by Lee Rowan
He bounced Hillyard’s head on the floor for good measure, then got up. “I want his name and direction, and I want it by the end of the week, or we shall see who your father believes. If it comes to that, I expect I could produce a very good likeness of your signature. Would you like to see me try?”
Hillyard lay on the floor, gasping. He shook his head.
“I thought not. Get me that information, and you’ll never see me again. Fail, and you may not live long enough to regret your failure.”
Dobson left in high dudgeon, cheered by his ability to frighten Hillyard as thoroughly as His Lordship had frightened him. He hoped the little sod would have the information to him soon. If the book was burnt, well and good…that rang true. If not, he would have to consider another line of work in another city, and soon. He might even have to think about leaving England altogether.
By the time Brendan reached his family home, it was nearly noon. He had sent a note to his mother as soon as he was able to put pen to paper, located a barber and had himself made presentable, then found a coffee-shop and fortified himself with something non-alcoholic. After consuming several cups of coffee and two sausage rolls, he realized that he could not delay going home much longer, and he set off in that direction, walking until he was able to hail a hackney cab.
He had no idea what he was going to do.
What he must do was find Philip and talk to him. He had to know whether there was anything he could possibly do to put things right between them. If so, he would do it, no matter what that entailed. If not… He really could not see beyond that any more; he could not imagine a future without Philip in it, nor did he want to.
He should never have been reckless enough to attempt that first kiss. But Philip had not rejected him. He had seemed willing, even eager, after that awkward beginning. Their lovemaking had not been especially elaborate or sophisticated, but it had been the most overwhelmingly beautiful experience of Brendan’s life. What a difference it made, to be with a lover who was intelligent and responsible, who could summon a threatening countenance at need, but in private show such painstaking concern for his horses and his household.
There was no comparison to what he’d experienced with Tony. That had been pleasant and exciting, the awakening of carnal knowledge with the thrill of the forbidden. What he and Philip had done together… that was love. Even if circumstances meant that they might never sleep together—two young men might share a bed and call it economy, but a man of Philip’s stature could not spend the night with the younger brother of a friend—merely to spend an hour together from time to time would be more than Brendan had ever hoped for.
But why had Philip Carlisle fled so abruptly? Had he experienced a change of heart? He had enjoyed their congress, Brendan would swear to it… that final kiss pressed to his forehead, as he was falling asleep, drowsy and content… why would Philip have done that, if he regretted the experience?
Perhaps his reaction was simply a return to sober reality. It was one thing to have a drunken pas de deux with a love-struck sodomite. That could be blamed on the excitement of the moment and the potency of the brandy. Anyone might be curious, and they had both been drinking, but for a respectable gentleman who had been blissfully married to suddenly change his sensible celibacy and hare off after a male lover?
Put that way, it seemed quite mad.
But… still. Why could Philip not have simply gone off to his own bedroom, and, in the morning, taken his houseguest aside and told him in a calm and reasonable way that their misstep of the previous night was one that would not be repeated and could not be allowed to continue? He must surely have known I would understand, Brendan thought.
Had he simply been so mortified at what he had done that he could not stay and own up to it? Possible, but unlikely. They had each had a little to drink, but neither had been so drunk as to be irrational. If his Oxford education had done nothing else, it had given Brendan a pretty fair idea of his capacity for alcohol.
One thing Brendan did not believe—could not believe—was that Philip had merely taken him to bed out of curiosity. A man who could remain faithful to one woman for five years and then avoid women entirely for ten more was not a sexually driven man, nor one who acted on impulse. There must have been something …
Or perhaps there had been something. Brendan had been pitifully needy, and it could be that the kindly Major Carlisle had indeed taken pity on him, given him what he so desperately wanted—and then realized in the aftermath that he had acquired a limpet who would not be removed with anything short of blasting powder. But I would not cling, Brendan protested miserably. I only want—
Well, yes, he only wanted… and it was obvious that what he wanted was something that Philip was not prepared to give. How much of a hint was required to make it clear that his companionship was not welcome?
It was a hard lesson, but he had to learn it, and learn it well. If he wanted to have a true lifemate, a lover and partner to confide in, he was going to have to find a wife. And doing so was, thankfully, beyond his means, or he might have been tempted to make some unsuspecting lady miserable just so he would not have to be alone. The one he wanted did not want him; it was just that simple, and he must learn to accept that dismal reality.
By the time the hackney pulled up before the gates of the Townsend’s town home, Brendan had chased his dilemma around the track at least three times. He was almost relieved that there would be no time for further contemplation.
He paid off the driver and stepped from the miserable contemplation of his own thoughts into the bustle of a Society household in full-tilt preparation for a major ball. He went first to his mother’s sitting-room, only to find the furniture rearranged to facilitate the festivities. A maid putting flowers into a crystal vase said that his mother was in the formal dining room, and it was there that he found her, in a blue morning-dress and matching turban, directing the setting of the table as though she were Wellington preparing for Waterloo.
Her face lit up at the sight of her youngest son. “Brendan! Where have you been? I was afraid you had been in an accident!”
