Stoke snorted, his grievance apparently not fully aired. “The chit is a knocker, no doubt about it. She’s had three perfectly suitable offers of marriage from three neighboring landowners this year alone.”
“Perhaps she doesn’t find those gentlemen perfectly suitable toher.”
Again, Stoke snorted. “I wouldn’t wish a sister on my worst enemy.”
Lady Artemis inhaled deeply and exhaled. “And Lord Branwell?”
The question was a simple one, but Dev sensed more to it—as if this were the question she’d been wanting to ask since she’d laid eyes on Stoke.
“Surely, you heard.”
The tumbler she’d been bringing to her mouth froze, mid-lift. “Heard what?”
“That my brother went off to play at being a soldier in the deep, dark heart of Africa.”
The earl’s dismissive tone rubbed Dev the wrong way. Men didn’tplay atbeing soldiers. Men didn’tplay atputting their lives in the path of bayonet and cannon shot for their country.
“I’d heard round he was in the south of Africa.” Lady Artemis’s tone was pitched to encourage more information than Stoke’s attention span appeared inclined to give.
“Returned a blasted war hero, wouldn’t you know it.” Stoke shook his head. “Typical of Bran.”
Lady Artemis’s brow crinkled. “Lord Branwell is back in England?”
A mean smile curved Stoke’s mouth with as-yet undelivered bad news. “The glorious hero nearly had his leg blown off.”
Lady Artemis’s free hand flew to her mouth on a shocked gasp.
The cruelty within Stoke’s smile remained. It was clear he bore no good will toward his brother. “End of Bran’s illustrious career. Seems His Majesty doesn’t have much use for a soldier with a gammy leg.”
“And he’s…” Her next question reached air with a struggle. “He’s well?”
“Oh, he’s as well as a man can be who can’t even ride a bloody horse. Hasn’t left the family pile in months.” He held up a finger. “Actually, that’s not true. He should be up in Yorkshire by now.”
“Yorkshire?” Surprise was writ clear upon Lady Artemis’s face. “I have an estate in Yorkshire.”
“Yeah?” Stoke couldn’t have sounded more disinterested. Again, he reached across Dev for the whiskey.
Lady Artemis, however, appeared undeterred. “What’s he doing in Yorkshire?”
“Oh, his barmy old godfather sent for him.”
Suspicion darkened Lady Artemis’s brow. “Who is his godfather?”
Stoke cleared his throat and brought himself fully upright. He must’ve thought it comical. No one smiled. “Sir Abstrupus Bottomley,” he said importantly. “You know him?”
Lady Artemis blinked. “His estate borders mine.”
“Well, there you have it. Everyone in Yorkshire knows each other,” said Stoke. “Now, if you’ll excuse me?—”
“Why would Sir Abstrupus send for Lord Branwell?”
Stoke ignored the question. “How old do you think the old geezer is, anyway?”
“Rumor puts him at ninety and a few years besides.”
“Mayhap he’s getting ready to shed his mortal coil,” Stoke offered. “Settling debts and scores and whatnot.”
A dry laugh escaped Lady Artemis. “I can assure you Sir Abstrupus has no intention of shedding his mortal coil anytime soon.”
