An impressive number of guests had collected that evening, crowding in old Duke Humphrey’s library, its central hall repurposed for the evening’s entertainments. Nicholas shuddered at the thought of excited hands tearing the books from their shelves, hoping at minimum that the display rooms had been placed under lock and key.
The usual quiet of centuries-old scholarship gave way to a cacophony of voices and activity. The library was transformed from a place of study to spectacle, and it filled Nicholas with intense displeasure.
“Perhaps Oxford will not be so tiresome after all,” Samuel cried over the sounds of the crowd.
Nicholas glanced up in dismay as he and Samuel pushed through the crowd. The ceilings vaulted above, arches shining with candlelight, the flicker of suspended chandeliers dancing on the stone. His gaze swept the room.
A grand staircase, flanked on either side by statues of muses, led to a mezzanine where salivating observers leaned over the balustrades surveying the pit below. Nicholasfeltmore thansawtheir eyes settle on him and Samuel—had sensed the shift in the room once their titles had been announced.
At the far end of the hall, beneath a stained-glass window depicting a biblical scene Nicholas could not recall, stood George, adjusting his cuffs as he spoke to a collection of gentlemen, laughing at something one of them had said.
The men were dressed in their usual nightly attire, the women nearby sporting dresses that better fit the theme of the evening: a night in the European Quarter. The colorful gowns on display had evidently been selected to recall the vibrant silks of the Orient, though Nicolas felt more dizzied than impressed by the noise of garments and faces before him.
How unusual,he thought.Perhaps I have internalized this chaste act too soon. Not a female countenance in the crowd appeals to me…
“Here they are now!” George hollered, turning to introduce the brothers. “We were just talking about you,” he whispered to Nicholas as he shook his hand. “All good things, I swear it.”
Unconvinced, Nicholas bowed to the group of gentlemen. “Good evening, gentlemen.”
“His Grace, the Duke of Avon, and his brother, Viscount Whitmore,” George introduced with ease. Unlike Nicholas and Samuel, George was a paragon of gentility. “Allow me to introduce my friends, Baron Hawthorne, Mr. Bright, and Mr. De Rees,” he announced in quick succession.
Nicholas settled his gaze on theDe Rees. “Say, I know you,” he said, wagging his finger at the man and looking at Samuel for confirmation. “You were at The Pump Rooms this morning.”
The man, with his familiar golden hair, smiled genially. “Paul De Rees, Your Grace.” He bowed. “My cousin, whom you might remember from this morning, is a friend of Lord Gainsbury’s.”
“Ah, you’re that scholar!” Samuel added, evidently distracted by a group of passing women fluttering their fans at him. He blinked at George and the others. “The rest of you... I do not care to know.”
Before Nicholas could protest, Samuel left in pursuit of his admirers, disappearing into the crowd.
“Not exactly a chip off the old block,” George joked, laughing nervously. “So strange to see Samuel here again. I had not realized your brother was in town, Nicholas. Had not realized he could release himself from the shackles of London.”
“Neither had I,” Nicholas muttered, recalling the moment his brother had appeared that day—his apprehension over the arrival. “He appeared at Riverside Court this morning without so much as a letter of warning. Came with his buggy and declared he would be staying awhile for want of something better to do.”
“Such is his way,” George chuckled.
“Indeed. But I would not see him turned out.”
“Such isyourway,” George added sincerely.
Nicholassupposedthere was some sincerity to it. He and Samuel were each as bad as the other, encouraging one another down dark paths indeed. But the love he had for Samuel was incorruptible, enduring through everything that had occurred in their short lives and everything that would come.
“Two Whitmores in Oxford when usually there are none,” George noted, a little sadly. “How ever will we survive the end of the year? I expect the town to go up in flames before Christmas.”
“Is there some history I am missing?” Paul said as the group descended into laughter.
“None that is worth repeating, I assure you.” Nicholas promptly ended his interrogation, already thirsty for refreshments.
The air was stifling, and he adjusted his cravat. He was about to suggest a tour of the room when he noticed George’s attention fixed somewhere in the distance.
“Something the matter?” he asked.
George started. “What? No, nothing at all. Why?”
“He is looking for Philippa,” said Mr. Bright, or perhaps Lord Hawthorne—Nicholas had already forgotten which was which and did not care to remember. “Should Elston manage to locate her—should he find the courage tospeakwith her—the evening will prove most entertaining indeed.”
Nicholas merely said, “Ah,” and turned to see whether he could spot the young woman who had enraptured his friend. Perhaps sensing his struggle, or wanting to compound George’s embarrassment, one of the men pointed her out for Nicholas through the crowd of Oxfordshire socialites and servants.
It was only then, halfway concealed by the fronds of a palm, that Nicholas noticed a duo of women pressed up against a wall. The only one plainly visible was tall and thin—taller than George—with light blonde hair and haughty features.
