Savage In Silk

by Donna Comeaux Zide

  Feeling supremely lucky that the romanticized notion known as love had never touched him, Tony was just settling down for a nap when someone rapped at his door. Calling out a welcome, he was surprised to see Jared enter, his broken hand gingerly held in his good hand.

  His face lit with a rather sheepish grin. “Whether I acknowledged it or not, I did hear you say you had some good brandy aboard, didn’t I?” As Tony returned the grin and nodded, Jared added, “Well, then, I’ve come to drown my sorrows if the offer still stands.” Jared sat down, cradling the aching hand in his lap as Tony reached into a small footlocker and brought forth a large brandy bottle, with the seal still intact.

  Jared threw the first drink down his throat, feeling it burn a path to his gut and dissolve the tense, tangled knot that had developed since the ship sailed. The room took on a warm, golden glow and even his hand ceased its throbbing as Tony kept his glass refilled, and he began to explain the whole miserable tale, the end of which Tony had just witnessed.

  When he’d finished his story and the bottle was nearly empty, Tony commiserated with him. “Don’t blame you for…for wanting to kill them both…Jar…Jared,” he hiccuped. He had begun to run his words together and Jared had to listen closely to discern his words. “Lemme give you a good piece of advice, though. Forget her; if she’s sush a bitsh, she’sh not wor…worth thinking about! Why tear your guts up over someone like her?”

  Jared was totally relaxed, floating with the gentle rocking of the ship. “I wish you’d stay still, Tony—you keep wavering from side to side. You’re making me di…dizzy!” When Tony assured him in a halting voice that he was indeed perfectly still, Jared realized how drunk he was. Still, it didn’t faze him as he allowed Tony to divide the last of the liquor between them. “What you said about forgetting, Tony, you ever been in love…or think you were? Forgetting…it’s easier said than done, ’specially when, even if your eyes are closed, you see that black, black hair and big, green eyes.” He suddenly frowned, aware of the turn of his thoughts. “Hell, you don’t have more of this stuff somewhere, do you?” Tony sadly assured him he didn’t and so Jared stood up, bowing from the waist and almost falling forward in the attempt, and thanked him for his fine brandy. “I bid you good night, m’friend, and thank you for listening.” He tottered out the door and down the companionway, entered his own cabin and immediately collapsed in his bunk.

  Now, two months after they’d left San Francisco, they finally arrived in London. The ship had docked an hour before and they were just about to disembark. Tony was taking him directly to his father’s Regent Street town-house; and though he would never have admitted it aloud, his stomach was tied in knots in anticipation. Years of stored-up hatred had almost vanished on the long journey, although remnants of it still clung to his mind. Tony had given him a sketchy account of Stuart Bryant’s younger days in America.

  When Stuart was en route to England to claim the title his uncle had left him, his ship had been tossed about by a great Atlantic storm. Blown off course, it had floundered off the coast of Newfoundland and broken apart on the rocky coastline. All passengers were assumed to have been lost but Stuart managed to survive, dragging himself out of the water to collapse on a stretch of the rocky shore. Found by settlers after a day, he was unconscious and had developed pneumonia. By the time he was well enough to reach England and claim his title, another claimant had been discovered and an extended court battle ensued. Stuart knew Jennifer must be frantic with worry but if he left, he’d lose everything. He sent off a letter explaining his absence but it was returned, addressee unknown. By the time he’d won and sped back to America on the fastest ship asail, his wife and young son had disappeared; and though he placed advertisements all over the country, he had found no trace of them.

  When he finally returned to England he was a changed man, prematurely gray at thirty and perpetually sad and melancholy. His widowed mother insisted he remarry and produce an heir and he did so, wedding a titled but penniless Russian emigré. Countess Vera Baranikov. The marriage, although unhappy, had produced Jared’s half-brother, Drew, and after several miserable years Vera had passed away, leaving Stuart a widower once again. He’d never remarried, leaving the boy’s rearing to governesses.

