Lady Belling's Secret (22 page)

Masters found the four of them passed out in the library right where he left them. Thomas slumped in the huge leather chair, his head thrown back, his feet propped up on the ottoman. His jacket lay on the floor with his cravat in a tumbled heap. His waistcoat was undone, as well as the top several buttons of his shirt.

Dalton had taken over the sofa, his long frame draped from one end to the other. His shoes were off, and he was stripped down to his trousers and un-tucked shirt. Both men and dogs snored loudly. Masters simply shut the door to the library, after calling the dogs to go outside, leaving both men to their slumber. The fact that it was more of an alcohol-induced unconsciousness than a real sleep didn’t matter either way.

Both men were aroused by the smell of coffee and warm bread.

“Good morning, my lords.” Masters set the tray down and walked over to the heavy drapes, pulling them wide and letting in the blasted morning sun. The groaning from both men brought a smile to the servant’s usually staid countenance.

Thomas moaned. “Masters, dear God, you’re killing me.” The pounding in his head had to be loud enough for that blasted butler to hear.

“Yes, my lord.”

“How much did we drink last night?” Dalton sat up and rubbed his face vigorously.

“I have found at least four empty bottles of brandy, my lord,” Masters confirmed. “Being fairly confident of your condition, I have brought coffee and warm bread. Fresh bread, since all the loaves from yesterday seemed to have disappeared.” Masters made a discreet little cough and then went on. “Also, the jam is fresh, but I am sorry to say that there will be no peaches this morning.”

“Ah yes,” Thomas murmured, trying not to talk too loudly. Or move too quickly. Or think too hard. “We did get a little hungry last night. I hope we didn’t leave too big a mess. You will give Cook my apologies, Masters.”

“Already done.” Apparently appeased by the obvious misery of both men and Thomas’s sufficiently repentant attitude—it never paid to anger the cook after all—Masters took pity on them. “I have taken the liberty of advising your valet of your condition, my lord. A hot bath is being drawn. I am sure you will recover greatly after a good steam.”

“You really are remarkably good to me, Masters,” Thomas admitted, thankfully.

“Yes, my lord,” Masters agreed. “Lord Dalton, can I call around a carriage for you? The Harrington carriages are quite well sprung.”

Dalton sat motionless on the sofa, cradling his head in his hands. His voice was muffled and barely audible. “That would be excellent. Thank you.”

Masters took himself from the room, leaving them to pull themselves together.

“Well, I feel like death warmed over,” Dalton moaned.

“You look like it, too,” Thomas opined.

“While you, on the other hand, look fantastic this morning,” Dalton responded dryly. “Just how do you do it?”

“You’re not going to make me laugh. If I do, I’m sure to embarrass myself and ruin this expensive rug.” Thomas dragged himself to his feet and poured himself some coffee. Once he decided it was going to stay down, he drained the cup and poured another. “So, did we figure anything out last night?” He honestly wasn’t sure what all happened the previous evening.

Dalton signaled for a cup of coffee, and while Thomas filled his mug, Dalton bent down and put his boots on, apparently setting off a whole new wave of nausea to contend with. “Ugggh,” Dalton moaned, but he did look a little better after the coffee. “What did we figure out? I was informed that Francesca loves you and not me. We determined that you love Francesca and I do not. Regardless, she is very angry with you because you are a giant ass who doesn’t know women. I think that pretty much sums it up.”

“Succinctly put. Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” Dalton tucked in his shirt, donned his jacket and shoved his cravat in the pocket.

“Did we come to a conclusion how to deal with the rest?”

Dalton peered at him with bloodshot eyes. “I’m still undecided.”

Thomas walked him to the front hall. Masters was there with the door open, and as he’d promised, a carriage was waiting.

“Is the sun always this bright?” Dalton complained and then placed his hat on his head, the stylishly narrow brim pulled as low as possible over his eyes. “White’s later?”

Thomas gently nodded in the affirmative, averting his eyes from the glare coming from the open front door.

“Well then, I’m off.”

Thomas turned around and dragged himself up the stairs to his room and the lure of a steamy bath. He may not have accomplished the end goal, but at least he wasn’t meeting the fiancé in the park at dawn with a pistol. That was something.

Somehow he’d figure out how to fix things with Francesca. He loved her. Surely that would win out.

And really? Was it always this bright in here?

Chapter Twenty-One

Thomas was undressing with the assistance of his complaining valet, Johnson. His evening clothes were beyond rumpled from having been slept in—on a sofa no less.

“Well at least I didn’t sleep in the jacket, eh, Johnson?”

“Small consolation, my lord.” Johnson looked woefully at the wad of white linen he’d just pulled from the jacket pocket. Once upon a time it had resembled a starched-white, perfectly folded cravat. “Oh, your lordship.”

