by Mary Blayney
~ ~ ~
The Braedon brothers encountered Peter Wilton at the second club they visited. Morgan decided that Wilton was as close as he would be to Christiana all evening.
He still had no idea why James had insisted on his company, but he had won enough at the first hell to appease his irritation at being led around like a tame dog.
Rhys had come along willingly. He was still young enough to be flattered by the invitation to join his elders. As the carriage clattered from home to the clubs beyond Mayfair, Rhys chattered on about applying some of the scientific principles he’d learned to gambling.
For a moment, Morgan regretted his unwillingness to fleece his own brother. James looked at him and smiled and Morgan responded with a shrug. Between the two of them they should be able to prevent anyone else from doing so as well. It had not proved too much of a challenge so far.
“I actually won at Barton’s.” Rhys patted his pocket, and the jingle of coins attested to his success.
The brothers settled into the carriage and it began its slow progress to the next place on James’s list. “We noticed,” James said.
“Beginner’s luck,” Morgan cautioned. “Jolly Jack’s is an entirely different kind of place.”
James nodded. “Run by a former naval officer who used his prize money to fund the place. Have you been to Jack’s before, Morgan?”
“Once or twice,” Morgan admitted. “Given its location, it attracts as many wealthy cits as members of the ton.”
“And,” James added, “given the owner’s background, tends to be filled with whatever members of His Majesty’s Navy as can make their way to Town with money still in their pockets.”
Rhys nodded, apparently considering their words as a source of information rather than an urge to caution.
Given the popularity of the place, Morgan was not at all surprised when young Wilton hailed them shortly after they passed their hats and capes to the porter.
“Braedon, I say, Braedon!” he called as he approached them. He grabbed Rhys by the hand and shook it with enthusiasm. “Well met. I was hoping to see you again before you left Town.”
Pleasantries were exchanged as the foursome made their way into the first room. Here quiet prevailed. The card tables were set up for whist and at least twenty men were concentrating on their cards. Morgan paused to scan the faces, looking for acquaintances, and then stopped short.
He did not know the man, who was deeply engrossed in play, but felt as though he should. Rather than stare, he moved on, thinking he had found the reason for this evening’s quest.
The next room was much noisier and they paused there as Peter turned to look again at James. “Have you a relative in the navy, my lord?”
At James’s disclaimer, Wilton looked puzzled. “The thing is, there is a gentleman playing whist who could be your brother—the same hair though much bleached by the sun, the same eyes, and a deeply tanned face, which is what leads me to assume he is a navy man on leave or one who recently left the service.”
James shrugged, but he did glance back at the whist room, his eyes narrowing as they found the Braedon look-alike. The cards still had the man’s whole attention and he was so engrossed in play that he never once looked up. James shrugged and turned away. Morgan understood exactly what that meant. None of them would want an introduction to a man who was most likely an illegitimate connection of some sort.
Wilton accepted the snub with aplomb and then turned to Morgan. “I had a letter from Richard today. I have just taken it to Christiana as Richard suggested.”
Morgan’s polite smile froze in place. With a sidelong glance, he noted, with relief, that James was paying no attention to the conversation.
Wilton noticed it, too, and as Morgan struggled to name a god on whom he could call for help, Peter drew James’s attention, explaining, “Richard is my older brother off fighting in Portugal.”
James smiled politely. “With Wellesley returned to Spain, they should be ready to give Boney’s troops a fight.”
“You should hear what he has to say! I was not at all certain that it was something Christiana should see, but if she has hopes of marrying a soldier she will not be shielded for long.”
Morgan swore mentally. Every creative curse he had learned from childhood on echoed through his brain while he tried to find a way to undo the mess Peter Wilton was creating.
“Indeed that is so,” James murmured, looking directly at Morgan. “Miss Christiana Lambert, you say? I do believe I met her today.”
Peter nodded. “We are neighbors from home. Known each other forever.”
A particularly loud cheer from the roulette table drew Wilton’s attention to the play at hand. “I say, my lord, will you excuse me? I should like to try my luck.” Wilton looked at Rhys and the two were off to see if they could stir up some cheers on their own behalf.
