What followed was total and complete madness.
As soon as the brothers disappeared through the doorway a crescendo of objections, protestations, speculations, and assurances rose to a deafening knell. It was all a person could do to think, much less converse.
Mary stood clutching the banister, because it was the only way to prevent herself from barreling up the stairs after them. What a disaster that would be. Her reputation would no doubt be questioned, possibly destroyed. A lady didn’t go gallivanting after a retreating gentleman, especially one who had behaved as anything but a gentleman, and yet she had so many questions. Where had they been all these years? What had delayed their return until now? What had happened to them while they were away?
They had grown to manhood, obviously, but it had not been a pleasant journey. With wintry eyes that had sent a chill through her bones, they had each looked so harsh, unforgiving. Not that she blamed them. They’d suffered the worst sort of betrayal. Their own blood had wished them harm, had sought to murder them.
“I thought they were dead,” Lord David was blubbering now as one of the lords questioned him regarding how all this could have happened. “I’ve not had a word from them in all these years. I’ve served as steward to the duke’s holdings, because my brother would have wanted it. Their distrust and accusations are uncalled for.”
No, they’re not, she had an urge to shout. You locked them in the tower. Why do that if your purpose was not to kill them?
Lord David was sweating profusely, fighting for breath, the whites of his eyes clearly visible as he searched frantically around him at those who had once expected him to rise in their ranks.
“I’m telling you,” he ranted on as though questions had been asked when in truth people were only staring at him. “I’d have not petitioned to gain the title if I’d known they were alive. I did all in my power to find them. They did not wish to be found. Even you all thought they were dead. You’ve heard the rumors. Wolves, disease, murder. How was I to know the truth? Did you know? Did any of you know?”
Then his wild gaze fell on Mary, and she saw hatred there, directed at her as though he suspected, as though he knew what she’d done. A shiver of dread coursed through her, but she angled her chin defiantly and met his gaze with a challenging one of her own.
Then he was shoving people aside as though they were all beneath him and did not warrant his regard. “The revelry is over! Go home! Leave me be!”
He broke through the crowd and barreled down the hallway, his wife of a few months traipsing after him, wringing her gloved hands, squeaking like a cornered dormouse. She stopped, turned to her guests, moved her lips, flapped her arms, and released a distressing moan before turning to chase after her husband once again. Mary’s heart went out to her. She’d certainly not warranted this upheaval to her life.
She was startled when someone gripped her arm. “What is he to you?” Fitzwilliam asked.
“Pardon?”
“The man claiming to be the Duke of Keswick. You looked . . . enthralled.”
“Joyous,” she admitted, clutching his hand. “They’re alive. Until this moment, I feared they were truly dead. And it is more than a claim. It is the truth. They are who they say they are. We all grew up together, until they disappeared, but I would recognize them anywhere.”
At least when they were together. She wasn’t quite certain that she could make the same claim if she saw them separately. They possessed little refinement. There was nothing genteel about them. Their character exuded a roughness, their presence spoke of hardships endured, possibly not all conquered. She had long dreamed of seeing them again, but what she had imagined was not what appeared before her.
People were shoving past them, making their way up the stairs as the drama seemed to have ended. For now, anyway. She ignored the whisperings and murmurings, giving her attention to the man before her even though she dearly wanted to know what people were saying, what they were thinking. “You do believe them, don’t you?”
He suddenly appeared uncomfortable. “It matters little what I believe. My title is simply a courtesy. It carries no weight.”
“Among your friends it does.” And she knew that some of his friends held their true titles. They could be powerful allies, should the brothers need them.
“Come along,” Fitzwilliam said. “It would be best if we left as quickly as possible. I don’t trust the ruffians not to return and inflict chaos. I’d heard of bloodlust, but dear Lord until tonight, I’d never seen it.”
“They’re not ruffians and they have a right to be angry. Lord David wished them harm. He was the reason they ran away.” She squeezed his hand, wondering how to make him understand, only she glanced around and saw that people were slowing their step, lingering to hear their conversation. She’d not have the recently returned lords serve as fodder for gossip. Although that ship had sailed, she’d not add to its cargo. So instead she said, “I came with Alicia and Aunt Sophie.”
“You shall all travel in my carriage.”
“We have our own.”
“I don’t like the way that man looked at you. He could be lurking about. Considering tonight’s turn of events, it would be unconscionable for me to allow three ladies to travel without a male escort to see after them.”
