by Emily Larkin
Nicholas did know. He looked across the desk at his nephew. Harry’s hair was styled in the latest cut, his blue coat had padded shoulders, a nipped-in waist, and extremely large gold buttons, and the intricacies of his neckcloth must have taken a good hour to achieve.
A bandbox creature. And Nicholas had no time for bandbox creatures. There were more important things in life than one’s clothing.
But beneath the extravagant attire was a young man who was in trouble.
Nicholas ran his fingertips lightly over the scar that ridged his cheek. What to do? He came to a decision: “I’ll buy that black horse of yours. How much do you want for him?”
“What?” Startled, Harry looked up and met his eyes for the first time during the interview.
“How much for your black horse?”
“But . . . but I like that horse!”
“Then learn not to outrun the carpenter,” Nicholas said mildly.
Harry flushed. His eyes lowered. “Yes, sir,” he said, sulky again.
He found his manners when Nicholas handed him a roll of guineas, stammering his thanks and bowing. Nicholas watched as he walked towards the door. Somewhere beneath that expensive, frivolous exterior was the rough-and-tumble boy who’d cared more for his horses than for his clothes. “Harry. Would you like a commission in the army?”
His nephew paused with his hand on the door knob. “Sir?”
“A commission, Harry. Would you like one?”
Harry blinked. He looked slightly appalled. “Thank you, sir, but . . . that is to say, I prefer . . .”
You prefer to be a man-milliner instead of a man.
“Let me know if you should ever change your mind.” Nicholas picked up his quill again, dismissing his nephew. He didn’t look up as the door closed.
An hour later he finished his business correspondence and sealed the letters. At home he’d go for a ride, but in London there was little pleasure to be had in riding, with its busy streets and crowded parks and the properness of everything. There was no place for a man to gallop.
Unless he rode out to Richmond.
Nicholas glanced at the window. Fresh air. That’s what he needed. Away from the fug of London. He pushed back his chair.
A footman knocked and opened the door. “Your mail, sir.”
Nicholas looked at the pile of invitations on the silver tray. This was another thing he disliked about London: all the balls and assemblies where the object wasn’t to dance but to determine the eligibility of possible spouses. Looks, breeding, fortune—all were assessed in meticulous detail. As if we were cattle at an auction. “Throw them in the fire.” He’d chosen a bride. The Marriage Mart—and all those appraising sideways glances—was behind him.
The footman halted. “Sir?”
“Give them here,” Nicholas said resignedly, holding out his hand. “And send round to the stables. I’d like Douro ready in twenty minutes.”
He went through the pile of mail swiftly, rejecting the invitations without reading them. A letter from Colonel Durham he put to one side. And there was another, written in a feminine hand that he didn’t recognize. He reached for the letter knife, slit it open and unfolded it, pausing as the butler knocked.
“Sir? Lord Reynolds desires a word with you.”
Nicholas closed his eyes for a moment. He toyed—briefly—with the thought of not being home to his brother, then he opened his eyes and put down the letter. “Send him in, Frye.”
He pushed out of the chair and walked across to the decanters. He needed brandy if he was to talk with Gerald this early in the day.
“Nicholas! I must speak with you.”
“Brandy?” Nicholas asked, pouring himself a glass. He turned to face his brother.
It was like seeing himself in a mirror—only paler and soft with fat. No one would ever mistake him for Gerald, though, and not merely because of the scar. Gerald’s clothes were as elaborate as his own were plain—the neckcloth extravagantly high, the waistcoat exotically embroidered. Fobs and seals and diamond pins adorned his person and tassels dangled from his boots. His hair was pomaded and he brought the scent of Steele’s lavender water with him into the room. Decked out like a prize pig at a fair, Nicholas thought, barely managing to prevent his lip from curling.
Gerald shook his head. His eyebrows drew together in a frown. “You gave my son money!”
Nicholas swallowed a mouthful of brandy. It was smoky on his tongue and warm in his throat. “I bought that black horse of his.”
“To pay off his debts!”
