“I’m sorry, George.”
He gave a harsh laugh. “Is that really the best you’ve got? That’s the word from Above, is it? ‘Sorry, old chap, your life was all a bit of a blunder.’”
“No,” said Thomas sharply. “No, I was speaking as a man, as your brother. Not in any sort of official capacity. But it was still a facile excuse for an answer.”
George’s mouth twisted into a sneer. “I suppose I shock you?”
“You could never shock me, George. Should I have some coffee sent up? You seem ...”
“I seem what?”
It turned out, there was no good way to tell your brother he was inebriated past the point of self-control or circumspection. “Perhaps you aren’t ... thinking clearly?”
“Oh, I think all too clearly. At least I was doing something back then. And what am I now? Stupefied with idleness. Our father’s puppet.”
“Let me see about that coffee.”
Thomas went to the bellpull, and they waited for the summons to be answered in a silence that was not quite comfortable. Mrs. Clark slipped into the room a minute or two later. Her gaze flicked momentarily to George, and Thomas experienced the painful revelation of seeing his brother through someone else’s eyes. A man careless, spoiled, and intoxicated at eleven in the morning. But whatever Mrs. Clark might think, her composure did not falter, and she departed to see what could be done about the coffee.
Thomas had been about to say something understanding, if not reassuring—for George would not have thanked him for an attempt at consolation—but his elder brother spoke before he had properly assembled his thoughts.
“Well. She’s a fine piece, make no mistake.”
Thrown by the abrupt change in conversation, Thomas grew flustered and finally managed, “She’s been very kind.”
“Hah. I know you’re a clergyman, but you can’t say you didn’t notice.”
“Notice what?”
“Fucking hell. Did the marquess make you a eunuch as well as a priest?”
“I own,” offered Thomas uncertainly, “she is a handsome woman?”
“She’s a stunner, man. Even in that ghastly grey thing she’s wearing. Those eyes. That hair. And her body. Like iniquity made flesh.” George gave his brother another provocative look and crossed himself flamboyantly in the Catholic fashion. “Oh, forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. Or I’d very much like to.”
Accustomed to this style of baiting and not disposed to see malice in it, Thomas simply smiled, shaking his head in mock chagrin.
Evidently recognising that teasing his brother was a lost cause, George grinned. It banished the cynicism of his eyes and made him look younger. “How’s your mongrel?” he asked.
“Please don’t call him that.”
“What do you expect if you take waifs and strays off the street? What’s next, a plucky urchin? An honest doxy? People are starting to talk, you know.”
“Let them talk, if they must. I can’t imagine what they might find to say.”
“His Lordship won’t like it.”
“Perhaps he need not find out?”
George laughed without mirth. “He will. He always does. Even figured out I’m in queer street. Read me a bloody lecture, can you believe? Didn’t give me a clipped copper, mind. Says I have to cut loose the divine Lady Montague before he’ll bail me out. Miserly son of a whore.”
“How can you possibly be in debt, George?”
“I don’t know. I don’t fucking care.”
George fell silent, staring sullenly at nothing, just as Mrs. Clark entered with coffee. He roused slightly at the sight of her, but she studiously avoided his gaze and then fled. With his attention still fixed speculatively on the spot she had last occupied, he went on, “Maybe I will do what he wants. Lady M’s a bore, anyway.”
“Then why must you”—Thomas folded and unfolded his hands—“consort with her?”
