by Stella Riley
He had spent the last seven years doing anything he liked and everything he’d never been allowed to; and for the first five of those years, he’d enjoyed it. He’d risked life and limb in a series of spectacular, hair-raising wagers; he’d drunk, gamed, travelled and slept with numerous beautiful women. He’d played chess against masters of the game in St Petersburg, perfected his swordplay in Madrid and picked up half a dozen languages; he’d skated on the Vltava in Prague, swum the Grand Canal in Venice, scaled the walls of Dubrovnik … and half a hundred other exploits he could scarcely remember.
But during the last year, almost without him noticing it, the challenges had become less appealing and he’d started to find himself wishing that not quite every fellow he met was determined to devise some crazy exploit that notoriously Neck-or-Nothing Sebastian Audley could be relied upon to try. In short, his reputation had gradually become a millstone around his neck – on top of which, an entanglement with a married lady in Lisbon had sent him running, literally, for the hills.
Buda was one of few places where he could escape and he was fond of it – even though, in late February, it was damned cold. The windows and balconies of his rented villa afforded stunning views down the hillside to the Danube and the town of Pest which lay on the far side of it. The food was good, the people friendly and the women passionate. But despite all this, Sebastian knew that he was merely marking time … or, worse still, hiding. And the unopened letter was telling him it was time to stop.
And so, after twenty-four hours of doing his best to ignore it, Sebastian poured a glass of brandy and broke the seal.
Unusually, Blanche had come directly to the point.
Father has suffered an apoplexy. If you care anything at all for him or for our family and have any desire to see him alive, you will return immediately.
The words hit him like a punch in the stomach and he downed the brandy in one quick swallow. He thought instinctively, No. Father’s not dead. He can’t be. And then, sickeningly, He wasn’t dead when Blanche wrote. But now? How long has the letter taken to get here? Three weeks? Four? Damn. Why the hell didn’t she put a date on it?
Just for once, he decided bitterly, it would have been helpful if Blanche had supplied a grain or two of additional information – such as how severe the attack had been and what hope, if any, the doctors held out of recovery.
Father’s never ailed a day in his life and he’s only … what? Sixty-seven? That isn’t old. And people recover from apoplexy all the time. Don’t they?
It had never been that Sebastian didn’t love his father. He did. He just couldn’t be what the Viscount wanted. Once every year he went home to Sussex, hoping deep inside himself that things would be different – but they never were. Father still lectured him about his duty to ensure the succession and Blanche said the sort of things she’d been saying since he was eight years old and which still hurt even though they shouldn’t. Consequently, his visits never lasted more than seventy-two hours and always ended in acrimony.
This time, however, he’d go back not hoping for anything except to find his father alive.
* * *
Travelling across a large part of Europe through bad weather and over even worse roads was unpleasant and impossible to accomplish quickly. Taking only Hobson, his valet, and leaving the Hungarian servants to pack the bulk of his belongings and close up the villa, Sebastian set out from Buda within twenty-four hours. At a different time of the year, he might have elected to begin his journey by river; but not in February, when parts of the Danube were still blocked by ice. So he hired a coach-and-four, battened down his impatience and prepared to make what speed he could.
It took five days to reach Vienna, through sleet and snow. Having accidentally made himself persona non grata on his last visit, Sebastian passed through the city as unobtrusively as possible and headed for Linz. Next came Munich – from whence, though he doubted his letter would arrive in advance of himself, he sent word to Blanche that he was on his way. The journey began to seem endless; the long hours of being jolted over iron-hard roads riven with pot-holes left every bone in his body bruised and aching; and as if things were not already quite bad enough, somewhere between Stuttgart and Frankfurt, Hobson caught a cold of epic proportions.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Sebastian, when it was obvious that his unfortunate valet was running a mild fever. ‘I can leave you to recover at an inn in Cologne, with sufficient funds to follow when you feel well enough – but I have to press on.’
‘Of course, sir,’ managed Hobson valiantly from behind his handkerchief. ‘Pray do not concern yourself. I will manage and can only apologise --’
The words were halted by a violent sneeze. Sebastian winced.