They had the driver and footman but she supposed he didn’t consider servants protection enough. Nor could she deny that she rather enjoyed his concern. “We shall need to find my cousin and aunt,” she told him.
“I shall see to it posthaste,” he assured her. “Do not leave this spot.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
She watched with fondness as he marched off to find them. He would excel as a husband, always seeing after her needs and wants. Caring for her, protecting her. She could not ask for a more attentive man in her life.
She pressed herself up against the banister to allow more room for others to leave. There was such a din, everyone talking at once. The ladies’ eyes were bright, and while they tried not to show it, it was apparent they were all tantalized by the delicious events that had interrupted the dancing. And she suspected, by the three brothers who had made their appearance tonight.
Slowing her step as she passed by, Lady Hermione touched Mary’s arm briefly. “Do you know if they have wives?”
Mary knew precisely to whom she referred. The question bothered her when she knew it shouldn’t. She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“But you do know them.”
She wasn’t sure. She knew the boys they’d been, but the men who had been here tonight—
“I know they are who they say they were: the lords of Pembrook.”
Lady Hermione’s eyes sparkled. “Handsome devils. Well, except for the duke, of course. What do you suppose happened there?”
Mary shook her head. “I really—”
“Hermione!” her father called out. “Come along.”
Lady Hermione gave Mary’s arm a quick squeeze. “We shall have tea tomorrow. We simply must talk. The remainder of the Season has the potential to be most interesting.”
Before Mary could respond, the lady was dashing up the stairs. They’d never had tea together before. Based upon the way other ladies were scowling at her, she wondered if she was suddenly seen as notorious, wondered what people were speculating. She refrained from explaining that they’d been neighbors, that she’d helped them escape.
“He locked them in the tower!” she wanted to shout.
Instead, she simply endured the pointed glances and nodded politely as two more invitations to tea were surreptitiously given to her. Suddenly, thank the Lord, her cousin was grabbing her arm and propelling her up the stairs, her aunt and Fitzwilliam following.
“We have so much to talk about,” Lady Alicia said.
“I know no more than you at this point,” Mary said as they reached the top of the stairs.
With the crush of bodies, they didn’t get another chance to speak until they were all safely housed within Fitzwilliam’s carriage.
“Well, I daresay,” her aunt Sophie began, “that was a rather interesting turn of events. Although I’m not certain I approve of the handling of the matter. Such a public display of family feuding is ill-mannered. The situation warranted discretion and much more decorum.”
“Come, Mama,” Alicia said. “You can’t deny that it was fascinating to watch and quite dramatic. The lords have such presence. They will be the talk of the town tomorrow.”
“They’re the talk of it tonight,” Aunt Sophie muttered.
“They had a purpose in their method, Lady Sophie,” Fitzwilliam said. “To humiliate Lord David—”
“He deserved humiliation, my lord,” Mary blurted before she could stop herself. “And I suspect they handled the matter as they did so they would have many witnesses to their claim. I daresay he’s fortunate that they didn’t involve Scotland Yard.”
“He is ruined,” her aunt lamented. “As is his poor wife. After only three months of marriage.”
“Yes, I do feel for her,” Mary said. “How horrible it must be to discover the man you married is not the man you thought he was.”
“And in his disgrace, he has disgraced her. Not certain I would forgive him for that,” her aunt continued.
“He shouldn’t be forgiven at all by anyone,” Mary assured her.
Her aunt gasped. “I’ve never known you to be so unkind.”
“He sought to have them killed.”
“Truly?” Lady Alicia said with unwarranted excitement in her voice, as though she had simply arrived at an unexpected twist in a novel.
“How would you know that?” Fitzwilliam asked.
“I overheard him give the order.”
“To whom did he give it?”
“I didn’t see. I was passing the room and overheard the words. I was all of twelve and frightened out of my wits. I dared not tarry. I immediately went in search of Sebastian.”
“Oh my word!” Alicia cried. “You never told me about that. I can’t believe you’d withhold such a delicious secret from me.”
“I promised Sebastian I wouldn’t tell anyone.” She’d broken the promise once. It had cost her dearly.
“You were a child,” Fitzwilliam said. “You must have misunderstood.”
“No, I’m certain, I didn’t.”
“Mary, darling, it’s preposterous to think that Lord David would resort to murder in order to claim a title. He would have to kill three lads.”