He bowed, wincing as his lowered head suddenly began to throb. “My apologies, Mama. I was called upon to assist a friend in need, and could not avoid it. I did not return sooner for two reasons: I remember too many occasions when I was chased out of this very house for getting underfoot, and I am not feeling entirely well.”
“You do not look well,” she said critically.
“I’m sure I will be all right, though I have a bit of a headache. Is there anything I can do to assist you?”
“Not unless you can create an additional three hours between now and dinner time!” his mother said distractedly. “We shall be sixteen at dinner, before the ball. Our own family—Lucy and Richard will be here, which brings us to eight, and Harry’s family—his mother, the Dowager Countess, his brother the Earl, the Countess, Harry himself, of course, and his younger brother Augustus, then your Grandmama and Cousin Violet, and my friend Edwina Postlethwaite and her husband—Ellie’s godmother, you know. Thank heavens Harry’s got a brother rather than a sister; I think young Augustus must escort Cousin Violet in to dinner.”
“Is she still able to get about? The last time I saw her she seemed quite feeble.”
“Oh, yes, Violet is still fairly spry. She is no older than I am, you know, at least thirty years younger than Grandmama. She only behaves as though she’s an invalid because the old lady is so demanding. But don’t you dare repeat that!”
“Soul of discretion,” Brendan promised.
“And I am sorry, but I’ve put you beside Cousin Violet because you and Augustus will be at the foot of the table, beside me, and Violet has such a marked dislike of red-headed men that I am afraid she would put poor Augustus completely out of countenance. It will be bad enough for him to escort her, poor lamb. But I was able to put Ellie beside Harry, and made her promise to remind him to pay enough attention to Lucy. “
He shoul
d have been able to keep that array of friends and relations clear in his mind, but they all swam together. “Fear not, Mama, I can always ask our cousin about the Bath on-dits, and that ought to keep her occupied for as long as her voice holds out.” He nearly asked her whom he was supposed to escort, but knew that she would tell him at dinnertime anyway, and that way he would not have to tax himself to remember.
The guest list was highly suggestive. Brendan asked, “Shall I assume from the contingent of Edringtons that Harry lived up to your expectations?”
“Oh, yes! He made his offer beautifully, Ellie says, and of course she accepted, so the ball will also be her engagement party.”
He forced himself to smile; it was difficult to remember how to do that. “I’m so happy for her. I think she will enjoy the Season more, knowing she has made her decision.”
“Yes, I believe you’re right. Some girls prefer to wait as long as they can, but that dear child was never one to tease. I think she is happier having the matter settled.”
A sudden fear struck him. “Will there be any other family at the ball?”
“A few, the ones who usually come. Was there anyone in particular?”
“Not really. I only asked because I thought I caught a glimpse of Uncle Cedric in town and wondered if he would be joining us.”
“Oh, no. Do you know, I have not set eyes on your uncle in over a year. I think he dislikes big affairs as much as your father does—if it were not his own daughter’s engagement party, he would probably send his regrets as well.”
“Poor Papa,” Brendan said, covering his relief with sympathy. “At least Ellie is the last daughter he has to launch.”
“He is happy for her, in his way. He likes Harry very much.” Brendan’s mother frowned at him, a look he remembered well from childhood. “Son, I think you should go upstairs and lie down; you do not look well.”
He started to argue, but realized that solitude was exactly what he needed. Then he remembered the dragon ensconced in his room and asked, “Yes, Mama, but where?”
She sent him up to his brother’s suite. Both James and their father had escaped to White’s and would not be home until the last possible moment before the party began. Viscount Martindale never begrudged his wife a moment of the social whirl she enjoyed so much, but neither did he feel any need to subject himself to it beyond what was absolutely necessary. Brendan did not have much in common with his father, but their emphatic preference for country life over the bustle of Town was one thing they shared.
He escaped to the relative quiet of James’ bedroom and pulled the bed-curtains to shut out the light. He only wanted to get away from the bustle of preparation; he had not expected to be able to sleep. But once he was horizontal, his body took advantage of the opportunity. The next thing he knew, his brother was shaking his shoulder and ordering him to get up and do his duty.
Norwood was hovering at his elbow, ready to see Brendan properly groomed and shod. He had the requisite clothing in hand, and wasted no time making sure that Brendan would show himself a credit to the family. He submitted meekly; there was only one real arbiter of sartorial propriety in the household, and that man was Percival Norwood.
When Brendan finally escaped and found his sister downstairs, he was glad to be looking his best; she deserved it. Elspeth was radiantly beautiful; her dress was mostly blue, light in shade but very rich, with an overskirt of some kind of lacework shot through with silver. She actually glittered, and when Brendan told her she looked like a fairy princess she only smiled instead of making the sort of joke he would normally have expected from her.
He remembered what their mother had said about a girl wanting everything perfect; it seemed as though Elspeth was getting her wish. The warm looks and smiles she exchanged with her betrothed throughout the meal certainly suggested she was happy.