Nicholas shrugged. “I bought his horse. What he does with the money is up to him.”
His brother swung away. “I give him a generous allowance,” he said, a bitter note in his voice. “And yet he can never—” He swung back to face Nicholas. “And you! Why does he come to you and not me?”
Because you scold like a fishwife. Nicholas shrugged again. “He runs with a fast set,” he said. “He would do better to find new friends.”
“And you encourage him by paying his debts!”
Nicholas sighed. “Gerald—”
“I must request that you not give my son money,” Gerald said, with stiff pomposity.
“I didn’t give him money,” Nicholas said, nettled. “I bought his damned horse!”
“And I must ask that you don’t put ideas into his head.”
“What ideas?”
“The army.”
“I don’t think he’s interested,” Nicholas said dryly. Although it would do the boy good to learn there was more to life than clothes and gambling.
“I should forbid it!”
“He’s of age,” Nicholas pointed out. “If he wishes to join the army, he may.”
“Not if I have any say in the matter!”
Nicholas discovered that his fingers were clenched around the glass. He relaxed them and drained the last of the brandy. “Very well,” he said. “I shan’t mention it to him again.”
“Make certain you don’t,” Gerald snapped. “He pays far too much attention to what you say.”
“Does he?” Nicholas shrugged. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“He looks up to you as a hero.” The bitter note was back in Gerald’s voice.
Nicholas was suddenly uncomfortable. He turned away and placed his empty glass on the sideboard. “You have my word that I won’t speak of it to him again,” he said, not looking at his brother.
But Gerald, with the tenacity that had earned him the nickname Terrier at Eton, persisted. “I can think of nothing worse than for him to enter the army!”
“Really?” Nicholas turned back to face him. “I can think of many worse things.”
Gerald flushed, hearing the sarcasm in his voice. “The army—”
“A little discipline would do him good.”
Gerald stiffened. “Are you implying that my son lacks—”
“I’m not implying anything,” Nicholas said, impatient with the conversation. “I’m merely saying that I think the army would do him good. And—” he held up his hand to forestall Gerald’s interruption, “—that you have my word I shan’t mention the matter to him again.”
“Good!” Gerald snapped. “Heaven forbid that my son should become like you!”
“Or you!” Nicholas retorted, stung into losing his temper.
Gerald drew himself up. “What do you mean?”
Soft and useless is what I mean. “Nothing,” he said. “Forget it.”
“Damn it, Nicholas—”
Nicholas sighed and closed his eyes. Why did he always end up arguing with Gerald? “Is that all?” he asked, opening his eyes. “Because I have other business to attend to.” He walked back to his desk and sat down, reaching for the opened letter.
Gerald hesitated, and then turned on his heel and stalked across the study. “I shall see you at Augusta’s tonight,” he said, and shut the door with a snap.
Nicholas put down the letter. Damn. Gussie’s ball was this evening. He’d have to go.<
br />
He rubbed his face, feeling the scar beneath his fingers, the smoothness and roughness of his ruined cheek. Why must Gerald and I always argue?
He knew the answer. Even when they were children it had been like this; no matter that Gerald was the eldest, the viscount, it was Nicholas people turned to for help. That Gerald’s own son did it merely made it worse.
Nicholas sighed and opened his eyes. He looked down at the letter lying open on his desk. It was very short.
Dear Sir,
I regret that I find myself unable to marry you. Please accept my apologies.
Harriet Durham
Nicholas pinched the bridge of his nose. He swore under his breath, quietly, then got up and poured himself another brandy. He drank it slowly and deliberately, then went back to the desk and reached for Colonel Durham’s letter. He slit it open with a swift, sharp movement.
The butler knocked on the door.
“What?” Nicholas said, frowning at him.
“Colonel Durham to see you, sir.”
Nicholas clenched his jaw. He exhaled sharply through his nose. “Send him in.”
“Your horse, sir?”
Nicholas closed his eyes briefly. An ache was building in his temples. “Another twenty minutes, Frye.”