Morgan had faced worse situations, he was sure of it. There was the time he had been accused of cheating by that fool Gordon and once he had been challenged to a duel for an imagined insult. On both those occasions he had honesty on his side for he had been guilty of neither. This time the truth was ever so slightly shaded. All right, he should at least be honest with himself; the truth was under the heaviest of clouds. Still there had to be a way to make it sound right.
James remained silent. He simply watched Morgan with a question in his eyes.
“Yes, yes, yes, I know about the soldier. But, James, there is no engagement and as far I know this is mere speculation on Wilton’s part. As he said, the Wiltons and Lamberts have been friends since childhood, nothing more.”
James laughed. “And you hope to convince her that some inveterate gamester is a more worthy match than a soldier, one serving in the heart of the action no less.”
James made it sound as though she would be choosing between a deuce of clubs and the ace of spades. And he was not the ace.
“No, not a more worthy match. But perhaps a more...” He stopped then. He was not about to justify his behavior to his brother. “James, you only said that I must find a match by the end of the year. As long as I fulfill your ridiculous demand, what does it matter whom I choose or how I win her?”
James shrugged, “Very well, my brother, but do not doubt for a moment that this one Season is all the time you have to find someone eligible.”
It will be all the time I need, he thought, but he merely nodded his understanding of James’s ultimatum. He gestured toward the vingt-et-un table. “Shall we try our luck too? Or shall we rescue Rhys before he loses his quarter allowance at faro?”
Rhys lost, but not more than was acceptable. Despite that he was slumped with disappointment in the carriage as they headed home, apparently still trying to figure out the mysteries of faro. “I really thought I had the key to winning.”
James punched his arm with brotherly superiority “And that may be true but unfortunately you wear your prospects as well as Grimaldi does his clown’s mask. There can be no doubt what you are up to. Give it up, Rhys. You will never make your fortune at the gaming tables.”
His own success had cured Morgan’s temper but he still wanted to confirm his earlier suspicion.
“James, I rarely find the kind of games you prefer entertaining. Riddles and puzzles are best reserved for children. But since I think I was able to solve at least the first part of this one I must admit to some curiosity as to the rest.” Morgan held his brother’s gaze and waited.
Apparently the prospect of a game he could win improved Rhys’s humor. He volunteered his answer before Morgan spoke again. “It was the naval officer at Jack’s, was it not? He was what you were looking for this evening. And you wanted us along.” Rhys stopped short and looked puzzled. “Why did you want us along?”
“Moral support?” James offered.
“To see if we saw the resemblance?” Morgan knew that was it.
James nodded. “I had no idea the resemblance was so marked. I think a stranger would have mistaken us for brot
hers.”
It was so rare to hear James sound unsettled that Morgan thought support may indeed have been one of the reasons he wanted them along.
“Do we have any idea how that navy officer is connected to us?” Morgan asked, for he undoubtedly was.
“Only the obvious,” Rhys supplied.
James shook his head, but without any great conviction. “What other explanation is there?”
Morgan could think of one or two. “He could be the perfectly legitimate child of one of your mother’s relations. We have had no contact with them for dozens of years.”
“It could be and I have no idea why the marquis was so set on me coming to Town to verify this man’s existence. Now I can tell him I have. The hell of it is I suspect he will have forgotten all about it by the time I return home.”
Morgan was out of the coach before he realized that James was not coming. “Are you going back to Jolly Jack’s?”
James shook his head.
Then where was he going? The answer followed on the heels of the question. Morgan smiled and paused at the door of the carriage. “Does she have a friend?”
“No.” James shook his head as if the one word was not discouragement enough. “And she no more wants a ménage a trois than you do.” He sat back and reached for his snuffbox. “Besides, what would your provincial Miss Lambert think of such lewd behavior?”
James reached over and pushed his brother off the carriage step. By the time Morgan regained his balance, the carriage was well down the street. When he turned around he found that Rhys had hurried away to hall a hackney that was delivering passengers nearby.
