Bea’s tension drained away. Curtsying, she said, “A pleasure to meet you all. And I should very much like to practice archery with you, Lady Carlisle.”
“Only if you call me Violet,” the lady said cheerfully. “I shan’t answer to anything else.”
“Sometimes she doesn’t even answer to that,” her husband said.
Violet wrinkled her nose at him; he chucked her under the chin in a gesture of casual affection.
“Before you shove a bow and arrow at my guest, Vi,” Wick said, “it has been a long journey. I’m sure Beatrice would like to get settled in first.”
“Of course. In fact, I’ll take her to her rooms. That way,”—Violet gave a Bea a conspiratorial wink—“we can gossip about you men.”
Smiling, Bea followed the lady up the stairs.
“I suppose this means we men must fend for ourselves.” Carlisle’s comment to Wick drifted up toward them. “Don’t know how we’ll manage without Violet telling us what’s what.”
His lady paused on the landing, wearing a look of mischief as she turned around.
“Boys?” she called.
“Yes, Mama?” her sons chorused.
“While you’re with Papa and Uncle Wick, might I remind you that there’s only one rule you must abide by?”
“What is the rule, Mama?” Ewan, the eldest, asked gravely.
“Don’t do anything thatIwouldn’t do,” she said.
The boys looked at each other…their eyes rounding with delight.
The Murray brothers groaned.
Bea found herself chuckling as the viscountess continued up the stairs.
* * *
As Beatrice was fatigued from the journey, Wick instructed Cook to have a tray sent up to her while he dined with Richard, Violet, and their brood. While the children of thetontypically took supper in the nursery, Violet’s middle class background made her a more involved mama than most, and Wick could tell his brother thrived in the familial closeness fostered by his viscountess.
God knew it was a far cry from their own upbringing.
With the boys present, Wick couldn’t get into the details of Beatrice’s enemy and the purpose of their return to London, but he liked catching up and hearing news of Violet’s family, the Kents, with whom she was very close. Since her brother Harry was one of Wick’s business partners, they were all family, in a way. After supper, Violet rounded up the boys and left the brothers to enjoy their cigars and spirits.
Wick led the way to his study. He’d spared no expense in having the masculine retreat done up to his exact preferences. Mahogany wood, rich tobacco leather, and burgundy rugs gave the room an inviting feel. As Richard settled into one of the deep tufted wing chairs by the fire, propping his booted feet on the footstool with a sigh of satisfaction, Wick felt a sense of pride that he could offer this hospitality to his brother.
For years, he’d taken from Richard; it was nice to give back, even in this small way.
Going to the spirits cabinet, he asked innocently, “Port or brandy?”
Richard shot him a look. “Whisky. And it had better be the Tobermary.”
It was, of course. Wick knew his brother’s lips would never touch anything but the best Scotch whisky. But just because he’d matured in some ways didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy pulling Richard’s leg now and again. It was the right of the younger brother, after all.
He poured the amber liquid into two cut-crystal glasses. He brought one to his brother, then took the adjacent wing chair. He enjoyed the companionable moment, listening to the crackle of the hearth and appreciating the smooth burn of the spirits.
“I like your Lady Beatrice,” Richard said. “Violet does as well.”
Social niceties and chit chat had never been his brother’s forte. Richard took after their papa in that way: a stoic, serious man who never saw the point in taking any route but the most direct.
“I’m glad she has your stamp of approval,” Wick said.
