“It would be best if I take your guests to the drawing room or morning room, sir,” he said. “The duke and Lord Ywain arrived while you were out and are now in the library. The Earl of Whitmere is with them.”
“The drawing room, then. Please take them up and see about refreshment. I will join them after I see my brothers.”
He found Lance and Ives lounging on divans in the library, still wearing riding coats. Lord Whitmere, one of Lance’s old friends, also appeared to have been riding.
“Imagine my surprise to find these two on the road,” Whitmere said, after their greetings. “An odd bit of fate.”
Blond, robust, and athletic, Whitmere initially appeared to be the light foil to Lance’s dark presence. Unfortunately, he was not. He and Lance normally found each other during spells of recklessness. If fate had brought them together, it was not a good omen.
“I told you he would probably ride down, Gareth.” Ives flourished a gesture toward Lance. “Here he is, in all his ducal magnificence.”
“Indeed I am,” Lance drawled lazily. “Explain to Ives how I must participate in the Season, Gareth, so it is not said I hide at Merrywood due to guilt.”
“He has a good point, Ives.”
“We are in mourning. Deep mourning. Am I the only one who remembers that?”
“I’ll wear an armband, and not dance much,” Lance said.
Ives shook his head. “I would feel better about this if the last time he went out on the town we did not come within an inch of dueling to protect his good name, Gareth.”
Lance shrugged. “Should that happen again, point the man toward me. I’ll not have either of you fighting for me, when I will happily do it myself.”
“Too happily,” Ives said to Gareth, pointedly.
Gareth did not need to be alerted. The truth was Lance looked like hell. If they rode here, they had not brought their valets, and unless his valet shaved Lance, he could not be bothered shaving at all. A rough growth shadowed his lower face, making the scar appear a thin river snaking through a forest. His heavy lids might be due to drinking, or worse.
Ives’s concern said he voted for the “or worse.” Lance sometimes suffered from spells of brooding.Melancholies, their father had called them, although the word was inaccurate in many ways. Lance did not turn sad or anxious during his spells. Rather he became blissfully indifferent to almost everything and everyone around him. He also exuded a fearless indifference to life itself. Hewouldhappily duel when in such a state.
Whitmere watched Lance, forming his own conclusions. No doubt he anticipated a wonderful few weeks dwelling in hell with his old friend.
“Ives said he told you about the guests I have imposed on the household,” Gareth said.
Lance barely nodded. “A Birmingham tradesman and his wife, along with the wife’s two cousins, he said.”
“Do not worry that they will be a nuisance. You will hardly ever see them or know they are here. They are staying on the third storey, away from the public rooms and your apartments.”
“I do not care if I see them. In fact, if they are here, I should greet them. It is my home.” He sat up. “Where are they?”
“It can wait until you are presentable,” Ives said. “You look like a highwayman.”
“I choose to do it now.” He stood and peered at Gareth expectantly.
“They are in the drawing room,” Gareth said.
Up they went, with Whitmere in tow. Lance came alive with each step. That was unfortunate. Gareth had been prepared to explain later that he was ill.
One could not unexpectedly present a duke, an earl, and a lord to anyone except other peers without it garnering strong reactions. Gareth’s introductions to the disheveled, unshaved Aylesbury fell on the ears of three people who faced Lance gape-mouthed. Wesley mumbled something incoherent. Sarah and Rebecca fumbled vague curtsies. Only Eva acquitted herself well.
To make it worse, Lance decided to play the host, for reasons only he could know. He invited the ladies to sit, then he did as well. Wesley perched his ass too. Gareth remained standing, as did Ives. Ives kept sending Gareth sharp glances that said no one found this situation stranger than Lance’s own full blood brother.
Other than eliciting from Wesley the general nature of his business, Lance led them through ten minutes of the smallest of small talk. Then he stood, excused himself, and walked out. As he passed, he asked Gareth to join him again in the library. Whitmere tagged along. Ives dallied to make his own greetings before exiting.
Down below, Lance sought out the decanters and poured three whiskies. He handed one each to Gareth and Whitmere and tossed back the third.
“The young one is very lovely. A perfect gem, but also painfully innocent and far too young. She will never do.”
“No. Never,” Whitmere agreed.
