Four In Hand (13 page)

Even now, no one had had an accounting of what had actually taken place between Darcy and Sarah. But, knowing Darcy, his imagination had supplied a quantity of detail. He had left Delmere House at noon that day with the full intention of running his lordship to earth and demanding an explanation. He had finally found him at Manton’s Shooting Gallery, culping wafer after wafer with grim precision. One look at his friend’s face had been enough to cool his temper. He had patiently waited until Darcy, having dispatched all the wafers currently in place, had thrown the pistol down with an oath and turned
to
him.

“Don’t ask!”

So he had preserved a discreet silence on the subject and together they had rolled about town, eventually ending in Cribb’s back parlour, drinking Blue Ruin. Only then had Darcy reverted to the topic occupying both their minds. “I’m leaving town.”

“Oh?”

His lordship had run a hand through his perfectly cut golden locks, disarranging them completely, in a gesture Max had never, in all their years together, seen him use. “Going to Leicestershire. I need a holiday.”

Max had nodded enigmatically. Lord Darcy’s principal estates lay in Leicestershire and always, due to the large number of horses he raised, demanded attention. But in general, his lordship managed to run his business affairs quite comfortably from town.

“No, by God! I’ve got a better idea. I’ll go to Ireland. It’s further away.”

As Max knew, Lord Darcy’s brother resided on the family estates in Ireland. Still, he had said nothing, patiently waiting for what he had known would come.

Darcy had rolled his glass between his hands, studying the swirling liquid with apparent interest. “About Sarah.”

“Mmm?” Max had kept his own eyes firmly fixed on his glass.

“I didn’t.”

“Oh?”

“No. But I’m not entirely sure she knows what happened.” Darcy had drained his glass, using the opportunity to watch Max work this out.

Finally, comprehension had dawned. A glimmer of a smile had tugged at the corners of His Grace of Twyford’s mouth. “Oh.”

“Precisely. I thought I’d leave it in your capable hands.”

“Thank you!” Max had replied. Then he had groaned and dropped his head into his hands. “How the hell do you imagine I’m going to find out what she believes and then explain it to her if she’s wrong?” His mind had boggled at the awful idea.

“I thought you might work through Miss Twinning,” Darcy had returned, grinning for the first time that day.

Relieved to see his friend smile, even at his expense, Max had grinned back. “I’ve not been pushing the pace quite as hard as you. Miss Twinning and I have some way to go before we reach the point where such intimate discussion would be permissible.”

“Oh, well,” Darcy had sighed. “I only hope you have better luck than I.”

“Throwing in the towel?”

Darcy had shrugged. “I wish I knew.” A silence had ensued which Darcy eventually broke. “I’ve got to get away.”

“How long will you be gone?”

Another shrug. “Who knows? As long as it takes, I suppose.”

He had left Darcy packing at Hamilton House and returned to the comfort of his own home to spend a quiet evening in contemplation of his wards. Their problems should really not cause surprise. At first sight, he had known what sort of men the Twinning girls would attract. And there was no denying they responded to such men. Even Arabella seemed hellbent on tangling with rakes. Thankfully, Lizzie seemed too quiet and gentle to take the same road— three rakes in any family should certainly be enough.

Family? The thought sobered him. He sat, eyes on the flames leaping in the grate, and pondered the odd notion.

His reverie was interrupted by sounds of an arrival. He glanced at the clock and frowned. Too late for callers. What now? He reached the hall in time to see Hillshaw and a footman fussing about the door.

“Yes, it’s all right, Hillshaw, I’m not an invalid, you know!”

The voice brought Max forward. “Martin!”

The tousled brown head of Captain Martin Rotherbridge turned to greet his older brother. A winning grin spread across features essentially a more boyish version of Max’s own. “Hello, Max. I’m back, as you see. Curst Frenchies put a hole in my shoulder.”

Max’s gaze fell to the bulk of bandaging distorting the set of his brother’s coat. He clasped the hand held out to him warmly, his eyes raking the other’s face. “Come into the library. Hillshaw?”

“Yes, Your Grace. I’ll see to some food.”

When they were comfortably ensconced by the fire, Martin with a tray of cold meat by his side and a large balloon of his brother’s best brandy in his hand, Max asked his questions.