  In Tony’s cabin with no one around but Tony to see, Jared had wept for the first time since his mother’s death, knowing his hatred for his father had been undeserved. Somehow, because they’d become so close in the two-month voyage, Jared was unashamed to have Tony see his tears, and it had done a great deal to alleviate the bitterness that he’d nourished for over twenty years.

  Arriving at the elegant Georgian home, Jared was impressed by his father’s obvious wealth. Tony had suggested that as the older legitimate son, he would now inherit Stuart’s title and wealth, and it all seemed like some improbable dream. Besides an earldom, Stuart held two other titles and one, Viscount Carleigh, would undoubtedly become Jared’s immediately. Secretly, with his American upbringing, Jared rejected the idea of titles.

  Welcomed by Henges, Stuart’s old retainer, Tony and Jared entered and were shown to the library where Lord Bryant was having his morning coffee. Henges couldn’t keep his curiosity to himself and though trying to remain properly disinterested in his employer’s guests, he had noted the startling resemblance of Sir Anthony’s companion to his Lordship.

  They waited outside the massive, ornately carved double doors, while Henges announced them and then entered to find Lord Maubrey in front of his desk, turned away from them while he perused documents he held in his hands.

  As Tony cleared his throat anxiously, hoping Jared’s father could stand the shock of seeing the son he had long ago thought dead, he spoke a respectful greeting. “Your Lordship, how good to see you. I’ve brought you a visitor from America.”

  Tony and Jared exchanged tense looks as Stuart Bryant, seventh Earl of Maubrey, turned to face them, the pleasant smile of greeting freezing into shock as he gazed past Tony at Jared. The man was, except for his hair, an exact duplicate of himself! Stuart’s face turned as white as his hair and he stepped forward in a daze. His foot faltered a moment and Jared, immediately concerned about the shock to his father’s system, suggested, “Sir, hadn’t you better sit down?”

  Stuart ignored the suggestion, his eyes going over each of the young man’s features. “It can’t be…you can’t be my son. Jared is dead, I know it.” His tone conveyed an attempt to justify the impossibility that it was actually Jared who stood before him. He stepped forward again, regaining his strength as the color returned to his face. “It is you…dear God in heaven, after all these years!” He threw his arms about Jared and hugged him, clapping him on the back.

  As the two men drew apart, to gaze again into each other’s faces, Tony realized that Lord Maubrey looked to be, and was, only fifty. For years, Tony had thought of him as a much older man; but in a few minutes, the return of his son had wiped away the sad melancholy that had always made him seem older.

  Jared, too, was moved by the sight of his father’s face. “It’s been a long twenty years. Father. I feel like I’ve come home at last!”

  “Sit down, son.” Stuart turned to motion Tony to a seat. “Tony, sit over here. Tell me how you managed such a miracle.” He rang for the butler. When Henges appeared he asked them whether they cared for coffee or a drink. Tony and Jared, both shaken, requested a brandy, and Stuart decided to join them. Before he left to prepare the three brandies, Henges was informed of Jared’s identity.

  “Oh, I knew it, m’lord, the moment I set eyes on ’im. How wonderful for you both!” He bowed stiffly but with obvious affection for his master and went off to fetch the drinks.

  “Well, one of you two tell me how this came about,” Stuart said, unable to keep his eyes off Jared’s face.

  Tony repeated the story of finding Jared in California, telling him that the amazing likeness to Stuart first drew him to Jared. “I couldn’t believe it when he said his name was Bryant and that his father
was English. We left two days later for England by way of Panama and New York. It took us almost two months to get here.” Henges entered quietly and served the brandies, leaving as unobtrusively as he’d come.

  “I know now why you didn’t return, Father. Tony told me on the voyage. I imagine you want to hear what happened to us.”

  Stuart nodded eagerly, sipping his brandy. “Your mother, boy, is Jennifer still alive?” He held his breath, waiting to see if his beloved wife still lived.

  “I’m sorry, she died a few years after you left, when I was eleven, sir. She caught a cold and it turned into pneumonia.”

  It was painful to see the hopeful light dim in Stuart’s eyes, but he repressed it, having long ago resigned himself to Jennifer’s death. “Did she…blame me for not coming back?”