‘ – for the inconvenience,’ finished Hobson miserably. ‘And for failing in my duty.’
‘You’re not failing in anything. As you’re well aware, I can look after myself more than adequately. But I’d prefer not to be responsible for you contracting inflammation of the lung.’
‘I shall not do so, sir. I am determined of it.’
‘Ah.’ Despite himself, Sebastian felt a quiver of amusement. ‘Well in that case, we don’t have anything to worry about, do we?’
By the time they reached Brussels, Hobson was on the mend. Sebastian, by now more thoroughly exhausted than he’d ever been in his life, pressed on to Lille then Calais. They had been on the road for twenty-two days. On the following afternoon, they disembarked at Dover, hired two horses and set off on the last forty miles which would take Sebastian home.
* * *
Audley Court lay five miles from Rye on the East Sussex coast. The house was a neat, flint-walled manor, prettily situated but unostentatious. The only thing on Sebastian’s mind as it came into view round the curve of the drive was that there was no hatchment on the door, nor any other sign of recent bereavement. He loosed a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.
Even before he had left the saddle, the butler had the door open and was smiling at him.
‘Mr Sebastian! Welcome home, sir. This is a most agreeable surprise, if you will permit me to say so.’
‘Thank you, Bradshaw.’ Sebastian dropped to the ground and tossed his reins to Hobson. ‘I sent a note about ten days ago but clearly I’ve out-distanced it. The bulk of my luggage will arrive some time tomorrow – and the horses have to be returned to Dover. Meanwhile, have someone look after my valet, will you? He’s ready to drop.’
‘Really, sir!’ expostulated Hobson. ‘I assure you that I am quite well and --’
‘Don’t argue, Ben. Just go and let Mrs Mason give you one of her infallible cures.’ Sebastian ran up the steps and, unable to wait any longer, said, ‘How is my father, Bradshaw?’
‘His lordship is doing well, sir. Still confined to his chamber, of course, but --’
‘Sebastian!’ Dark-haired and petite, his youngest sister flew across the hall and threw herself on his chest. ‘You came! I knew you would. But where on earth were you?’
‘Hungary,’ he responded, catching her with a laughing gasp. ‘The journey took a while.’
‘It shows.’ Elizabeth grinned up at him. ‘You look exhausted. Actually, you look perfectly dreadful – one might almost say disreputable.’
‘Thank you, Lizzie.’ He let her draw him into the house, saying, ‘Who else is here?’
‘Just Blanche and me now – and my darling Johnny, of course. He’s ridden into Rye to attend some horrid sporting event but he’ll be back by dinner. Lottie and Trixie were here, but they went home when the doctor pronounced Papa out of danger. And Jenny couldn’t come because her confinement is imminent. But --’
‘Well,’ said a new and frigidly disapproving voice. ‘Finally.’
Releasing Elizabeth’s arm, Sebastian turned slowly.
‘Blanche.’ He bowed slightly. ‘I came as soon as I could. But you made sure I would, didn’t you?’
‘And how, pray, could I do that?’ she shrugged. ‘I merely appri
sed you of the situation.’
‘Indeed. And so baldly as to leave me with no choice but to assume the worst.’
‘Since I had no confidence in you reading the letter at all, there was no point in writing more. You really are your own worst enemy, Sebastian.’
‘So you have said. Frequently. However … I’m here now so you may as well tell me what your letter should have done. How bad was the attack?’
‘Bad enough. It could all-too-easily have been life-threatening. One can never tell with these things.’ Blanche avoided the question by turning away. ‘You will want to see for yourself, I’m sure. But first, you had better make yourself presentable. And while you do so, I will prepare Papa for the shock of your arrival.’
Sebastian experienced a sudden, strong temptation to tell Blanche to go to hell – and might even have done so except that a hot bath was the thing he wanted most in the world.
However, before he could open his mouth, Elizabeth said crossly, ‘Oh don’t talk fustian, Blanche. Papa won’t be shocked – he’ll be delighted. And Sebastian doesn’t need you to tell him what to do. He’s quite grown up enough to decide for himself.’
