotch in all of the British Isles,” he claimed. “With any luck, that’s what we’ll find in one of these,” he added as he lifted a cut crystal decanter from the sideboard. He pulled off the stopper and took an experimental sniff. His eyes closed as he seemed to revel in the scent. “Luck!” he called out before pouring generous dollops into two tumblers. He held out one to his brother.

  “Our uncle distills scotch?” Stephen half-asked as he took the tumbler and gave it a sniff. He straightened and closed his eyes. “Oh,” he purred. “We never had anything like this,” he whispered as he took a cautious sip. “So smooth.” He took a large drink and held it in his mouth a moment. After he swallowed, he regarded his brother for a moment. “If our uncle is a distiller, what does that make me?”

  Will shook his head. “Bastard nephew of a distiller,” he said before taking a drink of his own tumbler. “Jesus, the stuff we took off of those last pirates wasn’t even this good,” he whispered. He allowed his gaze to span the room before it settled on a silver salver covered in white folded parchments. A closer inspection showed his name written on most of them. “Well, it seems we have some reading to do,” he murmured. He tossed a note in Stephen’s direction.

  His brother caught it easily, one of his eyebrows arching up as he studied the feminine script on one side. “This is for you,” he said with a shake of his head.

  “Read it,” Will ordered.

  Frowning, Stephen set down his glass and took a seat in a leather chair, a sigh escaping as the padded cushions seemed to swallow him in comfort. He slid a finger beneath the wax seal and unfolded the snowy white parchment. “The honor of your presence is requested at The Lord and Lady Weatherstone’s annual ball,” he started to read.

  “Yes,” Will interrupted.

  Stephen cocked an eyebrow. “Yes?” he repeated.

  “Yes. Put that in the ‘yes’ pile,” he instructed. “It’s one of the best balls of the year, made more so because Lord Weatherstone lives right across the street. If tradition still holds, then his back gardens will be the choice locale for naughty assignations.” He said this last as he waggled his eyebrows and remembered that he and Barbara had shared their first kiss in those gardens.

  Another missive flew through the air. Stephen caught it and dutifully opened it. “The Lord and Lady Torrington request the honor of your presence at Worthington House—”

  “Yes,” Will interrupted, before he straightened and arched an eyebrow. “Lady Torrington, did you say?” he asked as he paused in his effort to open an envelope.

  “Uh huh,” Stephen responded, wondering what had his brother looking so confused.

  Will reached out for the invitation Stephen held. His brother gave it to him and he studied the even script. “Did you see pigs flying when we were on our way here?” Will asked then, a smirk appearing on his face.

  Stephen gave a snort, suddenly understanding his brother’s query. “I take it Lord Torrington wasn’t expected to marry?”

  Will shook his head, thinking to say something like, “Not in my lifetime,” but thought better of it. “Well, he’s an earl, so he was expected to marry at some point, I suppose. I just didn’t expect it would be before me,” he responded with a wry grin. “Nor did I expect it would be to my aunt. Our aunt,” he amended when he noticed how Stephen stared at him.

  “On Father’s side?” Stephen asked, his eyes unfocused as he struggled to remember the names of the immediate family. “Adele Slater Worthington?” he guessed.

  Will gave him a nod indicating he was impressed. “The very same. Can’t say I’m surprised she would end up a countess. She was once married to a man who made his fortune in steamships.”

  Stephen gave this information some consideration. “So what does that make me?” he asked with a quirked lip.

  Will had to suppress the urge to laugh out loud. “The bastard nephew of a countess, I suppose,” he said before he hurled another missive in his half-brother’s direction. “Anyway, an invitation to one of Aunt Adele’s musicales is the most coveted invitation of the Season since she manages to get the best sopranos and musicians to perform. You have to go.”

  Catching the folded parchment between his hands, Stephen frowned before returning his attention to the invitation to a musicale. “Isn’t Lord Torrington your godfather?” he asked, looking up just in time to catch another flying envelope.

