In a word, it was lifeless.
Repressing a sigh, she took the sheet from her easel and slid into a portfolio case. As she began rinsing out her brushes, she looked over to where her aunt was perusing a rare eighteenth century translation of Homer.
“I hope Justin is not beginning to associate with the wrong sort of set.”
Lady Beckworth laid aside her book and removed her glasses. “Your brother has always shown himself to be an extremely level-headed young man. Has something specific caused you concern?”
Alex hesitated. “Well, I couldn’t help but notice that he didn’t return home two nights ago. And when he did stumble in late the following morning, he looked absolutely awful.”
She shook her head “It appeared as if he hadn’t slept at all, and not only was his clothing in disarray—by the look of things, it appeared he had cast up his accounts.”
“Young men will occasionally drink more than is good for them and will spend some evenings that they would no doubt like to forget in the morning,” counseled her aunt. “Unless it becomes a habit, I wouldn’t fret over a few harmless indiscretions, or chide him about them. Let him sow a few wild oats.”
“No doubt you know best, but I can’t help but be concerned.” Alex couldn’t add that her fears for his safety had been heightened by what had occurred the night Branford had followed her. If Justin was carousing around Town at all hours, the risks would become far greater for she had no doubt that whoever the enemy was, he would strike again.
But when?
“I wish that we could all leave London and go home,” she exclaimed in frustration. “Life would be less complicated there.”
Lady Beckworth gave her a long, searching look. “Justin is no longer a child, my dear. You can’t keep him under your wing forever. Neither of you would want that.”
Alex pressed her lips together. “Yes. I know.”
Lady Beckworth let the silence stretch on for a time. Then she spoke again. “Would you care to discuss what is really troubling you?”
Alex turned and made a show of carefully arranging her painting materials beside her palette. “What do you mean?”
“I know that you think I see no farther that the squiggles on the pages three inches from my nose. But I’m not entirelyblind to the real world, nor am I completely in my dotage.” A concerned smile. “I simply haven’t wanted to pry.”
Alex’s shoulders sagged. “Oh, Aunt Aurelia, forgive me if I seem ungrateful,” she said softly, fighting back tears. “But I don’t really wish to speak about it.” She swallowed hard. “I assure you, I can deal with the matter on my own.”
“I won’t press you … but sometimes it can feel much better to share your troubles,” said Lady Beckworth. “You needn’t carry every burden by yourself”
To Alex’s relief, a knock on the door cut off the need to reply. “Come in,” she called.
The door swung open, but Justin remained in the corridor. He was wearing a freshly pressed shirt and his starched cravat was tied neatly in place, but he still looked awful, thought Alex. The haunted look in his eyes was accentuated by the bruise-dark shadows beneath them. In contrast, his face was ghostly pale.
“I won’t be here for supper,” he announced. “And I won’t be making an appearance at Lord and Lady Claridge’s rout.”
Alex and Lady Beckworth exchanged looks.
“And please don’t have anyone wait up for me. I shall let myself in by the scullery door.” Justin bobbed a quick bow. “Good evening”
The door closed softly.
Alex bit her lip. She knew to whom she would have turned to for advice—but that was, of course, impossible now.
After a moment of thought, it occurred to her that she might approach Lord Hammerton. He seemed to have taken an interest in Justin and had spoken with good sense on the dangers that might ensnare a young man new to Town.
A sigh. Perhaps she had been hasty in taking an instinctive dislike to him. After all, he did appear to be a gentleman of taste and refinement. His manners were perfectly polished … and shewas almost certain that the voice she and Justin had overheard expressing concern over Branford’s behavior had been his.
Yes, talking to Hammerton might be a good idea.
Justin mountedthe ornate marble steps of the fashionable townhouse and—after a brief hesitation to summon his courage—rapped the knocker on the door.
“Sir?” The butler looked up and down, his expression clearly conveying his opinion of those who called at such an unfashionable hour.
Pulling his calling card from his pocket, Justin handed it to the man. “Please inquire as to whether His Lordship will see me despite the hour. It’s most pressing.”