Then, grasping her brother’s arm and towing him away up the stairs, she said, ‘How long have you been travelling?’
‘Three weeks. Not bad for this time of year.’
‘Heavens – no wonder you look tired.’ She glanced sideways up at him. ‘Don’t mind Blanche. You know what she’s like. Mountains out of mole-hills as usual. Papa’s attack was nowhere near as bad as it might have been. His speech is a little slurred and he seems to be having difficulty gripping things with his right hand … but Dr Benson says there’s a good chance that will improve. And to be honest, Papa would be recovering a lot better if Blanche would stop hovering about him as if she expects him to turn up his toes at any minute. If I was him, I’d have thrown something at her by now.’
‘And missed,’ he grinned. ‘I never saw anyone with a worse aim than you.’
Laughing, Elizabeth opened the door of his chamber and cast a brief comprehensive glance over it. ‘Good. They’ve lit a fire and brought your bags up. Doubtless Bradshaw has ordered hot water and food for you, so I’ll see you presently.’ Rising on tiptoe, she kissed his cheek and said, ‘Thank you for coming, Sebastian. And please try to stay a little longer than you usually do. It will make all the difference.’ Then she was gone.
* * *
Bathed, shaved and once more clad with his usual restrained elegance, Sebastian made his way to his father’s rooms only to find Blanche barring his way at the turn of the stairs. He didn’t know whether to be irritated or amused by her resemblance to a bull mastiff.
‘Papa wishes to receive you alone,’ she announced with undisguised annoyance. ‘I would ask you to remember that his health is frail and that extreme care should be taken not to excite or upset him since we do not wish him to suffer a relapse. You must therefore attempt not to be contentious, Sebastian – though I’m afraid I have little faith in your self-restraint. You have never thought of anyone but yourself, so why I should imagine today would be any different, I cannot imagine.’
Her brother’s dark blue eyes rested on her inimically.
‘Does it never occur to you,’ he asked, his tone light as the flick of a lash, ‘that there are better ways of ensuring my compliance than addressing me as if I were either ten years old or an imbecile? One would almost think you wanted to send me to Father in a less than amiable frame of mind.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. I merely know only too well how you conduct yourself.’
‘No, Blanche. You don’t.’ Folding his arms and crossing one ankle over the other, he leaned against the wall in a negligent attitude deliberately designed to infuriate her. ‘I have as much care for Father’s health as you might wish and no desire to inherit his shoes for many years to come. You, however, must dread the day when I do.’
‘Of course I dread it! How could I not? No matter how far you travel, every sordid detail of your behaviour comes back to haunt us. Scarcely a week goes by without some salacious mention of you in the scandal-sheets.’
‘Really? Collect them, do you?’
She ignored this piece of provocation and stuck to her theme.
‘You’ve shamed our family and made it a laughing-stock, Sebastian. Thanks to you, people snigger behind our backs and I doubt any decent family will permit you to court a daughter of theirs. Dear Theodore would never have embarrassed us all as you do. And why God chose to take him --’
She came to an abrupt stop, breathing rather hard.
‘Why God took Theo instead of me?’ he finished aridly and trying to ignore the pain that twisted his gut every time his twin’s death was mentioned. ‘There’s no need to be shy, Blanche. It’s no secret that you wish I’d died instead. You’ve been saying it since I was eight, after all.’
‘And can I be blamed for wishing it? The prospect of you – with your frivolous, licentious ways – occupying our dear father’s position? It doesn’t bear thinking about.’
‘And what of your own position, Blanche?’
‘My position? What has that to do with anything? I have devoted my life to Papa and our sisters – even to you, though you’ll never admit it. I could have married --’
‘Could you? I always wondered. Did you choose the single state … or did no one offer?’ He waited, watching the colour rise to her face, his smile slow and not particularly pleasant. ‘But you are missing the point. Since Mama’s death, you have made yourself mistress of this house. You have also made your opinion of me distressingly clear. You must surely have given a modicum of thought to the consequences of those two facts when I become head of the family.’
