When Julian awoke the next morning, he was in his bed at Donald’s house and the devil was playing the drums in his skull. He sat up slowly and cautiously reached for the bellpull.
The butler arrived in a matter of moments.
“I beg you, Pengree, bring me something for my head,” Julian said.
“Right away, my lord,” Pengree replied, swiveling on his heel and leaving the room.
Julian braced his hands against his temples and squeezed. God, why had he drunk so much brandy? He’d been an untried youth the last time he’d got so out of control with drink. Bad. Bad. Form.
The barest hint of a memory formed in his brain. Last night. The study. The brandy. The duchess. By God, Derek’s little dark-haired duchess had stopped by to visit him and blast it if he couldn’t remember a word that she’d said. Surely, there’d been some reason she’d come. He barely recalled trying to make out her face in the blurry haze of two bright-eyed young women who sat wavering on his sofa.
Bloody hell. It hurt to try to remember. No doubt she’d come with more excuses and lies. Or to try to tell him that Cassandra was not to blame. Rubbish, all of it. By God, he— He groaned. He’d moved his head far too quickly.
He remembered a bit about what he’d done last night, mostly ruminated about Cassie and her penchant for lying. And hadn’t she played her bloody role to perfection? Even going so far as to pretend she didn’t know he had a brother or a sister. Asking if they were close. It was sickening. Cassie knew damn well that he and Donald had never been close.
Pengree came hurrying back into the room with a concoction that Julian’s friend Devon Morgan, the Marquis of Colton, had invented years ago when they were young men about town. It was green, it was hideous, and it worked like bloody magic. Donald had used it, too, upon occasion, and his butler obviously knew the recipe. Julian took the glass from the silver tray and stared at the vile liquid. Then he downed it in one awful gulp.
He breathed deeply, trying not to choke. “Pengree?” he finally said.
The butler stopped and turned around. “Yes, my lord.”
“The Duchess of Claringdon visited me last night?”
“Yes, my lord. She was in your study for nearly a quarter hour. She asked me to check on you when she left.”
Julian rubbed his temples. “And what did you find when you checked on me?”
Pengree cleared his throat. “You were, ahem, asleep on the sofa, my lord.”
“Asleep?”
“In a manner of speaking, my lord.”
Translation, passed out. “Did she say anything to you, Pengree? Did she leave anything?”
“No, my lord. Not to my knowledge.”
Julian shook his head and then groaned again. The green stuff didn’t work quite that quickly. But he couldn’t help the feeling that he was forgetting something, something the duchess had said perhaps.
“Very well, Pengree. Thank you.”
The butler left the room without another word.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
“Please, Julian, please take me to the theater. It’s been an age since I’ve had an escort.” Daphne was damned convincing when she wanted to be, and unfortunately, Julian always found it difficult to say no to his little sister.
He glanced over at her. Daphne was nearly nineteen now and a grown woman. She had already survived her first Season. The change in her had shocked him. Not quite as much as the change in Cassandra Monroe but— No. That sort of thinking was entirely unhelpful.
“I’m pleased to hear that the Monroes were not angry with you for breaking off your arrangement with Penelope,” his mother said from her perch on a rosewood chair a few feet away from him.
Julian let out a slight laugh. “Penelope was just as eager to be rid of me as I was of her, it seems.”
“All’s well that ends well,” Daphne said with a bright smile. “Now, about the theater tonight…”
In the end, Julian agreed. Daphne seemed a bit down, not in her usual high spirits. She was sad about Donald and Rafe. Julian wanted to get her mind off her worries about them. “Very well, the theater it is.”
Daphne laughed and clapped her hands.