Mary tried not to be hurt by his words. He was the man she was going to marry. Surely he of all people should believe her. “Richard III killed two.”
“No one has proof of that. Besides that was four centuries ago. I’d like to think we’re a bit more civilized. And he wanted a kingdom not a dukedom.”
“It is one of the most powerful dukedoms in Great Britain.”
“It was. But since the seventh duke passed away, it’s lost a good deal of its influence. It can only be as powerful as the man at the helm, and there’s been no one there.”
“That will change now. With Sebastian back.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure. He seemed rather barbaric to me.”
She couldn’t deny the words, so she simply gazed out the window. All grew unbearably quiet as though everyone needed to absorb the events of the evening.
She welcomed the silence in order to embrace the joy that spiraled through her. They were back. At long last.
Sitting in the library, Mary watched as her father stared into the fire, an empty glass in his hand. He’d downed the whiskey in one long gulp after she’d told him what had transpired at the ball. He’d always been a bit of a hermit, preferring the company of his liquor to that of people. He didn’t attend the social events. Sometimes he went to his clubs. He’d only come to London to keep a close watch over her. He finally looked at her. “You are not to interfere in their business. You are betrothed to a respectable lord, whose family lineage is impeccable. You leave these Pembrook lords and their uncle to sort out their own squabbles now. I want you nowhere near them.”
“But they are our neighbors.”
“Not here in London, they’re not. And not in Cornwall, they won’t be.”
“But if I told the other lords what I heard—”
“You have no proof Lord David would have killed them. Perhaps they’d misbehaved and a few hours in the tower was to be their punishment.”
“As the nunnery was punishment for me?”
He paled, licked his lips, took another swallow of his liquor. “You must do nothing to endanger your betrothal to Fitzwilliam. You have no brother to look after you when I am gone. I cannot rely on my nephew who is to inherit to be generous with you. He will have five sisters to marry off.”
She had only a passing acquaintance with her father’s family. They did not like the northern climes, and preferred to stay in the south. She did hope her cousin would appreciate what he was to inherit. She knew her father was concerned for her future, was providing her with a substantial dowry. She did not want to consider how it might have influenced Fitzwilliam.
“Surely all his sisters will be married by the time you are again with Mama,” Mary said.
“The eldest girl is only nine. My brother started his family late in life.” Then he died of typhoid. Her father gave her a small smile. “Perhaps you’re right. I worry overmuch, but I do not want you to lose this opportunity to marry well. Now off to bed with you.”
Nearly an hour later, Mary sat on the window seat in her bedchamber and looked out on the night. She considered disobeying her father, getting dressed, going out, and trying to find Sebastian and his brothers. She wondered where they were residing. She wondered why he’d not sought her out to let her know that he was safe. She supposed that he wanted to keep his arrival secret so he could make a grand entrance, but he should have told her. He should not have left her worrying about him.
So many times over the years, she’d thought of running away from the convent. But she had no funds at her disposal. And what skills did she have with which to earn a living?
She may have languished there forever if her aunt hadn’t taken it upon herself to come for Mary and give her a Season.
Then another miracle.
During her first ball she’d met Lord Fitzwilliam and shortly thereafter he’d proposed. At the end of the month, she’d be free of her father and his manipulations. When Fitzwilliam looked at her, he saw someone who was strong, and capable. He saw someone who could provide him with a pleasant home life. He was not the most sought-after lord. In truth, she didn’t think he was sought-after at all. Which made them different sides of the same coin, for no one was banging on her father’s door, asking for her hand. Fitzwilliam had become her knight.
In the quiet recesses of the night, when slumber lulled her, she would sometimes dream of Sebastian. She would sometimes wonder: what if he returned?
And now he had. She had spent a good deal of time envisioning him growing into manhood. But the gentleman on the stairs more closely resembled something from her nightmares, not her dreams.
“We shall no doubt be all the gossip tomorrow,” Tristan lamented, sprawled in a chair in the living area that was part of the private suite of rooms on the top floor of Rafe’s gaming establishment. All three of the brothers had adjourned here after returning from their uncle’s. They were comfortable accommodations and Rafe had the finest of liquors at his disposal.
Sitting in a nearby chair, sipping his brandy, Sebastian stared at the writhing flames. He couldn’t get the image of Mary out of his mind. He’d thought of her from time to time over the years of course, but he’d always envisioned her as she’d been the last time he saw her: a young girl. Braided hair, gangly limbs, and a smile that filled most of her face. Freckles. So damned many freckles that he’d often teased her about them, even as he’d adored the way that they made her look like a little imp.
