In short, Hanover Park was what dreams were made of.
But for Sterling, it was a nightmare. A bleak reminder of what never should have been his. A yoke around his neck that he didn’t want. A sword pointing straight at his chest that he’d just as soon run himself through with than claim what should have rightfully belonged to Sebastian. Which was why he’d turned over the estate and all the duties that accompanied it to Sir Edgar Goulding, a trusted family friend and solicitor who knew better than to plague Sterling with any issue, large or small, regarding Hanover Park unless the entire damned place was on fire…in which case, Sterling would say let it burn.
He had already invited Sarah and Lord Hamlin to live there once they were married, and treat it as if it were their own. If such a thing were possible, he would have madeherthe heir after Sebastian died. Such was his loathing of all that he’d inherited.
He despised every brick, every painting, every bloody peacock, for that matter. Should it all vanish tomorrow, he wouldn’t be sorry to see it go. In fact, he’d rejoice. Find a way to get his hands on a bottle of Glenavon Whisky and throw the biggest party thetonhad ever seen.
Unfortunately, vast estates did not generally disappear into thin air. Which meant he was stuck with Hanover Park until he keeled over, or he managed to find some distantly related male relative to bequeath it to via an act of parliament, or…or he had a son.
For some inexplicable and completely ridiculous reason, an image of Rosemary flashed in his mind. Beside her stood a little boy with her blue-gray eyes and his tousled black hair. Rosemary had that damned squirrel perched on her shoulder, the boy held a bullfrog clutched between his chubby fingers, and Sterling…Sterling was smiling.
Bemused–and a tad annoyed–he reached for his decanter of gin. But when he went to pour it into a glass, only a few drops emerged. His annoyance growing, he staggered out of his bedchamber and down the stairs in search of another source of alcoholic sustenance. By the way his stomach was growling, he needed food as well, especially since he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten.
With Rosemary here, he’d still been miserable. But at least he’d had someone to talk to. Someone to look forward to seeing. And yes, someone to kiss. With her gone, the manor was depressingly empty. He was almost tempted to travel to London. Not to follow her. He didn’tmissher. Speaking of things that were ridiculous. But he did miss his favorite gambling hells, and his study with the liquor cabinet he’d had custom made and stocked with the finest spirits money and favors could buy, and all right, maybe–maybe–he missed Rosemary the teeniest, tiniest amount.
Her smile. Her little peculiarities. The way she bit her lip if she was anxious about something. The throaty purring sound she made in the back of her throat when he stroked her nipples…
Scowling, he landed harder than necessary on the bottom step, startling a passing maid. Clutching the linens she carried more tightly against her chest, she averted her gaze and hurried past, leaving him to wonder what the staff saw when they looked at him.
He was capable of fooling his peers with a smirk and a drawling snicker. Good old Sterling. A bit rough around the edges, perhaps. But always up for a laugh and a good time. Servants, however, weren’t as easy to trick. Not when their very well-being depended on being able to read their employer’s wants and needs with pinpoint accuracy.
A crotchety old dowager might say she wanted cream in her tea…but what she really meant was honey, and God protect the poor soul who brought her what she’d asked for.
A clipped tone indicated an earl wanted to be left alone to take off his own boots, thank you very much.
A spill of raucous laughter from an ordinarily subdued debutante called for water to discreetly replace the champagne she’d been guzzling down like a damned pirate fresh off a ship.
And a duke who drank himself half to death every night and quartered himself in his room every day was neither up for a laughora good time. Rather, he was someone to be avoided. A devil to dance around, not dance with.
His friends didn’t understand that.
But the maid did.
So, too, did Rosemary. And yet she’d dared to waltz with him anyway. Which either made her very brave…or very, very foolish.
The Wallflower and the Wastrel, he thought with a bitter twist of his lips. A title that would have done the renowned author Jane Austen proud. Not that he was worthy of being a fictional hero. A villain, more like. In the world of literary characters, he wasn’t Mr. Darcy, the brooding protagonist responsible for dampening women’s undergarments for the better part of half a century. He was Mr. Wickham, a womanizing scoundrel with no moral compass who had attempted to seduce Mr. Darcy’s sister. Except he was even worse than that, because Mr. Wickham hadn’t killed his own brother.
“Your Grace.” A tall, gangly footman with thinning brown hair atop a pointed scalp approached Sterling in the middle of the foyer. “Someone is here to see you.”
Rosemarywas his first thought, and he hated that it was. Hated the boyish flutter of anticipation in his chest even more. She was thelastwoman he should have been thinking about. For both of their sakes. Best he push her from his mind, or–better yet–forget she even existed. To the most of his knowledge, their paths hadn’t crossed before the house party. There was no reason to believe they’d see each other now that it was over and she’d gone back to town to begin the Season. Their interlude had been a brief, isolated incident, never to be repeated. And why that should bring him a twinge of sorrow he hadn’t the foggiest idea.
“Is it Thomas Kincaid?” he asked, referring to the private investigator he’d hired to clear his name of wrongdoing in regards to Eloise’s murder. The two men had first met when Kincaid was a constable for Scotland Yard. Sterling owed him a debt he’d never be able to repay, as it was Kincaid who had recovered Sarah safely after she was kidnapped by highwaymen who attacked his sister’s carriage as it traveled from Hanover Park to Bath.
Since then he and Kincaid had become casual acquaintances, if not outright friends, and when Eloise had disappeared, leaving a blood-soaked room behind her and Sterling as the last person to see her alive, he knew that he was in need of Kincaid’s particular set of skills once again.
It was the detective who had recommended that he recuse himself from theton. A leave of absence, such as it were, to allow the gossip–not much of which was very complimentary–to settle before the House of Lords reconvened and decided whether or not to charge one of their own.
A trial of peers was exceedingly rare. It made a public spectacle of the nobility, and thus was only reserved for the most egregious of crimes. Dueling, bigamy, treason against the crown…and murder.
Lord James Brudenell, Earl of Cardigan, was the last to stand trial. He was found not guilty of dueling on a technicality, but his good name was forever besmirched and when he died, his estate and title were bequeathed to a second cousin, thus ensuring that the Brudenell name would never be passed on.
Sterling didn’t give a damn about his reputation, but all things being equal, he did prefer his head to beattachedto his neck. Nor did he particularly desire to rot away in Newgate for the rest of his life. Thus, he’d heeded Kincaid’s advice and had been twiddling his thumbs in the countryside while he awaited news of how the investigation was progressing.
“No, Your Grace,” said the footman, causing Sterling to frown. “It is not Mr. Kincaid.”
“Well then, who the devil is it?” he demanded.
“Me,” Sarah chirped as she sailed out of the parlor and wrapped her arms around her brother in an embrace that he was too caught off guard to return. “Your favorite sister.”
