Page 6

Audrey grimaced, glancing around for another spot on the terrace to remove herself from the embarrassment of eavesdropping. But there was no other bench in the small flagged area, only neatly potted shrubs with waxy green leaves and the orderly sweep of paving stones warming in the sun.

She looked down at the bird, feeling the tremor of its heartbeat through the linen. Moving her valise and the patient together without jostling the broken wing would be nearly impossible. She could almost hear her father’s calm voice reminding her of his most cherished principle.

“The needs of the patient outweigh any other considerations.”

Sighing, Audrey shook her head. There was no help for it. Etiquette be hanged. She would remain seated and tend the bird’s wing here and now. Trauma delayed treatment, leading to further harm and slower healing. She must not fail this small creature for the sake of propriety.

Being summoned to Lord Snarling’s study always provoked a slow-burning dread in the pit of Julius’s stomach, a familiar, wrathful churn that made his teeth clench behind his polite smile. He fought the urge to twist his gold-and-emerald signet ring, knowing well his father’s sharp eyes would catch even the smallest betrayal of distress.

Instead, with the deliberate grace of a stalking jungle cat, he forced his lean frame into an insouciant sprawl on the stiff-backed chair, letting one elegantly shod foot rest casually over the other. He studied the room as much as his father—dark walnut paneling polished to a rich gleam, heavy velvet drapes framing tall windows that let in the pale London light, and a faint tang of tallow smoke lingering from the lamp on the massive oak desk.

Lord Snarling sat behind that desk in uncompromising formality. It had been nearly two decades since the man had devoted genuine attention to his son. Julius could just remember the days when his father had offered easy laughter, teaching him to ride in the park or lifting him effortlessly onto his shoulders to watch processions in the Mall. Those days were long past.

Now the Earl of Stirling was a creature of rigid habit, cool reserve, and unsparing judgment. He served the Crown with tireless dedication, both in Town and, rumor claimed, across the Channel.

“Why did you attend the Smythe ball without an invitation?”

“I wished to do so, so I did.” Julius adjusted his cuffs minutely, the pristine white linen smooth against his fingers.

“Why were you in the company of such a scoundrel?”

Julius nearly laughed aloud, biting the inside of his cheek to stop it. Abbott, a scoundrel? The man was practically a sermon in boots. Moreland’s heir was stiff with integrity, the sort of man who apologized to furniture for bumping it. Julius was, in truth, growing rather fond of the Abbotts.

Last evening had simply been an inevitable disaster, given Abbott’s frankly ridiculous personal discipline. Abstaining from women at his age! Julius’s inquiries had confirmed the poor man’s lack of dalliances. No wonder it had all ended so spectacularly.

“Abbott is a good man. He offered for Miss Smythe, did he not?”

Lord Snarling’s expression did not shift so much as tighten, the lines bracketing his mouth deepening. They were much the same height, father and son, but where Julius was all angles and lean grace, his father had the muscular solidity of a man accustomed to command. His coat fit with military precision, seams perfectly aligned over a chest that brooked no softness.

The one thing they did share was the wheat hair.

Or some of it.

Julius tugged on the short brown locks behind his ear. Lord Snarling followed the self-conscious gesture, so Julius smirked and turned it into a condescending rub to accompany the roll of his eyes.

Never display weakness.

That lesson had been drilled into him long before the man across the desk had grown too busy for lessons of any sort. Over the years, Julius had refined the art of masking his thoughts, of lacing every glance and remark with deflection and humor. He would not give his father the satisfaction of seeing uncertainty.

“I fail to comprehend what you were doing there. You have persisted in your pursuit of unsuitable females, so why attend a ball with marriageable young women?”

Julius thought about his fears for Brendan Ridley and the danger that the new baron and his wife were in. He would never admit anything so personal to Lord Snarling. Confide in his father? The same man who had so thoroughly abandoned his family to their solitary fates in the name of duty to the realm?

What of his duty to their own household?

The thought coiled and burned in his chest like a brand. This was the anger that never left him, a companion as familiar as his signet ring. Anger for what had been, for what was lost, for the warm presence of a father who no longer seemed to exist. Lord Snarling was far too occupied for such trivial matters as love or loyalty to one’s own blood.

It was why Julius valued his friends as he did. Brendan was a man of integrity who had earned that loyalty. A friend worth standing by at any cost. In a world of polished hypocrisy and mercenary alliances, his companions were the only true riches worth treasuring.

“I was bored.” Julius shrugged with a studied languor, letting the stiff wool of his coat stretch as he shifted, feigning nonchalance even as fury seethed beneath his waistcoat.

Lord Snarling’s jaw tightened, a muscle leaping in his clean-shaven cheek, eyes narrowing as he studied Julius with surgical coldness. He let the silence drag until the tick of the mantel clock was the only sound in the paneled room.

“You are willfully irresponsible,” the earl finally pronounced, his voice low and fatigued, as though even this reprimand cost more effort than Julius was worth.

“And you are sufficiently priggish for both of us,” Julius replied in a controlled tone that disguised the rage threatening to spill from every pore.

“Do you take anything seriously?”