He thought of the way she’d not hesitated to speak up for him. She had always championed him, and in equal measure, challenged him. She was the reason he had climbed to the top of an ancient oak tree, only to take a tumble and break his arm. She was the reason he had learned to scale the castle walls. She was the reason that he and his brothers were alive to gather here now.
“I wonder why I do not feel more satisfied,” Rafe commented. He was only twenty-two but he’d done very well for himself in a short amount of time. When Sebastian had left him at the workhouse, begging to go with him, he’d feared the sheltered life they’d led would leave his brother vulnerable. Perhaps in the beginning it had. Rafe was quite tight-lipped about how he had come to own a den of vice. Tristan certainly couldn’t accuse him of whining now.
“Because the bastard still breathes,” Tristan said.
Of course Tristan was equally reserved when it came to discussing his life. Along the docks, Sebastian had managed to find a captain willing to pay for a cabin boy. The money had allowed him to purchase his first commission in a regiment. But he couldn’t help but wonder at what cost to Tristan. He’d seen his back. A cat-o-nine had done some nasty work. Tristan had always been more suited to being the one in charge rather than the one doing the work. It was little wonder he’d finally acquired his own ship. Carrying goods had made him a wealthy man. Sebastian didn’t want to consider that perhaps not all of it had been legally obtained.
“Mary grew into quite a beauty while we were away,” Tristan said now, sounding as surprised as Sebastian had been at first. Not so much that she had transformed into a butterfly but that she’d grown up at all. He realized that she was long past an age for marriage: four and twenty. Did she have a husband then? Where the devil had he been? Who the devil was he? Why hadn’t he been at her side?
“Perhaps we should have warned her of our plans,” Tristan continued. “She seemed quite unprepared for it.”
“Which no doubt saved her reputation,” Sebastian surmised. He downed his brandy and refilled his glass, refusing to acknowledge that it was because he’d still seen her as a child, had wanted to protect her, had not even considered how the shock of seeing them might affect her. In his mind, she had always remained as unchanged as Pembrook. Although time had its way with the estate as well, but the changes there were subtle. None of Mary’s changes had been subtle. It seemed inappropriate to consider all the dips and swells that her gown had revealed. The unblemished bare skin of her shoulders that some man would have the great fortune to touch.
How silky she would feel. How warm.
He imagined now what he hadn’t at Easton House: removing the pins from her hair and watching it tumble around her. How far would it reach? Was it as thick as it appeared? Would a man’s fingers become lost in it? As easily as a man might become lost in her?
Her eyes. Even her eyes had changed. Not the shade of course. They were still as green as the fertile land. But they no longer held a mischievousness. If eyes possessed the ability to laugh, hers would have done so when she was a child. Not so tonight. Although, unfortunately, tonight, there was very little to laugh about. But still, her eyes held too much knowledge. Wisdom perhaps. What had she seen in all the years he’d been away?
How was it that he had managed to understand that he had grown to adulthood but had never considered her doing the same? Perhaps because he had stepped into a man’s boots the day his father died. She’d always been someone with whom he’d enjoyed exploring the world. Only now he thought of exploring her.
Damnation, but these thoughts regarding Mary were unsettling, not to be tolerated. Her role in his life was that of friend, not lover.
“Any notion with whom she was dancing when we made our grand entrance?” Tristan asked, breaking into his thoughts, and Sebastian couldn’t help but wonder about the path that his brother’s musings might be traveling. Surely not the same direction as his.
“You noticed her dancing?” he asked. He could well imagine how graceful she would be as she was glided across the floor in another man’s arms.
“How could you not?” Tristan challenged.
“I was occupied with other matters—convincing the steward that he was to announce us with our titles took a bit more cajoling than I’d anticipated.” The steward was not someone who had worked in their father’s household, so he’d not recognized them nor even been aware of their existence apparently.
Tristan suddenly appeared uncomfortable, taking great interest in the brandy that lingered in his glass. “Come to think of it, I believe she was on your blind side at the time. And we’ve strayed from addressing my concerns. We may have hurt her by keeping our presence here a secret from her. Without her—”
“I know what we owe her,” he snapped, not certain why he was so blasted irritated with Tristan’s inquiries, or the fact that she had matured into womanhood with astounding perfection. Perhaps because seeing her was a blatant reminder of years lost that up until now he’d not had to truly face.