  “No, sir, she insisted until the end that there had to have been a valid reason, something that kept you from us.” Jared flushed and hesitated before he confessed, “I was the one who stubbornly insisted for twenty years that you had deserted us.” Jared was ashamed to admit to the resentment he’d harbored for so long. “I know how wrong I was. I’d like to stay, sir, and get to know you.”

  “Of course you’ll stay, son, do you think I’d let you out of my sight now? Go on, m’boy, tell me what happened after you were…left alone.”

  An hour later, after Jared had revealed every detail he could remember, Tony rose and smiled at them both.

  “Now that I’ve done my good deed for the year, I’d best be off and see my mother and Beth. It’s been a while since they have seen me. I’m sure they’re curious as to where the wandering prodigal has been. Jared, I’ll be back to see you tomorrow. I’ll give you a personally guided tour of the capital.”

  Jared shook Tony’s hand, touched by what Tony had done for him. “I’ll be looking forward to it, Tony, and thanks for everything, including the brandy!”

  Tony was instantly aware of Jared’s meaning. “Any time you want a repeat, I’ll be ready.” Turning to Stuart, he held out his hand. “It’s good to see you looking so happy, sir.”

  Stuart and Jared walked Tony to the door, Stuart insisting he use his carriage for the trip to his home.

  Once inside, Stuart and Jared closeted themselves together for hours in the library to catch up on the years they had missed.

  Chapter 24

  The Crown Royal Public House was set back, almost hidden from sight at the end of White Street. To a stranger, the favorite pub of the wealthy youngbloods who attended Eton would have been almost impossible to find.

  Andrew John Edward Bryant slumped in a dark booth toward the back of the dimly lit taproom of the pub with a bottle of claret and his best friend, Michael Sommars, as his only companions in misery. At the age of eighteen, there was already an air of dissipation about the tall, gangly youth. Drew’s features showed the effects of too much drinking and gambling and too little sleep. At the moment his expression was sulky and brooding. A crumpled letter lay on the scarred table before him. Written in an elegant hand and signed by Drew’s father, it showed the signs of having been read over and over again. Great blotches of wine stained the script, blurring it in sections. It had arrived two days earlier and Drew had eagerly torn it open with the expectation that it contained a further advance on his semester’s allowance. When its contents revealed a mere letter and no draft, he had crumpled it angrily, unwilling to read his father’s reasons for refusing his request.

  It was always the same, Drew thought angrily. Stuart Bryant was an old stick-in-the-mud, a man who’d forgotten or never known what it was like to be young. Drew was sure there had never been a time when the old man indulged in gambling or entertaining loose young women. Father just never understood that one had to keep up appearances at Eton; the son of an earl had to maintain a certain élan amongst his peers.

  Certainly John Greyling never had such trouble getting his allowance advanced. Of course his father. Lord Lynsbury, was a different sort altogether. He was well remembered at Eton for his pranks and carousing and even at the age of forty-seven was still considered an illustrious albeit aging rake. Drew, on the other hand, had had the misfortune to be stuck with a bloody puritan for a father. Stuart Bryant never ceased to lecture him on becoming more conservative. Drew couldn’t wait until he inherited the title and all that went with it. Then there would be a Lord Maubrey worthy of the title!

  Suddenly it had struck Drew that his father might have relented and promised an advance in a week or two. He had eagerly retrieved the letter, carefully straightening out the crinkled paper and surveying the Contents. What his father had written was enough of a shock to send him scurrying off in search of Michael and the comfort to be found in a wine bottle in the dark recesses of the Crown Royal.

  The ecstatic tone of the damned letter frustrated Drew far more than the actual contents. His supposedly long-dead half-brother had miraculously appeared in London for a joyous reunion with his father. Stuart had briefly touched on the reason he’d been unable to locate his older son and why he’d give him up for dead long before. Now he wanted Drew home as soon as possible. The letter was ended by a fervent wish for the two sons to meet at once.

  “What a bloody laugh; I’m supposed to welcome this usurper with open arms!” Drew filled his glass for the sixth time, his dark eyes narrowed in contempt.

