Stephen was disappointed. Disappointed, but not surprised. “I take it there have been no further attempts on your life, then?”
Flavion considered the question but a moment. “Well, none successful anyway,” he said before laughing at his own joke. “Not to worry about me, cousin. I’ll be sure to watch out for myself. I’m not a dandy, you know.”
The reference to a dandy reminded Stephen of the attack on Lady Kensington earlier that day.
“And what of your wife?” Stephen asked quietly with a stern tone in his voice that Flavion ought to have recognized. “What provisions have you fashioned to protecther? To protect her person as well as repair her reputation?” In his mind’s eye, he could not help but remember the sight of Lady Kensington and Chadwick, surrounded by a group of rabid aristocrats.
Flavion shrugged. “I can’t be responsible for her. She’s the one who wanted to become a countess.”
Stephen stared into his cousin’s eyes and saw… nothing.
They were empty, flat.
Utterly unconcerned.
With a heavy heart, Stephen wondered how Uncle Leo had managed to ignore this aspect of his only son. His uncle had been a good man. An honorable gentleman who had taught Stephen integrity, compassion, and fairness. Why hadn’t these traits extended to Flavion’s character?
As a boy, Flavion’s thoughtless pranks, which had exhibited a complete lack of empathy, had been casually disregarded as harmless tomfooleries and chalked up to the randiness of youth. This was no longer possible.
As a grown man,a gentleman, they were unforgivable. They were ugly and showed a complete and utter lack of character. A man did not allow his wife to be ridiculed in public. A man did not steal his cousin’s betrothed, ruin, and then abandon the girl. A man protected his own.
Stephen pulled back his arm, made a fist, and slammed it as hard as he could into his cousin’s face. It was about time, damn it.
And it felt good.
For all of ten seconds.
After pulling out a handkerchief and dabbing at his nose, Flave looked up to Stephen from the floor where he’d landed. The look in Flavion’s eyes wasn’t so empty now, nor so flat.
The expression he shot Stephen was hurt and confused. For the second time that day, Stephen found himself the object of far more attention than he would normally invite. Other chaps who had been lounging about the club now rushed over to interject themselves into the altercation.
One of the managers stepped in as well. “Listen here, gents. If you need to settle up accounts with each other, I’m going to have to insist you take yourselves off into one of the back rooms. Or perhaps better yet, on over to Gentleman Jackson’s place. But not in here.”
Neither of them spoke a word, but Stephen reached out a hand to assist Flavion to his feet. “No worries, gentlemen,” he said. “Right, Flave?”
Flavion looked at Stephen’s hand suspiciously before grasping it and allowing Stephen to pull him to his feet. “I suppose.” He brought the handkerchief up to his nose and winced.
Not only did it bleed profusely, but it bent at a slight angle now. Stephen handed his cousin another handkerchief. He was disgusted, not only with Flavion, but also with himself. This was not the way to handle disagreements. But,God damn it, Flavion had made a hash of things, hurting other people in the process. What else could Stephen do?
As they left the club, walking in the direction of Nottinghouse, Stephen broke the silence. “You do understand, don’t you, why I planted you with that facer?” What good would the punishment do if Flavion failed to comprehend why it had been dished out?
Flavion moaned slightly. “I’m displeased with you right now, Stephen. I think you’ve broken my nose!”
And a perfect nose it had been.
Stephen’s nose had been broken on more than one occasion. The cartilage would heal. It always did.
“You cannot persist with this cavalier attitude toward your wife.” He spoke firmly, reminding himself of his uncle. “You have wounded her considerably, and your actions are merely compounding the problem.”
“I don’t know if I can appear in Society tonight. Blast, Stephen! What with this bruise you’ve given me. It’s going to swell and most likely turn all shades of purple and blue.” Flavion ignored the reprimand completely. “Good Lord, whatever will Daphne think of this?”
“Damn Daphne, Flavion. Did you not hear a single word I’ve said?”
“DamnCecily anddamnyou, I say. First, my cit of a wife pushes me down the stairs, causing me excruciating pain, might I add, and now my own flesh and blood takes a most unjust swing at me.” Flavion was working himself up into a self-righteous fit. “Since you’ve returned, you’ve done nothing but harangue me about my affairs. Well, I’m not a child, Stephen! I will make my own decisions and treat my wife however I please. If you don’t approve, feel free to go back to wherever you came from. A fat lot of good you are, anyhow. If you’d been around when father died, none of this would have happened. I wouldn’t have needed Cecily’s dowry, and I could have simply married Daphne. Thanks for nothing.” And with that, he spun on his heel and marched off in the opposite direction.
Dinner at Nottinghousethat evening, although beautifully set, was strained.
The table, capable of seating twenty, featured Flavion at the head, Cecily at the foot, and Mr. Nottingham smack dab in the middle. The candelabras and floral arrangements, not to mention the distance, made conversation difficult, if not impossible.
