Chapter Nineteen
Despite being the peak of the season, White’s was oddly deserted. John would have preferred a bit more action to distract himself that evening. If he and Brydges wanted to sit quietly and consume indecent amounts of liquor in private, they could have done so at Worley House without the trouble of a perfectly tied cravat.
“You are quiet this evening,” Brydges noted.
“I am rarely outspoken,” John responded, though he knew his friend was correct.
Brydges lounged back in his chair and took a fortifying sip of fine French brandy. “How is Mrs. Brantwood settling in these days?”
“Fine, I imagine.”
John swirled his own brandy under his nose, breathing deeply. “Ahh, I’ve missed that.”
“So the new duchess is settling in, is she? You’re satisfied with your choice?”
“Perfectly,” he said, then sniffed his brandy again. “Of course, I don’t expect we’ll be in each other’s company much. She’ll have plenty to occupy her time once Charlotte arrives and I’ve countless areas on the estate requiring my attention.”
If Brydges had any questions or had drawn any conclusions as to why the newlyweds had not returned to town together, he did not voice them. Let him judge in silence if he would. John was a bit annoyed by the situation himself. Here he was in his third day of marriage, drinking brandy at his club in London instead of home in bed with his wife. He’d bedded his new wife only once. From his perspective, they’d done a fine job of it, yet she’d been no less stubborn after the event than before. And she’d been more worried about the blasted cottage than accompanying him to fetch Charlotte.
Brydges shook his head. “So the old man left things a mess at Brantmoor, eh?”
John shrugged. “Not entirely, but I think he may have gotten a bit neglectful at the end.” He set his snifter on the side table and sat straighter in his chair. “I could use your expertise in evaluating the stables.”
Brydges nodded. “I’d be happy to lend it.
“I know you’ve been busy while I was away,” John said, feeling guilt that he had yet to see the successful stud operation Brydges had built during his absence. “I’d like to come out and see what you’ve built, but there are other demands to my attention at present.”
“You may consider it a standing invitation,” Brydges assured him. “Are you thinking of expanding the Brantmoor stables?”
“Maybe a bit. Nothing on the scale of what you’ve got.”
“Well, I imagine you’ll need a couple of ladies’ mounts to start.”
John’s mouth turned down again at the reminder of his wife. “You’re right. The duchess plans to ride a good deal, I understand. Charlotte’s never ridden, but she’ll have to start.”
“Never ridden? But you ride like the animal is an extension of yourself. I can’t imagine you having a sister who’s never ridden.”
“Charlotte’s spent her whole life in Boston, not out in the country.”
Brydges clucked his tongue. “Never ridden, never spent time in the country. Turning this sister into Lady Charlotte Brantwood ought to prove quite a project.”
John glared at his friend’s comment, but could not dispute it. It was a good reminder, he supposed. Why should he be bothered by his wife not accompanying him to London for a pair of days? They were not meant to be lovesick fools.
“Why don’t you let me select a couple of suitable mounts? I’ll bring them out to you myself,” Brydges suggested.
“I’d appreciate that.” It wasn’t a half-bad idea. John would need something to entertain himself while the ladies worried about dresses and dances and whatever else they should worry about.
“What’s this?” a graveled voice barked at them from across the room and both men turned.
John grimaced. He remembered well enough that Felix Pentwater was not particularly good company sober. He was even worse drunk, especially when one considered the likely damage to one’s hearing.
“Didn’t expect to see you in London so soon after the wedding. Tired of her already, are you?” Pentwater released a hearty laugh at his own humor.
John scowled darkly at him. “Not at all, Pentwater. I’m here out of necessity—to meet a ship.”
“Got some precious cargo coming in, have you?”
“I do. My sister’s ship will dock in the morning.”
That announcement brought Pentwater up short. “What’s that? Your sister? I didn’t think you had any sisters.”
“You were misinformed.”
Pentwater’s substantial frame swayed precariously with the strain of his thoughts. “Wait…wait… Yes, you did have a sister. The little one who died, right?”
John’s jaw tightened. “I have one sister. She is very much alive.”
Pentwater’s laughter was more of a gurgle as he slapped John on the shoulder. “Well, you’ll have to explain that one.”
John itched to simply beat Pentwater to a pulp and have him tossed out of the club, but drunk as he was, the man was right. He would have to explain. Hadn’t Brydges asked him that afternoon how he planned to explain his sister without completely exposing his father for the bastard that he was?
“There is no explanation. My sister has spent most of her life living abroad with relatives. She’s returning home now to live in England.”
Pentwater leered at John, swaying as he did, then catching himself. “A bit odd, don’t you think, having a sister who shows up out of nowhere? How does anybody know she’s really your sister and not some woman you’ve collected while you’ve been off doing God knows what for four years?”
Rage settled over John like a cloak, but before he could respond, Brydges stepped between them and threw his arm around the stout man’s shoulders.
“Pentwater, you drunken fool, have you been reading ladies’ novels again?” Brydges steered the intoxicated ass back toward the room from which he’d come. “Where do you get these outlandish notions? I’ve known Worley’s sister for years. Lovely girl. She’ll be the toast of the town, I’d wager.”
John took the moment to allow his fists to unclench and his boiling blood to slow to a simmer. “Thank you,” he said, when Brydges returned without Pentwater.
Hugh tugged at the bottom of his waistcoat and straightened his jacket. “I left him at the card table. Should be an expensive punishment in his present condition.” He recovered his seat and peered at John. “Well, that was poor planning, I’d say.”
“Pentwater’s a braying ass.”
“Of course he’s an ass, because he said it to your face. You’re a duke, so no one else will, but they will think it behind your back.” Brydges recovered his glass and found it empty. He scowled at it and set it back down. “You need a better speech, man—quickly.”
“I didn’t intend to talk about her yet.”
“Then why did you?”
“I don’t know. Don’t you think keeping her a secret implies there is something to hide? I thought the truth to be the better approach.”
Brydges shook his head. “Next time you want to tell the truth, wait until you have a better lie to support it, will you?”
John sighed heavily. “Any story I give will be questioned. They’re going to whisper about her no matter what I say.”
Brydges didn’t dispute it. John knew Charlotte had no idea what she was getting into and she was a scandal before she even arrived.
He wondered if he’d given his new duchess an impossible task.