  Trying to reassure his friend, Michael patted him on the shoulder. “Your father wouldn’t disinherit you, Drew. From what I understand of his fortune, there’s plenty for both of you, even if you have to split it!”

  Lost in maudlin self-pity. Drew batted the hand away from his shoulder. “Don’t be a dolt, Mick! The title, the lands, everything that was mine—now, he inherits it! I’ll be lucky to get one of the lesser titles such as baronet. Can you imagine,” he asked incredulously, “instead of the eighth Earl of Maubrey I’ll end up Sir Andrew Bryant, Esquire!” His laughter grated harshly and ended in a pitiful choke. “My father’s so damned overjoyed, I doubt if he’s considered my feelings at all. I’ll be lucky if I can get my allowance out of him, much less the advances I need!” He tilted the bottle to drink and found it contained only a thin red trickle. A frown creased his forehead as he drunkenly called out for another bottle. “America’s wild and uncivilized, why couldn’t the rotter have perished out there? Save me a lot of trouble. This stupid letter’s practically a command to meet the Prince Royal!” His hands shook as he finished the last of his wine and again called for more.

  Before his call had ended, Mr. Larsen, the owner of the pub, appeared before him. He had moved miraculously fast for the heavy weight he carried. “Sorry, young sir, but your bill needs paying. It’s stretched as far as it’s going to now.” Drew glared at the innkeeper, trying to intimidate him into extending further credit but it had no effect. Finally Michael informed Larsen that the amount should be added to his own bill and to hurry and be quick about bringing another bottle. The man agreed and walked off to fetch the wine bottle; Drew ignored the fact that Michael had volunteered to pay.

  “I tell you, I don’t intend to take this lying down. If I have to go and meet him…say, why don’t you come with me? I’m not sure I can face those two alone.”

  Michael was reluctant but finally agreed. They polished off the remains of the next bottle in record time and left the pub arm in arm, drunkenly depressed by Jared Bryant’s surprising and unwelcome return to life.

  On a typically foggy London morning, with the streets shrouded by heavy, gray, swirling mists, Drew and Michael arrived at Bryant House. Henges welcomed them in and ushered them into the library, announcing them to his employer.

  Face lighting with enthusiasm, Stuart got up from his desk to come around and greet the two young men. “I’m so glad you came so quickly, m’boy! And Michael, how good to see you looking so fit. How’s your father been feeling?” Michael assured him his father was in excellent health and that everything was fine and Stuart continued.

  “Drew, I can’t tell you what a difference
your brother’s return has made to me—I feel younger than I have in years. Just wait until you see him!”

  Drew, sitting near the fireplace, held out his hands, trying to ease the chill from them. He was chilled not only by the foggy mists, but by his father’s enthusiastic attitude. It was clear that Stuart was enthralled with his brother; and if he wanted to stay in his father’s good graces, he’d have to appear as delighted with Jared’s return. “I couldn’t wait to get down here, Father. Your news took me by surprise to say the least. It must have been a great shock to come face-to-face with a man you’d believed to be dead for all these years.” He exchanged a quick glance with Michael, aware of his friend’s amazed stare at his calm attitude. “There is, of course, no doubt this man is who he says he is? It would be a cruel hoax indeed, if he turned out to be an impostor.”

  “Oh, there’s no doubt, son. I’ll let you decide for yourself, though.” Stuart rang for Henges and when the servant appeared asked him to have Jared join them.

  Stuart found it hard to suppress his excitement, as after a polite knock, his elder son entered the library and, for the first time, faced his brother. The two stared at each other, and Jared was the first to break the silence. “Glad to meet you, Drew. Father’s told me so much about you. I hope we’ll be good friends.” He extended his hand to his brother.

  Drew’s last hopes deserted him. There could be no doubt about the man’s identity. All one had to do was look at Stuart and then at Jared; the resemblance was amazing. He, himself, had only inherited his father’s red-gold hair. Otherwise, he favored his Russian relatives, with high Slavic cheekbones and a strong aquiline nose. His brother not only had the Bryant looks, but seemed to wear them with a casual confidence that was as irritating as his American accent.