1
THEO
June 1827
Theo Caldwell threw himself into the chair in front of his father’s desk and crossed his long legs at the ankle, leaning back. His coat, breeches and boots were spattered with mud from his morning ride over Hampstead Heath, and his father’s nose wrinkled at the sight.
“Sometimes it is very difficult to believe that you are all of eight-and-twenty, Theobald,” Sir Peter said tightly. “You still conduct yourself like a schoolboy. How on earth did you manage to get so filthy?”
“I’ve been riding,” Theo said cheerfully.
“And you could not clean yourself up before attending me in my study?” His father’s tone was frosty.
“Miller said you wanted to see me right away, but if you want me to change first—” Theo made a move to rise, but Sir Peter waved him back down.
“You may as well sit, now that you’re here,” he said irritably.
Theo subsided with a shrug and watched as his father reached for the half-filled decanter that always sat on his desk.
Sir Peter glanced up at him. “Brandy?”
“No, thank you.”
“You don’t mind if I do.” It was not a question.
Sir Peter Caldwell had reportedly been a handsome fellow in his youth but these days, he was the picture of aristocratic excess. His florid complexion and ever-increasing corpulence were testament to his love of rich food, wines and spirits, while his expensively tailored clothes spoke of his weakness for new fashions. Today he sported a mustard-yellow waistcoat and dark-blue coat that he had likely only managed to get into with the assistance of a tightly-laced corset and considerable exertion on the part of his valet. His shirt points were so high they were liable to have one of his eyes out, and his cravat was tied in an impossibly complicated and bulky knot under his heavy jowls. His thick hair—his greatest vanity, even now that the original rich chestnut colour had faded to grey—had been teased into the sort of riotous disorder that was entirely inappropriate for a man of his years.
Theo watched, expressionless, as Sir Peter threw back one generous measure of brandy, poured himself another, then sat back, one meaty, bejewelled hand resting on the swell of his stomach while the other cradled his deep-bowled brandy snifter. “So,” he said, “you’re back. Where have you been these last few weeks?”
“Connelly invited me down to Devon,” Theo said, “I returned by way of Somerset. The southwest is glorious country at this time of year.” He smiled. “I don't think I spent a single day indoors.”
“Yes, you do seem to have caught the sun rather,” Sir Peter said disapprovingly. “Honestly, Theobald, anyone seeing you now would think you’re a farmer with that complexion and those awful clothes. I wish you’d take a little more pride in your appearance.”
Theo just grinned.
“In any case,” Sir Peter went on, “I’m glad you're finally back in London. It’s about time you showed your face in society again.”
“Sorry to disappoint,” Theo replied, “but I don’t plan to stay for long. I’m only back in town briefly, to attend a wedding.”
“You,” his father said, eyebrows hitching up in disbelief. “Attending a wedding?”
Theo grimaced. “Yes. I owe Piers Fletcher a favour. His cousin Oliver is getting married next week, and apparently, the guest list is looking a little… thin.”
Sir Peter looked amused at that. “Ah, yes,” he said. “Young Fletcher’s engaged to the Hewitt girl, isn’t he? I believe she’s a factory heiress?”
“Something like that,” Theo agreed, shrugging.
“We received an invitation a few weeks ago,” Sir Peter said. Smiling, he added, “Of course, we declined. The girl’s father is in trade, for God’s sake. Bad enough that one has to see such a person at ton events.” He shuddered theatrically.
Theo rolled his eyes. His father, though only a baronet himself, was as high in the instep as a royal duke. There was nothing he liked more than looking down his nose at someone he considered his inferior. And from what Piers had told Theo, he wasn’t the only one. The whole of the ton was taking great pleasure in turning its collective nose up at the wedding of Miss Cecily Hewitt and Mr. Oliver Fletcher.
“And how is your friend Piers?” Sir Peter asked then. “I thought you said he was planning on joining the army?”
Piers and Theo had boarded together at St. Dominic’s College from the age of ten, becoming firm friends after discovering a shared interest in impromptu fire-raising.
“He was,” Theo said, “but unfortunately, he can’t afford to buy his colours.”
Piers had been orphaned when he was very young and sent to live at the estate of his uncle, Sir Joseph Fletcher. His younger cousin Oliver—or Fletch, as he’d been known at St. Dominic’s—was the bridegroom at the forthcoming wedding. His bride, the daughter of a wealthy cit, would be bringing a generous and much-needed dowry to the family.