She stared at him out of narrowed eyes.
‘What is that supposed to mean?’
‘It means that in the fullness of time, I will inherit the title and all that goes with it. I’ll also doubtless marry.’ He paused briefly. ‘You have made your feelings towards me plainer than was perhaps wise and with a result that can surely not be a surprise. As my sister, it goes without saying that you will always be well provided-for and suitably housed. But not, once I am obliged to live here myself, at Audley Court.’ Sebastian detached himself from the wall and sketched the merest hint of a bow. ‘And now, if you will be good enough to let me pass, I will go and see Father.’
* * *
‘Thought you’d never get here,’ grunted Lord Wingham by way of greeting. ‘Blanche been laying down the law, has she?’
‘Inevitably,’ agreed Sebastian, reaching out to grip his father’s hand. ‘How are you, sir?’
‘Not about to stick my spoon in the wall just yet.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’ He was also glad that, although his handshake was weak, the viscount’s voice was no less robust than it had ever been. ‘I came as soon as I heard but the journey took some time.’
‘Where were you?’
‘Buda. Hungary.’
‘I know where it is,’ said his lordship testily. In truth, he knew the location of every major city in Europe. Maps and the gossip-pages that his valet acquired secretly on his behalf were his only means of keeping track of his wandering son. ‘Damned inconvenient place, I should think. What took you there?’
The fact that it isn’t full of eager young fellows on their Grand Tour, came the instinctive thought. But he merely said, ‘Nothing in particular – though the country is very beautiful.’
‘And the women, no doubt?’
Sebastian smiled. ‘Yes, sir. Those, too.’
Lord Wingham regarded his son and heir with mingled pride and despair. Pride in his physical appearance, immaculate posture and confident demeanour; despair of ever seeing him settle down to the business of getting a son of his own. He’d known for years that he had no one but himself to blame for how Sebastian had turned out. He’d just never admitted it to anyone but himself. His recent unexpected brush with mortality, however, had revealed this as anoth
er mistake – and one he ought to rectify before it was too late.
‘Of course. Needn’t have asked.’ He sighed. ‘Well, sit down, boy. Unless you’re dashing back to bloody Buda?’
There was a wistful, questioning note in those last words which didn’t escape Sebastian. Taking the chair on the far side of the hearth, he said, ‘I’ve only just got here, Father – and through the kind of weather that only Eastern Europe can hurl at you at this time of year. I was thinking I might stay for a while.’
‘In England? Or here at the Court?’
‘Here, until your health improves … and in England through the spring.’ He shrugged, careful to appear casual and refraining from admitting that he might stay even longer if his thrice-blasted reputation didn’t prove an obstacle. ‘Since, amongst other things, I need to visit my bootmaker, I thought of spending a few weeks in London.’
‘Ah. Yes. Well, foreigners never could make a good boot.’ The viscount paused and then, with a sly grin, ‘I told Blanche not to disturb us, so it’s safe to indulge. The brandy’s hidden behind Shakespeare’s Histories.’
Sebastian raised an eyebrow but rose to cross to the bookshelves.
‘An illicit supply, Father?’
‘No other way to do it with Blanche on the prowl. But Perkins keeps me supplied. He knows which is the good stuff, as well – though you’d have to wonder how, since he swears he doesn’t touch it.’ He fell silent until the glass was in his hand and Sebastian had resumed his seat. Then he said gruffly, ‘I think I might perhaps owe you an apology, my boy.’
Noting the equivocal nature of this statement, Sebastian said merely, ‘Oh?’
‘I … well, I may not have gone about things the best way years ago. Keeping you caged the way I did … it was no wonder you broke free as soon as you were able. Flora warned that I’d better be prepared to reap what I’d sown but I took no notice. Convinced I knew best, you see. And look what’s come of it. Years of sitting here with my heart in my mouth, expecting at any time to hear that you’d fallen off a cliff or been shot in a duel.’ His lordship took a swallow of brandy and scowled over the rim of his glass. ‘There. I’ve said it.’