“The weather, sir—”
He turned to look out the window. A light, gray drizzle was falling. Damn. “Twenty minutes,” he repeated. Because if he didn’t gallop he was going to smash something.
He inhaled a deep breath, kept the thought of Richmond and Douro and a thundering gallop firmly in his mind, and turned to face Colonel Durham as Frye ushered him into the study.
The colonel was a heavy man. He had the bearing of a soldier despite his graying hair, and wore his clothes as if they were a uniform. Age hadn’t been kind to him: his face had lost its flesh, falling into deep, ill-humored wrinkles. Uncompromising furrows bracketed his mouth and pinched between his eyebrows.
Nicholas bowed. “I was just about to read your letter, sir.”
“Don’t bother,” the colonel said brusquely. “I had hoped to avert—” His mouth tightened. “But it’s too late.”
“Brandy, sir? Or shall I have Frye bring up a bottle of claret?”
“Brandy,” the colonel said, glaring at him.
He’s embarrassed, Nicholas realized. Embarrassed—and angry.
Frye withdrew, closing the door. Nicholas walked across to the sideboard. He poured the colonel a large glass of brandy and himself a small one. “Please be seated, sir.”
Colonel Durham sat.
“I’ve received a letter from your granddaughter,” Nicholas said, handing him the brandy. “I understand she wishes to terminate our engagement.”
Rage flushed the colonel’s face. He swallowed his brandy, grimacing. “I must apologize for my granddaughter’s behavior.”
Nicholas sat behind his desk. “May I speak with her, sir?”
“Speak with her?” Colonel Durham uttered a harsh laugh. “By all means. If you can find her!”
Nicholas frowned. “I beg your pardon?”
“The stupid chit has run away!”
Nicholas placed his brandy glass carefully on the desk. “Run away? Why?”
“Because she doesn’t wish to marry you.”
Nicholas looked down his brandy. There was a bitter taste in his mouth. “If she had told me,” he said quietly, “I would have withdrawn my suit—”
“Ridiculous nonsense!” Colonel Durham said. “And so I told her.”
Nicholas raised his head. “She spoke to you about it, sir?”
The colonel nodded.
“And you said . . . ?”
“That it was her duty to marry you.”
Nicholas positioned his glass precisely in the middle of his blotter. He could feel anger rising in him. “And then she ran away?”
Colonel Durham’s face reddened. “She makes a fool out of me!”
No, Nicholas thought sourly. She makes a fool out of me. He drank a mouthful of brandy, not tasting it. “Where is she?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care! I’ve wiped my hands of her.”
Nicholas put down his glass. Colonel Durham was a rigid, narrow-minded bully—he’d known that before he’d offered for Harriet’s hand—but to disown the girl when she was so young, was . . . Criminal, that’s what it is. “She’s only seventeen. You can hardly—”
“What business is it of yours?” the colonel snapped.
Nicholas looked at him coldly. “It is entirely my business. If you recall, sir, it is me she is betrothed to.” And me she ran away from.
The colonel’s mouth twisted. “Some interfering busybody has her.” He dug inside his coat and tossed a wad of paper on Nicholas’s desk. “Here.”
Nicholas separated the sheets of paper and smoothed them. Two letters. He recognized the writing.
Dear Grandfather,
I have gone to live with my aunt. I know it is my duty to marry Major Reynolds, but I find myself unable to.
Your granddaughter, Harriet
He glanced at the colonel. “This is dated four days ago.”
Colonel Durham shifted in his chair, as if he heard the unspoken accusation. “I thought it would be an easy matter to find her and bring her back.”
And then what? Nicholas didn’t ask the question. The answer was obvious: the colonel had intended to browbeat Harriet into marriage.
And I was never to know.
Anger surged inside him. He gritted his teeth together and read the second letter. It was dated yesterday.
Dear Grandfather,
Please do not be concerned for my safety. A kind benefactress has given me shelter until I can be united with my aunt.
Your granddaughter, Harriet.
Nicholas put down the letter. “Who is the benefactress?”
“I don’t know. And I don’t care!”