There were no stars to watch in London. What exactly did an astronomer do when the night sky was obscured?
Morgan stood in the street, his eyes adjusting to the night and a moon that was older than it was new. He had no need of some friend of his brother. His mistress awaited his pleasure not very many blocks away.
Instead he walked up the steps of Braedon House and bid a surprised Brixton good evening. Settling in the library with a bottle of brandy, Morgan considered his future.
He certainly did not consider “his Miss Lambert” as provincial as James thought, but he was not at all certain how she would react to the knowledge of a town house he paid for occupied by a woman that he knew in the most intimate sense.
With a deep sigh and a taste of the brandy, Morgan decided it was time to give chere Celine her congé. He could accept a few weeks of celibacy in exchange for a lifetime of independence. He was almost sure he could.
Morgan grimaced as a more practical thought occurred to him. It was another way to save money, which was the main thing he hoped to gain from this farce.
Morgan moved closer to the fire, put down his glass, loosened his cravat, and wondered why he was the lone Braedon sitting at home with a bottle of brandy for company. Oh, my dear Sprite, I hope you had a more enjoyable evening than I have.
Nine
“Oh, how can Richard find pleasure in such danger!” Christiana tossed the letter aside for the fifth time and took a deep breath, trying to control the tears of anger that threatened.
Joanna rescued the much-read letter from the floor. “I think it was wrong of Peter to bring it to you even if his father did give him permission.” She folded it with care. “I think it would be best if we sent it back to Sir Howard with our thanks for sharing it.”
“No!” Christiana reached for the paper, walked to her bed, and tucked it under the pillow. “I want to keep it awhile longer. Richard wrote those words and folded the paper. It is as close to him as I can be for much too long.”
Christiana wished that she had a miniature of Richard, for she found that she had difficulty remembering the exact color of his eyes. Were they as clear and blue as Lord Morgan’s and was his smile as playful? No, it was not, she knew that, but she was hard-pressed sometimes to recall it at all these days. Surely that was because their trip to London had brought with it so very many new people.
“Tell me, Joanna, how is it that he can talk so manfully of the poor food and miserable tents? He makes that sound worse than the skirmishes they have encountered.” She already had the most troubling parts memorized.
“To speak the truth, Christy, I think it would be more manly of him not to complain about the food and weather. It will make nothing but worry for those who love him.”
Christiana was barely listening. Why had he not mentioned her name once in the entire letter? He had suggested that his family share it with “friends.” Is that how he thought of her now that they were separated by a great distance and an endless war?
“As if we are not worried enough already,” she said in frustration. “How can he treat it as though he were playing with toy soldiers? How can he say that the enemy is worse off than they are? How does he know that? They could have more guns, or better transport, and perhaps they are lying in wait for them.”
Christiana began to pace the room.
“Oh, this is awful, Joanna. My nerves are making me so restless. If only it were still light, then we could go for a a walk in the park. I need some distraction, some way to forget that he is in danger and loving every moment while I am here with nothing but fear for company.”
“You have me.”
“Oh, dearest, I am very bad, am I not?” She rushed over and knelt by Joanna. “Complaining about my trials when I should be praising all the wonderful opportunities I have while we are in Town.”
“That would be everything that is admirable and entirely too noble. It is beyond human to think only of the good and not of the fearsome.” Joanna reached for the dull-tipped page knife and began cutting the pages in the novel they had purchased that afternoon.
Christiana jumped up and began pacing again, not quite wringing her hands. “Why is it that on an evening when there are no entertainments, men may go out and find their own while we must stay home and content ourselves with cards or reading or needlework?” She made a face at the last as it was her least favorite activity.
“You could ride,” Joanna suggested. “In the morning,” she added hastily.
“Of course.” Christiana stopped her restless pacing as she considered the suggestion. “That is perfect. We will be to bed early this evening and I will wake up at first light as I always do when the milkmaids call.”
Joanna’s pleased smile made Christiana laugh.
“Jo, if the front door did not creak so loudly we could sneak out and watch the carriages come and go.”
“Too childish, Christy.” But she stood up. “We can do that from your window.”
