They achieved this with little effort, and Timothy had seldom felt so relieved for the comfort of a seat and a blanket. Back at the riverbank, the same men who had helped them in also helped them out, and Timothy exchanged his blanket for a good scrubbing with the towels and a return to his great coat and boots. As he fastened the last button on his coat, he looked around, draping one of the towels overhis shoulder. “Where is Lady Elspeth?”
Luke snatched the towel back. “That is wet, fool.”
“Everything about me is wet. Where is Lady Elspeth?”
“I did not see her. I heard that she watched the competition from one of the windows in the Cake House.”
Timothy glanced at the Cake House, at the many windows that overlooked the Serpentine. Of course. The perfect place to watch the competition in a bit of privacy and peace.
Titan joined them. “We must return to Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s carriage. It will take you home. Your instructions are to reconvene at the Lyon’s Den precisely at noon.”
He walked behind them as the four men trudged to the waiting carriage. Livingstone still looked wan, and he needed help to get in. He sat heavily across from Timothy, his shoulders sagging. After a moment, he took a shuddering breath.
“Rydell. Thank you.” His scratchy, hoarse words hung in the air.
Nothing Timothy could think of seemed adequate. Or appropriate.
Luke, apparently, did not have the same qualms. “The water was far too cold for such a competition. It should not have happened.”
Timothy glared at Luke, but Livingstone actually chuckled. “I am a strong swimmer. In summer. In Brighton. My pride convinced me it would not matter.”
Timothy nodded. “Cramp?”
Livingstone ran his hand along his abdomen. “I expected my legs to cramp. Instead, it happened here, and faster than I would have believe. It hit, and I went under.”
“I have seen that happen. There is no recovery from it.”
Luke snarled again. “The water was too bloody cold.”
The carriage rolled to a stop and one of the footmen opened the door. “Mr. Livingstone.”
With a sigh, Livingstone left the carriage, glancing back once at Timothy. Then the door closed and rolled forward again.
Timothy peered at Luke, studying him, an interesting suspicion crossing his mind.
Luke noticed the stare. “What?”
“Did this frighten you?”
His brother exploded. “Fucking bloody Christ on the cross, you maniacal rotter! When I saw you go under, I almost lost my fucking mind! I almost went in after you! When you left here, you could barely stay afloat, flopping about on your back like a beached seal! What were you thinking!”
“Ah. Did I forget to tell you that Gordon taught me how to swim?”
“I will run you through with a bloody saber.”
“You just do not wish to explain to Mother how and why I drowned.”
“Also that.” Luke crossed his arms and pushed back into the corner of the cushion in a magnificent pout.
Timothy grinned. “I apologize for not telling you sooner. But we were not in the water that long.”
Luke’s eyebrows arched. “Is that a joke?”
Timothy smile vanished. “No. It did not seem—”
“More than thirty minutes.”
Timothy stared at him. “Not possible.”