For Brendan, though, the meal was hell. He could only sit and ask Cousin Violet inane questions, congratulate his mother on the quantity and quality of the food—what he tasted of it—and try to avoid watching his sister and Harry look at one another as though nothing and no one else existed in the world. Smelling of April and May… he had heard the expression for ages, but had never seen it expressed so perfectly. They were completely besotted with one another.
And what was wrong with that? They were supposed to be besotted. That was what young men were expected to do—fall madly in love with a suitable young woman, or at least work up a reasonable affection, and settle down, two by two, like Noah’s Ark.
He didn’t know how he made it through the ball. Before he’d fallen in love with Philip, he had been looking forward to this event, had expected to enjoy it on Ellie’s behalf. As it was, he let himself slip back into that half-numb state and go through the motions, minding his steps in the dances, inviting the young ladies whose cards were not filled to take a turn on the dance floor—all the things a dutiful brother did to help make his sister’s party a success.
I do not belong here. Family or not, this entire celebration was about a state of being from which he was barred. He would never stand bursting with pride and affection while his father announced to all their friends and relatives that his son and his new daughter were about to start a life together. He would never be allowed to claim his love before God and Society and begin a new life with well-wishing from friends and family. If his true nature were ever discovered, he would be cast out and condemned.
No wonder Philip had fled. What sort of fool would have stayed?
By the time the toasts were drunk, the final dance ended, and the guests beginning to call for their carriages, Brendan was in a state of despair blacker than Queenie’s new foal. He wanted it all to be over, wanted to go and apologize to Philip, then walk off a cliff.
He could not do that. He could not even bring an end to his pain because suicide would devastate his parents and ruin his sister’s happiness. It would be easier if he did not care about them, but there was nothing he might do to change that. He would rather cut off his own arm than hurt any of them. And he did not really want to die. He only wanted the pain to stop.
But he could not stay here. When everything was settled, he might simply pack himself up and go to Italy to study art. Or perhaps he might not study anything. He might simply go to Italy and never come back. If time truly did heal all wounds, he might one day find a purpose, or at least forget Philip.
Reality intruded itself briefly when the ever-reliable Norwood asked him whether he needed the family carriage to return to his temporary abode. He agreed, thinking he could redirect the driver to the Pulteney and say he was meeting friends. The family need never know he’d left Carlisle’s home.
He buried his feelings and made a quick goodbye to his mother, standing with Ellie’s godmother in a knot of chattering ladies. His father would be off with a few of his cronies, drinking brandy and playing billiards, so no effort was required in that direction. Brendan found Harry Edrington and offered another round of best wishes and congratulations, and at last managed to locate his little sister.
“Well, Miss Townsend,” he said, taking her hands. “Are you prepared to retire from the chase and assemble your trousseau?”
“I am!” Still glowing with joy, she hugged him. “Oh, Brendan, I am so happy! I still cannot believe that this is happening to me…have you ever felt that way?”
“Frequently,” he said. “I have the continuing delusion that I am actually Rodney MacEvil, the Pirate King. But I seldom tell anyone.” He wiggled his eyebrows and cast his eyes to either side for dramatic effect.
“You have not been the Pirate King since you went off to Eton,” she said. “Brendan, you look so sad. Is something wrong?”
He took a deep breath and shook his head. “Nothing serious. A friend of mine has been having some troubles, and I have been
trying to help him settle them. I’m not sad, only a bit concerned.”
“Well, if he’s going to worry the life out of you, I hope you tell him to settle t
hem for himself. I hate to see you so troubled. Especially now…”
Harry appeared at her shoulder. “My parents are leaving now, sweetheart. They would like to say goodbye to you… for now.”
Elspeth glanced at Brendan, who shook Edrington’s hand, congratulated him once more, and gave the obligatory warning that he had better take good care of his baby sister. Edrington responded with the usual assurances, and Brendan was at last free to make his escape.
CHAPTER 16
Another day at Twin Oaks, and Carlisle had still heard no word from Jenkins. So much for his excellent excuse for fleeing London like the coward he was beginning to realize he was.
Carlisle put down the book he was pretending to read and blew out the candle beside his bed. He wished mightily that Jenkins’ mutinous colleague Bowker would return to Kent and resume his illegal activities so that there would be some excuse for action, something to do besides admire Queenie’s foal and torment himself with indecision.
There was nothing else he could have done. He could not have stayed in London, with Brendan in the bedroom just down the hall, and kept his resolve. The temptation was too strong, the reward too sweet.
Brendan was a young man; in terms of loving, he was younger than his years. He must not be allowed to believe that just because he had been seduced by that parasitic Hillyard brat, he was incapable of forming a normal attachment to a woman. He might have to search for a long time before he found a woman who could share his love of horses, but if he were to find someone like Lillian, but with more enthusiasm for riding… Someone like his sister—well, no, Brendan needed to find someone who was not too much like his own sister, the poor boy had troubles enough.
Carlisle ground his teeth and got out of bed. As he had done the night before, he went to his dressing-table and found his pocket flask. It’s a bad habit, Major, drinking to put yourself to sleep. He ought to get more exercise, or at least find a better book to read.