“No, you’re right,” Martin answered to one of these. “It wasn’t just the wound, though that was bad enough. They tell me that with rest it’ll come good in time.” Max waited patiently. His brother fortified himself before continuing. “No. I sold out simply because, now the action’s over, it’s deuced boring over there. We sit about and play cards half the day. And the other half, we just sit and reminisce about all the females we’ve ever had.” He grinned at his brother in a way Caroline, for one, would have recognised. “Seemed to me I was running out of anecdotes. So I decided to come home and lay in a fresh stock.”

Max returned his brother’s smile. Other than the shoulder wound, Martin was looking well. The difficult wound and slow convalescence had not succeeded in erasing the healthy glow from outdoor living which burnished his skin and, although there were lines present which had not been there before, these merely seemed to emphasize the fact that Martin Rotherbridge had seen more than twenty-five summers and was an old hand in many spheres. Max was delighted to hear he had returned to civilian life. Aside from his genuine concern for a much loved sibling, Martin was now the heir to the Dukedom of Twyford. While inheriting the Delmere holdings, with which he was well-acquainted, would have proved no difficulty to Martin, the Twyford estates were a different matter. Max eyed the long, lean frame stretched out in the chair before him and wondered where to begin. Before he had decided, Martin asked, “So how do you like being ‘Your Grace’?”

In a few pithy sentences, Max told him. He then embarked on the saga of horrors examination of hisuncle’s estate had revealed, followed by a brief description of their present circumstances. Seeing the shadow of tiredness pass across Martin’s face, he curtailed his report, saying instead, “Time for bed, stripling. You’re tired.”

Martin started, then grinned sleepily at Max’s use of his childhood tag. “What? Oh, yes. I’m afraid I’m not up to full strength yet. And we’ve been travelling since first light.”

Max’s hand at his elbow assisted him to rise from the depth of the armchair. On his feet, Martin stretched and yawned. Seen side by side, the similarity between the brothers was marked. Max was still a few inches taller and his nine years’ seniority showed in the heavier musculature of his chest and shoulders. Other than that, the differences were few—Martin’s hair was a shade lighter than Max’s dark mane and his features retained a softness Max’s lacked, but the intensely blue eyes of the Rotherbridges shone in both dark faces.

Martin turned to smile at his brother. “It’s good to be home.”

———

“Good morning. Hillshaw, isn’t it? I’m Lizzie Twinning. I’ve come to return a book to His Grace.”

Although he had only set eyes on her once before, Hillshaw remembered his master’s youngest ward perfectly. As she stepped daintily over the threshold of Delmere House, a picture in a confection of lilac muslin, he gathered his wits to murmur, “His Grace is not presently at home, miss. Perhaps his secretary, Mr. Cummings, could assist you.” Hillshaw rolled one majestic eye toward a hovering footman who immediately, if reluctantly, disappeared in the direction of the back office frequented by the Duke’s secretary.

Lizzie, allowing Hillshaw to remove her half-cape, looked doubtful. But all she said was, “Wait here for me, Hennessy. I shan’t be long.” Her maid, who had dutifully followed her in, sat primly on the edge of a chair by the wall and, under the unnerving stare of Hillshaw, lowered her round-eyed gaze to her hands.

Immediately, Mr. Joshua Cummings came hurrying forward from the dimness at the rear of the hall. “Miss Lizzie? I’m afraid His Grace has already left the house, but perhaps I may be of assistance?” Mr. Cummings was not what one might expect of a nobleman’s secretary. He was of middle age and small and round and pale, and, as Lizzie later informed her sisters, looked as if he spent his days locked away perusing dusty papers. In a sense, he did. He was a single man and, until taking his present post, had lived with his mother on the Rotherbridge estate in Surrey. His family had long been associated with the Rotherbridges and he was sincerely devoted to that family’s interests. Catching sight of the book in Lizzie’s small hand, he smiled. “Ah, I see you have brought back Lord Byron’s verses. Perhaps you’d like to read his next book? Or maybe one of Mrs. Linfield’s works would be more to your taste?”

Lizzie smiled back. On taking up residence at Twyford House, the sisters had been disappointed to find that, although extensive, the library there did not hold any of the more recent fictional works so much discussed among the
ton
. Hearing of their complaint, Max had revealed that his own library did not suffer from this deficiency and had promised to lend them any books they desired. But, rather than permit the sisters free rein in a library that also contained a number of works less suitable for their eyes, he had delegated the task of looking out the books they wanted to his secretary. Consequently, Mr. Cummings felt quite competent to deal with the matter at hand.

