Mark straightened a bit. “Boxing. Truthfully. But also a row in a pub. Another in the Rookeries.”
“Did they rob you?”
Mark hesitated, then nodded. “I gave it to them, poor buggers. I was trying to find out—they told me—” No. He could not tell his brother that part of it. Not yet. “There were others—they had no idea what they had taken on.”
“A drunken soldier with no will to live?”
“Something like that.”
A knock on the door silenced them both. Then Matthew called out. “Please leave us!”
Stephens, their butler, called back. “Your Grace, a Bow Street Runner is here. He insists on speaking with Lord Mark.”
Matthew cut his gaze toward Mark. “Are you sure it was just a row in a pub?”
Mark straightened and took a deep breath. “I believe so. At least I do not think I killed anyone.”
Matthew shook his head. “Mother may be right about you.”
Mark finally found his smirk. “Heaven forfend.”
His brother crossed the study, then unlocked and opened the door. “Bring the man up.”
As the butler’s footsteps faded, Mark leaned against the back of his chair, squeezing his eyes tight, then reaching for his brandy.
“When he is gone, you should go to bed.”
“I do not think—”
“I want Dr. Oakley to look at you. Make sure nothing is bruised or broken that you do not know about.”
Mark took a long breath, wincing again. “Trust me. I know about them all. Mostly bruises, although a couple of ribs may be cracked.”
“And will need wrapping.”
“Howe can—”
Stephens appeared in the doorframe, holding the brim of a soiled bowler with two fingers. “Mr. Jeremy Smith.” He stepped back and a tall man moved into the room. His blond hair, which needed a good washing, had been mauled by the bowler, but his rough woolen suit and waistcoat appeared clean and well-made, if plain and on the shabby side. He nodded at Matthew. “Lord Mark Rydell.”
Mark stepped from behind his brother before Matthew could take offense. “I am Lord Mark Rydell. This is my brother, Matthew, Sixth Duke of Embleton.”
Smith executed a short bow toward Matthew, although his gaze remained on Mark. “Apologies, Your Grace.” He straightened, his blue eyes narrowing a bit. “Rough night, my lord?”
Matthew gave a low growl. “That should be none of your concern. State your business.”
Smith’s focus remained on Mark, his face impassive. “I am afraid, Your Grace, Lord Mark’s overnight activities may be a part of that business.”
Mark remained silent, an uncomfortable twist growing in his gut. Some of the men he had battled had left the worst for wear, but surely they had not—
“How so?” Matthew’s voice remained calm, but the gravel in it told Mark that he too had become worried.
Smith took a slip of paper and a rough pencil from his pocket. He unfolded the paper and glanced down at the writing. “Lord Mark, do you own a property in Bloomsbury? Near Russell Square?” He gave the house number as well.
That twist in his gut tightened as Mark fought the urge to look at Matthew. “I do.”
“Is that your primary residence?”
Mark swallowed. “No. I live here.”