The two hurried to the window and watched.
The fanlights on the houses across the street cast patterns of light on the sidewalk and one of the oil lamps was being tended by a linkboy as a man hurried down the steps of the house next door and into a waiting carriage. The passing traffic entertained them for a few minutes, and then the street was quiet again.
Christiana turned her back on the window. “What do you think Lord Morgan Braedon is doing this evening?”
Joanna laughed. “That does not require much thought. He is gambling whilst trying to avoid his brother’s company.”
“What exactly did you and Lord Monksford talk about with Viscount Crandall?”
“The prospects for theater this Season.”
Christiana bit her lip. It was acceptable social conversation. But just once she would like Joanna to tell her that her conversation had been inconsequential or perhaps even flirtatious.
“What do you and Lord Morgan talk about?”
Christiana smiled. “We tease each other and...” Her voice trailed off as she recalled their whispered conversation that afternoon, the actual realization of their plan, and the wonderful distraction it presented to more weighty concerns. “We have a number of common interests.”
Joanna leaned against the bedpost and looked at the ceiling. “Let me see”—she paused—“you both like to dance, to flirt, and to plot.” She la
ughed. “The truth is, Christy, I suspect the two of you are connected by much more than a love of music and flirting.”
“Oh, really?” She had made them sound so shallow that she was glad to hear Joanna’s perspective.
“You both keep your deeper feelings to yourself for all your charm and friendliness. When I danced with Lord Morgan last night, I saw depth in him that I had never suspected.”
“Tell me more.” This was worth hearing. “How is it that you have seen this and I only suspect it?”
“Because, Christy, in order to win my support for your harebrained charade, he had to be frank with me. He had to convince me that he had something more than his selfish needs at heart and that he did not intend to seduce you and discard you to win some sort of wager.”
“Joanna! Did you actually accuse him of that?”
“No, of course not, Christy.” Joanna’s voice took on the soothing tones a nurse used on an irate child. “But he knew your well-being was my main concern, however he wanted to interpret it.”
“Is that why he told you about his sister? The one who died?”
“Yes,” Joanna replied thoughtfully. “They must have been very close.”
“So close that her death has changed him in some profound way.”
“Hmmm, though that sounds a trifle theatrical.” Joanna walked to the window and pulled the curtains shut and then turned back to her sister. “I think when she died he lost his closest confidante. And he has never found anyone to replace her.”
Christiana blinked. “Do you think so?” she whispered, sinking into one of the chairs near the fireplace. They were silent and Christiana wondered if she might be the confidante he must long for.
There was a scratch at the door and Sally entered. The two sisters exchanged looks and Sally held up her hands. “Now, miss, I know the night’s boring for the two of you, but I’m not wanting to be part of any trouble you are brewing.”
Christiana pulled Sally into the room and closed the door. She put her arm around the girl’s plump shoulders. “Not a bit, Sally. We were simply wondering if there was any of that delicious syllabub left from dinner.”
“No, miss, there’s none left. The housekeeper let us have it for supper. Said it would na’ keep.”
Joanna pulled out the ribbon that Sally had admired that morning. “Then perhaps the fruitcake from tea this afternoon?”
Sally eyed the ribbon and grinned. “I could bring it up to you. Everyone else is gone to bed.”
That was the critical piece of information. “No, we would not want to trouble you, Sally.” Christiana took the ribbon and tied it around the one already in the maid’s hair. “We will find it ourselves. Now you be off to bed. We will be each other’s maid this evening.”
The maid scurried from the room.
As soon as she was gone, the two tiptoed from the room and down the backstairs. When the tread squeaked they paused and waited. “It is the barest adventure to steal to the kitchen for some unauthorized fruitcake,” Christiana whispered in her sister’s ear.
Joanna nodded in agreement.
“Suppose we sneak into the library with it.”
Joanna stepped into the darkened but still warm kitchen and turned to her sister. “The library? Why?”
Christiana looked about the empty shadow-filled room as though she actually thought someone might be listening. “Have you not always wondered what brandy tastes like?”