“You should care.” His voice held a note of reprimand. “Your granddaughter’s safety is entirely in her hands.”
Colonel Durham’s face grew redder. “Without her interference, I would have had Harriet back by now. The matter could have been kept quiet! Now—”
“It can still be kept quiet,” Nicholas said calmly. His hands wanted to clench. He spread his fingers on the desk. “No one need know why the engagement has been terminated.”
The colonel’s eyes slid away from him. “I stopped at my club on the way here—” He cleared his throat. “I may have uttered a few imprudent words.”
Nicholas exhaled through his teeth, silently. He didn’t need to be told what Colonel Durham meant: the colonel was a man of loud rages. By tonight half of London would know of Harriet’s flight. And because you can’t control your temper, we will both feature in Society’s latest scandal.
“Stupid girl!” Colonel Durham said savagely. “If I could lay my hands on her, I’d horsewhip her!”
Nicholas looked at him with dislike. It’s you I’d like to horsewhip. “I’ll send a notice to the newspapers,” he said, speaking with careful politeness. “Stating that my engagement to your granddaughter is terminated.” He stood and bowed. “Good day, sir.”
The furrows in the colonel’s face deepened, showing his displeasure. For a moment it looked as if he’d say more, then he pushed to his feet and nodded curtly. “Good day.”
Nicholas watched him depart. Anger thumped inside his skull. He picked up the letters again. I know it is my duty to marry Major Reynolds, Harriet had written, but I find myself unable to.
He clenched his hands, crumpling the paper. Now he’d have to start again—attending balls and assemblies, dancing, making polite conversation, selecting a girl who was quiet and biddable and easily molded into the wife he wanted. While the ton watched with sideways glances and amused whispers.
He threw the letters aside and went in search of his riding gloves.
Chapter Three
Isabella looked around the ballroom. She gave a sigh of pleasure. London. Th
e gaiety, the busyness. “I do love the Season.”
“Yes.” But her companion was frowning.
“Have you a headache, Gussie?”
“Headache?” Augusta Washburne’s brow cleared. “No, I’m cross.”
“Cross?” Isabella glanced around the ballroom again, her gaze catching on the shimmer of expensive fabric and the glitter of jewels, the bright flare of the candles in the chandeliers. The room was crowded to its farthest extent; beneath the music the babble of voices was loud. She could see no reason for Gussie to be cross. The ball was undeniably a success.
“It’s this business with Nicholas,” Gussie said. “Everyone’s talking about it.”
“Nicholas?”
“What a dreadful squeeze, darling!” Lady Faraday swooped on Gussie. “One can scarcely move!” She turned to Isabella, the three tall feathers in her turban swaying and nodding. Her gown was pink and trimmed with an astonishing number of flounces. “Isabella, darling! You’re finally back in town!”
“Sarah, how do you do?” Isabella said politely, but Lady Faraday had already turned back to Gussie, her eyes bright and expectant.
“What’s this I hear about your cousin? Is it true? His bride ran away?”
Gussie’s face tightened. She glanced at Isabella. “Yes.”
Isabella’s pleasure in the ball became tinged with unease. “Your cousin?”
“Major Nicholas Reynolds.”
Isabella stared at Gussie. “The ogre? He’s your cousin?”
“Ogre?” Lady Faraday uttered a tittering laugh.
“Ogre?” said Gussie, in quite a different tone of voice. Her eyebrows pinched together again. “Who called him that?”
Isabella bit the tip of her tongue. Fool. “Major Reynolds is your cousin?”
Gussie nodded.
“And his bride has run away!” Lady Faraday exclaimed. “Now tell me, Augusta—”
Her gleeful curiosity was too much for Isabella. “Sarah, I believe Mrs. Drummond-Burrell is trying to catch your attention.”
“She is? Oh, pray excuse me—”
Isabella watched her go—feathers bobbing above the pink ball gown—and frowned. How had Lady Faraday known about Harriet? The child had written her letters barely a day ago.
“An ogre!” Gussie said. “Where did you hear that?”