“If you’d care to wait in the drawing room, miss?” Hillshaw moved past her to open the door. With another dazzling smile, Lizzie handed the volume she carried to Mr. Cummings, informing him in a low voice that one of Mrs. Linfield’s novels would be quite acceptable, then turned to follow Hillshaw. As she did so, her gaze travelled past the stately butler to rest on the figure emerging from the shadow of the library door. She remained where she was, her grey-brown eyes growing rounder and rounder, as Martin Rotherbridge strolled elegantly forward.

After the best night’s sleep he had had in months, Martin had felt ready to resume normal activities but, on descending to the breakfast parlour, had discovered his brother had already left the house to call in at Tattersall’s. Suppressing the desire to pull on his coat and follow, Martin had resigned himself to awaiting Max’s return, deeming it wise to inform his brother in person that he was setting out to pick up the reins of his civilian existence before he actually did so. Knowing his friends, and their likely reaction to his reappearance among them, he was reasonably certain he would not be returning to Delmere House until the following morning. And he knew Max would worry unless he saw for himself that his younger brother was up to it. So, with a grin for his older brother’s affection, he had settled in the library to read the morning’s news sheets. But, after months of semi-invalidism, his returning health naturally gave rise to returning spirits. Waiting patiently was not easy. He had been irritably pacing the library when his sharp ears had caught the sound of a distinctly feminine voice in the hall. Intrigued, he had gone to investigate.

Setting eyes on the vision gracing his brother’s hall, Martin’s immediate thought was that Max had taken to allowing his ladybirds to call at his house. But the attitudes of Hillshaw and Cummings put paid to that idea. The sight of a maid sitting by the door confirmed his startled perception that the vision was indeed a young lady. His boredom vanishing like a cloud on a spring day, he advanced.

Martin allowed his eyes to travel, gently, so as not to startle her, over the delicious figure before him. Very nice. His smile grew. The silence around him penetrated his mind, entirely otherwise occupied. “Hillshaw, I think you’d better introduce us.”

Hillshaw almost allowed a frown to mar his impassive countenance. But he knew better than to try to avoid the unavoidable. Exchanging a glance of fellow feeling with Mr. Cummings, he obliged in sternly disapproving tones. “Captain Martin Rotherbridge, Miss Lizzie Twinning. The young lady is His Grace’s youngest ward, sir.”

With a start, Martin’s gaze, which had been locked with Lizzie’s, flew to Hillshaw’s face. “Ward?” He had not been listening too well last night when Max had been telling him of the estates, but he was sure his brother had not mentioned any wards.

With a thin smile, Hillshaw inclined his head in assent.

Lizzie, released from that mesmerising gaze, spoke up, her soft tones a dramatic contrast to the masculine voices. “Yes. My sisters and I are the Duke’s wards, you know.” She held out her hand. “How do you do? I didn’t know the Duke had a brother. I’ve only dropped by to exchange some books His Grace lent us. Mr. Cummings was going to take care of it.”

Martin took the small gloved hand held out to him and automatically bowed over it. Straightening, he moved to her side, placing her hand on his arm and holding it there. “In that case, Hillshaw’s quite right. You should wait in the drawing-room.” The relief on Hillshaw’s and Mr. Cummings’s faces evaporated at his next words. “And I’ll keep you company.”

As Martin ushered Lizzie into the drawing-room and pointedly shut the door in Hillshaw’s face, the Duke’s butler and secretary looked at each other helplessly. Then Mr. Cummings scurried away to find the required books, leaving Hillshaw to look with misgiving at the closed door of the drawing-room.

Inside, blissfully unaware of the concern she was engendering in her guardian’s servants, Lizzie smiled trustingly up at the source of that concern.

“Have you been my brother’s ward for long?” Martin asked.

“Oh, no!” said Lizzie. Then, “That is, I suppose, yes.” She looked delightfully befuddled and Martin could not suppress a smile. He guided her to the chaise and, once she had settled, took the chair opposite her so that he could keep her bewitching face in full view.

“It depends, I suppose,” said Lizzie, frowning in her effort to gather her wits, which had unaccountably scattered, “on what you’d call long. Our father died eighteen months ago, but then the other Duke—your uncle, was he not?—was our guardian. But when we came back from America, your brother had assumed the title. So then he was our guardian.”