“There!” He followed Baron’s fingers.
The small church was perched on the side of the mountain. Carriages and horses were crammed on the only flat piece of land before it. Grooms and drivers stood holding horses’ heads.
Ash refused to give in to the need to run, to leave here and this part of his life in the past where he’d once relegated it. But he owed his brother this at least. The truth. Anything else, he doubted would come his way. But he needed to know his blood was well. Healthy and whole.
“At least you look presentable, although your hair needs cutting,” Baron said.
“My hair does not need cutting, and I’m dressed in these clothes because you made me.” Ash looked down the legs of his breeches to his polished boots. His jacket felt too tight, his necktie choking him. The overcoat came to his ankles and was at least warm.
“You cannot meet your cousin the duke and your brother looking like you’ve just rolled off a ship and straight into horse manure!” Baron snapped.
“I rarely smell of horse manure, and I notice you can dress as you please?”
Baron wore comfortable buckskins and a double-breasted coat with a thick woolen scarf wrapped multiple times around his neck. His dark hair was still long and tied in a piece of leather, and on his head was a snug fitted cap he’d got from a lady who was selling them upon their arrival in London.
“Stop your whining and get off,” Baron said as they stopped. He waved for him to hand over his reins. “Now speak as you were raised to and remember your manners.”
Ash sometimes thought Baron paid more respect to his lineage than he did.
He dismounted and did as his friend asked. The church sat near the edge, overlooking the water below as it had for hundreds of years. Ravens had been wed and buried here. Sunlight touched the weathered honey-colored stone.
“Try not to scowl.”
“I always scowl; it is my natural facial expression. Especially when faced with idiots, of which I assure you there are many among the aristocracy.”
“And you know this how? To the best of my knowledge you have never walked in English society, and avoided it in America.”
“Why do I put up with you?”
Baron smiled, his white teeth flashing in his weathered black face. “Because no one else will have you. All will go well, Ash.”
“I would rather face down a room full of cutthroats and pirates.”
“You will come out of that church raw but not bloodied from the encounter. A far better proposition, surely?”
“Don’t put up with anything from anyone,” Ash muttered, fully aware of how those that saw themselves as better than Baron would treat him. “I will allow no one to insult you.”
“I can take care of myself. Fret not.”
“I have never fretted a day in my life.”
“I know that you are attempting to delay what must be done, Ash. Go.”
He shot his friend another look, then exhaled slowly and walked toward the church. He felt the drivers and footmen watching him but said nothing to them. Ash didn’t talk unless absolutely necessary. It wasn’t that they were beneath him; it was that he never talked idly just for the sake of it. Pleasantries he had been raised on had long since disappeared from his vocabulary.
His boots hit the stone floor of the entrance. Reaching for the door, he pushed it open slightly and listened. He wasn’t entering if there was silence. Ash may want this done with, but he planned to slip into a back pew and watch until the service was over. Hopefully get a glimpse of his brother, to prepare himself before they spoke.
He heard the shriek of a child and then laughter, so Ash opened the door slowly. Slipping inside, he shut it behind him quietly. Music greeted him as the congregation began to sing, and he looked to the altar. Sunlight filtered in through the stained-glass window at the rear of the building and down on the two people kneeling there.
Gus.
He would know his brother anywhere. That thick sable hair and those broad shoulders.
He was getting married.
Stumbling to the right, he fell into the last pew.
“’Ere, that’s my skirt you’re on.” The woman shuffled sideways, tugging the material.
