Emily, climbing a tree, laughing when he’d tumbled from a branch. Her blond hair spilling over her shoulders, dry leaves tangled in the ends. The way she’d felt in his arms, so many years ago. Those memories were easy to grasp while the new ones remained veiled.
He reread the letter another time before his younger brother entered the dining room. Though they looked alike with a similar build, Quentin’s hair had a touch of auburn in it. His brother also tended to wear more flamboyant clothing, today’s selection being a bottle-green frockcoat with a tartan waistcoat and tan trousers.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” Quentin said, by way of greeting. “Mother said you’d returned.”
“Father invited me for breakfast. I suppose he’s planning another lecture. He mistakenly believes that I haven’t aged beyond the tender years of six.”
“At least you have another place to live.” Quentin’s face tightened with distaste. “You can escape whilst I am trapped here, buried alive in their disappointment.”
Stephen sensed the truth behind his brother’s words. “In other words, you have no money.”
“Not a bean.”
The last time he’d seen his brother, Quentin had been sent away to Thropshire, one of the lesser estates. When was it? He struggled to think.
January. It had been the end of January when Quentin had gone. Another piece snapped into place, granting him a brief sense of satisfaction.
“When did Father allow you to come home?” Stephen asked. Quentin’s spending habits had always been a source of contention, and the marquess had removed his youngest son from temptation’s way.
“Two days ago.” Quentin helped himself to shirred eggs garnished with mushrooms. He added a large slice of ham to the plate. “But you’re the black sheep now, aren’t you?”
“As it would seem. You heard nothing of my marriage, I take it?”
“Not a word.” Quentin sat across from him and dived into the food. “But it won’t be long before all of London knows.”
Stephen picked at his own plate, finding it difficult to concentrate. It should have been easy, sliding back into his old life here. Instead, the void of memories distracted him. So much had changed in just a few short months.
“What about Hannah? Is she still off at school?” He hadn’t seen his sixteen-year-old sister since last winter.
“She is. Mother is already plotting potential matches for her.”
The idea of any man laying hands upon his innocent sister appalled him. “Hannah isn’t old enough for that sort of thing. She hasn’t even had her first Season.”
“Our mother has great plans, don’t you know. She’s still upset that you didn’t let her mastermind your own marriage.”
Stephen grimaced at the thought.
“Is she that terrible?” Quentin teased. “Your wife?” At Stephen’s confusion, he added, “You’re looking rather glum.”
A mild way of putting it. Glum didn’t begin to describe his frustration and annoyance. Although they had been careful to keep their distance, he’d been unable to tear his gaze away from Emily.
“There is nothing wrong with my wife.” Except that he had no idea why he’d married her. In the past week, he’d spent little time at his town house, and Emily seemed to be avoiding him.
Stephen set his fork down, absently rubbing the back of his neck. The prelude to a headache edged his temples. “Were you there, the night I—“ He almost saiddisappearedbut amended it. “Left? Or were you still at Thropshire?”
Quentin poured himself a cup of tea. “I was. Mother dragged me back to London for a few days. She seemed to think you were going to announce an engagement to Miss Hereford and demanded that I be there.” His brother smirked. “You certainly destroyed Father’s plans for the next Chesterfield dynasty. When Mother mentioned your marriage at dinner last night, I thought he might need smelling salts.”
It didn’t seem to matter that Stephen had never once given any indication of interest in Miss Hereford. But both of their parents had wholeheartedly embraced the prospect of matchmaking. He pitied the poor woman for what she must have endured.
“Tell me more about what happened at Lady Carstairs’s ball,” he said, switching back to their earlier topic.
“You speak as though you don’t remember it.” Quentin’s gaze narrowed.
His brother was far too perceptive. “I don’t.” Stephen poured a fresh cup of tea, adding cream. “It’s like a cloud blocking out the past few months. I know what happened in January, and I remember waking up at Falkirk a few weeks ago. Everything in between—February, March, April, even part of May—seems to be lost. I’m trying to find out what happened.”
Quentin rubbed his beard, nodding. “I’ll do what I can to help. What do you want to know?”
“Anything.” He needed a starting place, somewhere to begin filling in the moments of the past.
