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He smiled briefly, his eyes glinting with confusion and something gentler. “I value that, Miss Trent,” he said, offering his hand as the cotillion began. “More than I can say.”

She hesitated only a breath, then placed her hand in his — her acceptance a promise that all she had said, she meant to keep.

CHAPTER 13

Julian did his utmost not to shift on his feet as he waited for the butler to return from announcing them. Calling on Lord and Lady Wexford had not been his own notion, but on hearing of the previous evening, Brookmire had all but insisted they come at once. After the coldness the lady had shown him, Julian was far from certain they would even be admitted. But, as his brother said, they had to try. Lady Wexford plainly knew something of their father in relation to Miss Trent’s family — something that lay as a black mark upon their name.

“Do you think we are to be turned away?” Brookmire asked from the corner of his mouth. “Sent back to our carriage in disgrace?”

Julian shot him a glance and caught the rueful edge of his brother’s smile. “I cannot say.” They had no real claim to call, being not even properly introduced. “Let us pray that, whatever our father did, they will at least consent to speak with us.”

The butler’s footsteps brought him to attention.

“To the drawing room, my lords,” the man said, gesturing. “This way, if you please.”

Relieved, Julian surrendered his hat and gloves and followed him down the hall. Lady Wexford was standing as they entered, no sign of her husband. She inclined her head a fraction, her spine straight, her eyes moving slowly over Julian and then Brookmire, as if she were judging the quality of goods set before her.

“Lord Carrington.” She lifted a brow. “And your brother, I presume, given how alike you are.”

“Viscount Brookmire.” Brookmire bowed low, keeping the warmth in his voice. “A most unexpected visit, I know, and we not even introduced. We thank you for receiving us.”

A short silence stretched thin. Julian swallowed and pressed his lips flat. The clock ticked on, over-loud, and he noted that Lady Wexford had not asked them to sit. Perhaps this was to be the briefest of visits.

“We come without an introduction, as my brother says,” Julian began, choosing to break the silence and speak plainly while they had the chance. “Nor do we come merely for the pleasure of one. We — ”

“You come to speak of your father.”

Julian paused, then nodded. Lady Wexford’s eyes glinted, and she opened her mouth — only for the door behind them to open and a gentleman with a thick gray beard and quiet, sharp eyes to step in. He came toward them without hesitation, looking them over as keenly as his wife had done.

“Ah.” He tilted his head at Julian. “Lord Carrington, I presume. You favor your mother.” He turned to Brookmire. “And you, Brookmire. You will not remember us, but I have seen you in London now and then these last few years.”

Julian bowed, his heart quickening. “I have not had the pleasure of a proper introduction, Lord Wexford. Forgive our intrusion.” He looked again to the lady. “After we spoke last evening, I found I could not rest for wishing to know why my company should give such displeasure. I speak plainly, I know. But the confusion troubles me greatly.”

Lord Wexford made a low sound in his throat and looked to his wife, who only lifted her chin and ignored him. “You are truly unaware of your father’s connection to Lord Tyne?”

Julian’s heart leapt at the name of Miss Trent’s father. “Truly.”

Lady Wexford’s lips pursed, as if weighing whether he spoke the truth.

“Please, do sit, gentlemen.” Lord Wexford, a weariness in his voice, waved them to chairs. “My dear, there is no call for animosity. They know nothing of it.”

“So long as we believe them,” Julian heard her say as she sat. “I am surprised it was never spoken of in their growing years.”

Disliking being discussed as if absent, Julian perched forward on the edge of his chair. “I assure you, I am wholly perplexed by the notion that Miss Trent and I ought to have no connection. Pray, Lady Wexford — if you will tell me what my father did to set such hostility between our families, I would be grateful.”

The lady drew a long breath, her eyes still on him, then gave a small shrug and looked to her husband. “We knew your father when you were very young,” she said, her tone softer now. “We knew Lord Tyne too, for we lived near him, and he was always good to the local gentry. Your father and Lord Tyne were friends. Your father came to visit often — though he brought you only once, as I recall.”

“More than friends, my dear,” Lord Wexford put in. “They were near to brothers.”

Julian blinked, astonishment spreading through his chest. He turned and found Brookmire’s mouth a little ajar.

“They first met at Eton,” Lord Wexford went on. “Became the dearest of friends, and this from your father’s own lips, Lord Carrington.” He narrowed his eyes a fraction. “You will understand our astonishment, then, when Lord Tyne fell into difficulty, through no fault of his own, and your father turned his back on him entirely. As though he no longer knew the man. As though they had been strangers all along.”

Something heavy slammed into Julian’s heart and dropped into his stomach.

“Lord Tyne would never have asked him for anything,” Lady Wexford said. “But he did expect his friendship to hold. Your father was a wealthy man, forever bent on increasing his fortune and his standing. It seemed to me he would not part with a single coin for a friend in need.”

“We all assumed he would offer Tyne assistance — a loan, at the least,” Lord Wexford said. “Every soul in society knew of his wealth, his prosperous lands, his prudent investments. It seemed only right he would come to the aid of a man with two daughters to provide for.”