Luke paused, his brows furrowed as he studied the pavement a moment.
“What bothers you?”
Luke shook his head, then looked up again. “Rumors about the coronation. Just rumors. You know our new king never avoids a drama if he can stir one up. You might ask Matthew when you get the chance. He would have better insight, since he hears more in Parliament. Shall we go in?”
“I think it’s inevitable.”
Timothy matched his stride to Luke’s slower limp as they crossed the street. “Does it still cause you pain?”
Luke’s expression turned distant, and Timothy wondered if he were dwelling on the moment of the injury, that time on the field of Waterloo before the tide had turned in the allies’ favor.
His brother shrugged. “Sometimes in the winter.” He lifted the cane. “Otherwise it is a mere nuisance.”
Timothy nodded and reached for the door’s knocker. All three of his older brothers—Matthew, Mark, and Luke—had served with Wellington. All three had been forever changed. And none wished to openly discuss their time on the continent. Matthew buried his troubles in his responsibilities as duke. Mark in his management of his wife’s estate. Luke in his faith, and he had seemed destined for a vicarage until a woman from his past had appeared, bringing with her enough drama to keep the entire family occupied. Twelve years Timothy’s senior, Luke had lived an entire and tumultuous lifetime by the time Timothy had boarded that mail boat six years ago. He deserved some peace in his life.
The front door swung open, and the family’s butler, Stephens, greeted the two men with a nod. “Good afternoon, my lords.” He stepped aside as they entered, accepting Mark’s great coat and both men’s hats. “Lady Embleton is in the drawing room, awaiting your arrival.”
Timothy took a deep breath. “So, shall we enter the lion’s den?”
Luke chuckled and held out his hand. “Lead on.”
Chapter Three
Saturday, 15 April 1820
Embleton House
Half past noon
“You both needto see a barber. Today, if at all possible. Luke, your style is appalling, and this”—she gestured at Timothy’s queue—“whatever that is... is...ghastly. You also need to shave. You cannot possibly think to attend any social event looking so slovenly.”
Many things had indeed changed in six years. Some, however, had not. Lady Embleton, Phyllida, dowager duchess of Embleton, had eased into her late sixties with style and fortitude. She had set aside the colors of mourning she had worn long after her husband’s death and now sported the brighter colors allowed by theton’s fashions. Today’s red linen gown, with its shorter skirt for walking and frills along the sleeves and neckline, insured she would be the center of any room—or park. With her posture still ramrod straight and her graying blonde hair coiffed to perfection, her presence dominated, no matter the setting.
Timothy bowed slightly. “I am pleased to see youas well, Mother.”
Phyllida’s cheeks reddened a bit. “Oh, posh.” She held out an arm. “Then spare me a kiss.” As they embraced, she cleared her throat. “If I had not greeted you so, you would have thought me mad.”
Luke chuckled. “Or at least ill.”
“Thank God I am neither.” She motioned toward the matching wingbacks in front of the fire. “Sit down and tell me about your business in London, and I will tell you which events we will be attending so you can work around them. But first tell me how Gordon and Ella are.”
Timothy reached into his coat and pulled out a thick and sealed letter packet. “They are well, parents of two stout sons. They have homes in Boston, New York, and Charleston.” He presented the packet to her. “Ella sent this, since she did not trust me to get all the important details correct.”
Phyllida took the packet and placed it on an accent table near the settee. “Wise woman. I shall enjoy it later at my leisure. Now. Do sit.”
Timothy waited until Phyllida had settled on the settee, then sat in a wingback opposite. Luke, unbidden, went to a table next to the door and poured two glasses of whisky from a decanter on a silver tray. Timothy accepted one with a look of gratitude as Luke eased down in the other wingback, stretching his left leg in front of him.
Phyllida watched each motion with an amused expression. “Early for liquor. Am I that intimidating?”
Luke took a sip of his drink, then saluted her with the glass. “Yes.”
Timothy leaned back in his chair, trying to ignore the twist in his gut. “Your letters have been rather insistent... almost threatening... which puzzled me. The Embleton lineage is secure. My brothers have all married and produced a passel of sons. There are more than a dozen males between me and the title—”
“Almost two dozen,” interjected Luke.
Timothy cleared his throat and shifted uneasily in his chair. “Which means there is no reason for me to produce an heir. So whythe implied threats of ruination if I do not marry? You made it sound as if I am on the very precipice of bringing abject disgrace upon the entire family.”
Phyllida remained still for several minutes, lips pursed, her eyes roaming over every inch of his body. Finally, she glanced at Luke, then focused resolutely on Timothy. “When you were younger, you were rather gregarious, bounding about town as if you had no cares in the world. You left abruptly, leaving any number of disappointed women and more than one shade of scandal.”