“She’s spoken for,” Rafe said casually. When both brothers looked at him, he merely shrugged. “You two are carrying on like a dog with a bone. I see no point in arguing about what we should have done when the moment is passed. Whether you find her a beauty, whether we owe her is moot. She’s betrothed to Viscount Fitzwilliam. The gent with whom she was dancing. I saw the announcement in the Times.”
Rafe had noticed her dancing as well? Perhaps Sebastian was going completely blind.
“She’s a bit on the shelf to be only betrothed,” Tristan said, his words echoing the thoughts Sebastian had been veering toward.
“I can’t imagine our Mary settling for just anyone,” Rafe surmised. “So I suspect it took a bit longer to find a gent worthy of her.”
Our Mary. She didn’t belong to all of them. She belonged only to—
The truth slammed into him. She didn’t belong to any of them.
“Perhaps,” Tristan said. “But still. A viscount? What do you know of him?”
“He’s unimportant. Mary is not our concern,” Sebastian snapped impatiently. He didn’t want to ponder her being with another man. He’d never laid claim to her. Had never even considered it. They’d been children when he was forced to run off. As a woman, she might no longer have anything in common with him. Might be entirely unsuitable to serve as his duchess. Without conscious thought, he ran his hand over his jaw. Stopped. The scars taunted him. It was quite possible no woman would consider serving as his duchess. That path was truly for traveling another day.
“Establishing ourselves,” he told his brothers, “ensuring that our claim to Pembrook is not questioned—that is where our energies must go. Did you not see the doubts in that room? We are far from done.”
“Mary might be useful to us,” Rafe said. “She remained in that world that cast us out.”
“You would use her?” Tristan asked.
“I would use anyone to get what I want.”
The cold words sent an icy shiver through Sebastian. Who was this unrelentingly harsh man whom he called “brother”? On the one hand a bond existed between them that could not be broken. On the other was the truth of the matter: he knew very little about him, yet he could not claim him to be a stranger because he trusted him completely. But still there was so much he didn’t know, wasn’t certain he wanted to know.
Silence eased in around them as though they each needed to ponder the ramifications of their actions tonight. Sebastian had expected a few of the lords to object quite vocally, but they hadn’t. Too dignified perhaps. Or perhaps they cared for his uncle as little as he did. Or perhaps they were just waiting to see how things sorted themselves out.
“What is your next step?” Tristan finally asked.
“To take up residence at Easton House as soon as the imposer has scurried away. You are both welcome to reside there.”
“I will remain here,” Rafe said without hesitation. “It is where I am most at home.”
“You have comfortable accommodations here,” Sebastian said. “Of that there is no question. But now that you are once again recognized as a lord, you might consider selling this place. Its ownership is hardly befitting a gentleman.”
“I never claimed to be a gentleman.”
“But you are,” Sebastian insisted.
Rafe shot to his feet. “Trust me, brother, I have done things that no gentleman would do. Polite Society would find me . . . not quite so polite. My wealth, my more questionable resources are at your disposal. I have already sent two men to keep watch over Easton House and its current resident. I will do all in my power to ensure you hold your title, but my place is here.”
He made to leave and Sebastian stood. “Rafe.”
His brother stopped but did not turn around.
“I could not take you with me. Not twelve years ago. I can take you with me now.”
“It’s too late.” Rafe’s voice carried no emotion, yet the words slammed into Sebastian with the force of cannon fodder. “Perhaps you can regain what you lost, but I cannot. Nor do I have any desire to. Make yourself at home.”
He strode from the room, never glancing back. Sebastian took a step forward. He would catch up to him; he would make him understand—
“Leave him be,” Tristan ordered.
Sebastian didn’t want the wounds that marred his relationship with Rafe to fester, but he suspected his obstinate brother was in no mood to listen. So instead, he studied his twin, still lounging in the chair. It was difficult to look at him and see what a handsome devil he himself had once been. With great reluctance, he wandered back to the fireplace and pressed his arm against the mantel. “Do you know what happened to him?”
“He talks to me as little as he talks to you.”
“I thought they would keep him clothed, fed, and housed within the workhouse.”
“Whatever he went through it is not your fault. All the fault rests with Uncle. Which is the reason that I do wish you’d bloody well let me kill him.”