  “He is,” Will acknowledged, impressed his brother would make the connection.

  “What does that make him to me?” Stephen asked, ready to say, “A bastard’s godfather.”

  But Will considered the question and shook his head. “Good question,” he replied. “It’s not as if we need a godfather at our age,” he added, one brow furrowing.

  “He must be ancient,” Stephen murmured.

  It was Will’s turn to frown. “Hardly,” he replied. “Forty...” He paused a moment, his gaze directed at one of the paintings. “Three or four, I think.”

  Stephen nodded, not about to counter his brother’s assessment of ‘hardly ancient’. “And his character?”

  Will looked up from another envelope he was unfolding. “Depends on his mood, I suppose. But he’s a good man to have on your side should you find yourself in a scrape.”

  Stephen wasn’t about to tell his brother he had no intention of finding himself in any scrapes. He did have every intention of making the best of any connections he could arrange whilst in London. Just because he was a bastard didn’t mean he couldn’t find a comely woman to court and marry. The money he had saved over the years would supplement anything his father might bestow on him in the way of an allowance so that he might even have enough to let a townhouse. He knew how to read and write, so he expected there might be opportunities to work as a clerk.

  He caught another invitation and opened the corners. Two lines into the script, and he realized it was truly meant for his brother. “Love letter,” he announced before handing it over to Will.

  One eyebrow furrowing, Will set aside the invitation he had just read to a soirée at the Duke of Huntington’s townhouse and quickly took the missive. He read the feminine script, hoping it might be Barbara’s. He finally shook his head in bewilderment. “Since I have never met this chit, I hardly think this can be called a love letter,” he countered, turning over the scented paper to look for a return address.

  “Do you know who she is, though?”

  Will shook his head. “Miss Comber?” he replied as he checked the signature. “Just a letter of introduction, it seems. Says she is looking forward to meeting me at a ball as she is new to London.” He shook his head, wondering if the chit might be a cousin.

  “Rather fast of her, isn’t it?” Stephen wondered, never having heard of a young lady sending a letter to an unmarried man—unless they were betrothed.

  “She could be
related to us, actually,” Will murmured, deciding he would ask his father when he had the chance. “Or maybe she’s an Aimsley,” he murmured as he struggled to remember who was related to whom. “Who is that one from?” he asked as he noticed Stephen holding up another bright white pasteboard.

  Stephen glanced up from the invitation to a musicale. “Lord and Lady Morganfield—”

  “Put that in the ‘yes’ pile,” Will ordered. “Our father and Morganfield are close. Politically,” he added when he noted Stephen’s arched eyebrow. He set aside the letter from the unknown chit before reading the names on all the other notes on the salver. “Damn,” he whispered. All this correspondence, and not a single thing from Barbara.

  What the hell had happened? He had received letters from her for several months following his departure from London, and then... nothing. His own letters to the daughter of the Earl of Greenley had gone unanswered—and unreturned. Had she met and married someone else? Despite her promise she would remain true to him as he completed his duty to King and Country?

  Well, there were ways he could find out without making a damned fool of himself. A visit to her father’s house might be the first step, he considered. Or a carefully worded query at Brook’s. He winced. He didn’t particularly want to be dragged into an evening of gambling that might go on all night. Especially his first night back in London.

  “What will he think of me, do you suppose?” Stephen asked suddenly, his eyes lifting from a cream parchment invitation to a ball.

  Pulled from his reverie, Will glanced in his brother’s direction. “He, who?” he asked, shaking his head a bit as if to clear it.

  “Our father,” Stephen whispered hoarsely.

  “I suppose that all depends on your character, young man,” a voice tinged with the barest hint of a Scottish accent spoke from the threshold of the study.

  Stephen stood up, the pile of notes on his lap fluttering to the Aubusson carpet as he turned to regard and bow to the Marquess of Devonshire.