“Do you know where she went?” he asked in desperation, leaning forward anxiously.
St. Clara hadn’t known of Edwards’s connection to Patty. There was more history between the two families than Edwardscould imagine. Suddenly St. Clara felt torn between his old friend and his new one. Like Pippa, Bollingbrook had always been a part of his life. He was more brother than friend, and the thought of betraying his secrets made St. Clara ill.
“I’m afraid I do not.” Bollingbrook looked around, avoiding Edwards’ penetrating gaze.
The hope on Edwards’ face dissolved into despair. “Thank you. Please let me know if there is any more information on my sister.”
Bollingbrook looked over at St. Clara, who tilted his head slightly, trying to silently plead with his friend. Ignoring his gaze, Bollingbrook looked down at St. Clara’s bruised hand.
“What happened?” he asked, nodding to St. Clara’s hand.
Looking down at the reddened skin of his knuckles, St. Clara flexed his hand, feeling pain shoot through his fingers. “Summerset.”
“You hit Summerset? Surely you jest.” He looked from St. Clara to Edwards.
“I am afraid he is not joking. I practically had to drag him out of Heartford’s library.” Edwards laughed as one of O’Brien’s lads sat a whiskey in front of Edwards and a glass of brandy in front of St. Clara.
Catching the lad’s attention, Bollingbrook held up a finger. “I’ll have a brandy.”
“Right away.” The young man, who resembled O’Brien, nodded, then rushed away.
Once they were alone, Bollingbrook turned questioning eyes to St. Clara. “Why? It’s not like you to lose control.” He paused before he leaned forward. “Was it about The Chemist?”
At the mention of Pippa’s nickname, St. Clara glared at his friend, his body coiling with rage as he braced his feet apart, trying not to pummel his friend. Instead, he took a sip of his drink and tried to ignore Bollingbrook.
“The Chemist?” Edwards chuckled. “It is a fitting name for Miss Price.”
Bollingbrook had called PippaThe Chemistsince he had filched one of St. Clara’s letters when they were boys. Now, hearing him so flippantly use a pet name that had only been between himself and Pippa left St. Clara on edge.
“It was.” Bollingbrook shook his head. “I thought you agreeing to escort Lady Florentia meant you had moved on.”
He thought he had, but he couldn’t, especially not after Summerset’s behavior. Nor when he could still feel the ghost of Pippa’s pliant body lingering around his, molding to him as if she was born to be there. He couldn’t move on, not now, not ever.
“I don’t regret it. He deserved it for his vile comments about Miss Price and my mother.” St. Clara’s fist balled up, short nails digging into his skin. He welcomed the discomfort, wishing that he could ram his fist repeatedly into Summerset’s face, but this time, he would not stop.
The lad returned with Bollingbrook’s drink, sitting it down in front of him. Taking a deep gulp, his friend slammed the glass down, his focus on St. Clara. “You cannot hit another duke just because he insulted your mother and your former childhood friend. Whom, may I remind you, you care nothing for?—”
“That is not true,” Edwards interjected, his glare heavier than St. Clara had ever seen. “He cares more for her than he admits to himself.”
“While hearing the two of you speak about me as if I weren’t sitting here is fascinating, my life is not the object of gossip.” Pinching the bridge of his nose, he tried not to show his annoyance at how his two friends were discussing his love life like they were a pair of eager mamas.
Bollingbrook threw his hands up in the air. “It is when you hold both of our lives in your hands. You will not get a better option for a wife than Lady Florentia.”
“Does this have to do with your inheritance?” Edwards asked St. Clara, drumming his fingers against his glass of whiskey.
St. Clara sighed, forgetting that there never were any secrets among society. Practically everyone knew of the conditions of his inheritance, especially since he had almost wed Julia because of it. “That and more,” he answered vaguely.
He wasn’t quite comfortable discussing his gambling debts with Edwards just yet.
Edwards sat up straighter, his dark gaze landing on St. Clara again. “I’m sorry for what Summerset said about your mother.”
“My mother’s sins are no secret.” St. Clara was more upset about Summerset’s comments about his mother, than he was willing to admit. Though it wasn’t the first time someone had spoken ill of her, it was the first time he’d ever defended her.
“She was still your mother, and for that simple reason, she deserves respect.” Edwards’ dark gaze pinned St. Clara in place.
Respect?He was ashamed to admit that he had never given his mother respect. St. Clara had shunned her like his father and the rest of society. The guilt of his actions sat heavily on his heart like a pile of igneous rocks. He had ignored her existence for years, and then the one time she had contacted him, he made no attempts to see her before her death. She died suddenly of pneumonia, and he had not seen her since he was a boy.
St. Clara surveyed Edwards. He was much calmer than anyone else he’d ever met, and wiser as well.