“So you could hang?” Mary had issued a similar warning, but somehow accompanied by her sweet voice it had held more power. He wondered if she realized how close he’d been to not releasing his uncle. He wondered if she’d be disappointed to meet the darkness he harbored inside him.
“I have a fast ship. And the sea suits me,” Tristan said.
Sebastian pressed his thumb to his brow, rubbed just above the despicable patch, and stared into the fire. “Will you join me at Easton House?”
“I don’t think so, no. I’ve been on my own far too long. I prefer it, Keswick.”
Sebastian jerked up his head and met his brother’s unflinching gaze. From the moment his uncle’s henchman had escorted him to the tower, he’d not been addressed by his title. He’d whispered it to himself every night before he went to sleep—a quiet reminder, a solemn vow. He did not want to forget who he was, what he was, what was owed him. Everything he’d done from the moment Mary slipped the key into the lock to free him had but one purpose in mind—to see that he regained what belonged to him, and in so doing provide a place for his brothers.
His throat tightened. He’d paid a dear price to once again be duke. But then so had they.
They did not need him now. It left him feeling unworthy, as though he had failed them. Like him, they should have been gentlemen. They should have lived leisurely lives. They should have been like the gents in Rafe’s club who had little more required of them than indulging in their vices. They should not have born scars—both visible and hidden.
He watched as Tristan slowly rose and approached him. “Make no mistake, Brother. The desire to see you standing rightfully in Father’s place burned within me with a vengeance. I would endure it all a thousand times, with no regrets, to ensure that you are once again duke.”
Sebastian released a bitter laugh. “I am humbled, Tristan. By your devotion and Rafe’s. I have been blessed with brothers who would do anything to see me hold my title. Our father was cursed with one who would do all in his power to see that he did not.”
“You still believe he killed him?”
“Without doubt.” He shook his head, regretting the truth that lay before them. “But to prove it will be nigh on impossible. Justice cannot be left to others to consider. I have spent years plotting how best to serve as judge, jury, and executioner. Tonight I feel as though we at least killed his place within Society.”
“We may have achieved that, but there is more we can do. We do not need proof to make his life miserable.”
“That should happen soon enough once he moves out of Easton House. I doubt he has anywhere to light.”
Tristan grinned. He’d always been quick to smile, but this one was more wolf than cub. “Then we should put him out of his misery and kill him straightaway.”
“I’ve killed. It is not a pleasant undertaking.”
“As have I, although I am not at all adverse to sending to the devil those who deserve it.”
Sebastian studied him. It had been only a fortnight since he and his brothers had managed to reunite. He had left each of them with the command to meet at the abbey ruins near Pembrook in ten years on the date that they escaped the tower. But war and wounds had delayed Sebastian. The sea had thrown obstacles Tristan’s way and he, too, had failed to show at the appointed time.
Rafe had hired a man to live near the ruins until the brothers arrived. Not once had it ever occurred to him that they were dead. After months spent recovering from his devastating wounds, Sebastian finally made his way to the abbey. The man had provided him with the address to The Rakehell Club and a message from Rafe. Here he would be safe.
But rather than head to London straightaway, he’d spent a fortnight securing the estate. Then he’d come to London. He and his brothers had planned their return to London Society. They’d wanted a dramatic entry. He thought they’d achieved that end with a remarkable bit of success.
But the final curtain had yet to draw closed, and several acts still remained unperformed.
“I don’t want any more blood on my hands,” Sebastian said now.
“They’d be on mine.”
He didn’t much like the speed with which Tristan responded. “You’ve become quite bloodthirsty.”
“I’ve learned to survive, no matter the cost.” He shrugged. “I’ve also learned to take comfort where I can find it. Rafe has a charming girl working here who is very talented at giving comfort. So if you’ll excuse me, I believe I shall seek her out. I’m certain she has a friend if you’re interested.”
“Not tonight.”
Tonight he had far too much on his mind. After his brother left the room, he dropped into the chair and filled his glass with more brandy. He took a long swallow and leaned back. From his pocket, he removed the threadbare bundle. The yellow ribbon had faded with time, but it still managed to hold secure that which he treasured most.
He brought it near his nose and inhaled deeply. The rich scent of the soil tantalized him, spurred him on, made him yearn for home. He would return there soon—once his place in Society was firmly established.
I am the Duke of Keswick, he told the fire. It merely snapped and popped, as though it didn’t believe his words any more than he did.