Thomas eyed his man fingering the smashed folds of the material. “You’re not crying, are you?”

“No, indeed.” Johnson laid the ruined cravat across the back of a chair, but Thomas noticed a distinct glistening about the man’s eyes.

The waistcoat came next. “Dear Mary, Mother of God! Is that mustard?” Johnson picked at a yellow stain on the white silk brocade.

Absurdly, Thomas felt like he should apologize to his employee for the sorry state of his kit. The man was certainly weeping now.

“Never fear, my man. If it won’t come out, I shall let you pick out another one.” Oh for goodness’ sake, it’s not like he’d killed his dog. Speaking of dogs, where were his? Before he could inquire on the whereabouts of his animals, there was a loud commotion on the landing outside his room. Hadn’t he asked for no disturbingly loud noises? His head was splitting.

The din grew closer, and he could make out voices but not any words. He had one cuff unbuttoned and his other elbow cocked to undo the other when Christian stormed in with a sputtering butler in his wake.

“I apologize, my lord,” Masters stammered, slightly out of breath. “He just burst past me when I opened the front door.”

Thomas eyed his friend. “That’s quite all right, I’ve been expecting him.” He waved, dismissing the butler and his valet. “I can finish up myself, Johnson, while I talk with his grace.”

Christian looked ready to explode as he paced in front of the door. The manservant looked to the butler for reassurance. Masters nodded almost imperceptibly, and the two servants left the room, gently closing the door after them.

Thomas sat down in one of the leather chairs, and crossing one foot on his knee, he pulled off a boot and then a stocking. “You look ready to burst.”

Thomas kept his voice even and conversational. He knew Christian well enough to predict that his friend was operating under very thinly controlled rage. Since his end goal was to marry Francesca, he would need to win her brother back over to his side somehow, and that was going to take every bit of diplomacy and amity he had in his arsenal.

“You have a lot of explaining to do, Harrington.” Christian paced towards the fireplace.

Thomas switched legs and slid off the other boot and stocking, but he didn’t reply to Christian’s bait.

“Why are you keeping bears in your house?”

Thomas chuckled. “Not bears, dogs.”

“Whatever they are, they’re eating a Turkish rug downstairs.” As if to punctuate the point, there was a loud crash, followed by a shriek and a yelp. Both men turned their heads to face the closed door as if they would be able to see through it, down the stairs, and to the scene of the disaster.

Thomas closed his eyes and gently shook his head. “God, I wonder what that was.”

Christian whirled around to face Thomas. “I’m not here to discuss the damn dogs, Thomas.”

Thomas stood from the chair, raising to his full height and quirked an eyebrow. “That’s fine. You brought up the topic, not me.” His bare feet felt good on the soft rug. “Whatever you’re here to discuss, it will have to be in a much quieter tone of voice.”

In a softer, mocking tone, Christian asked, “Oh, are you a little hung over this morning?” He whipped open the heavy, velvet drapes by the fireplace. When Thomas groaned at the light, Christian smiled with obvious satisfaction and shouted, “Good!”

Thomas pulled his shirt off and dropped it to the floor—valet be damned. “What do you want, Christian?”

“Was I not perfectly clear when I forbid you from seeing my family?” Christian thundered.

“I remember something about that, yes.” Thomas’s pants hit the floor next to the discarded shirt. He slid his arms into the sleeves of an emerald-green dressing gown and tied the sash around his waist.

“Then what were you doing with Francesca at the opera?”

“I attended in my own box, thank you very much. I know this must come as a complete shock to you, Morewether, but your family doesn’t own the entire opera house.” Thomas strode across the room and closed the drapes Christian had thrust open.

“So you’re telling me you just happened to come across my sister while you were there?” His old friend’s voice dripped with irony.

Thomas glanced back over his shoulder and gave a noncommittal shrug.

“Well, what did you say to her? You said or did something to hurt her and anger Dalton.”

He narrowed his gaze on Christian and realized his friend didn’t know. He was grasping at straws. “What makes you think I said or did anything to overset anyone?’

Christian paced from the mantel to the opposite wall. “I heard things. I know you were there. That’s enough for me to know you caused some problem.”

“Just exactly how old do you think I am? I’m damn near thirty. I’ve led men into battle. I’ve become a bloody earl, and I’ve taken on all those responsibilities to boot. I’m not the twenty-year-old whelp who ravaged London society with you anymore. I’ve grown up.” Even though he hadn’t acted like it lately.

“I have very little evidence that’s true, but there are a few irrefutable facts.”

“Such as?” Thomas raised his eyebrows in question.

“Firstly, you love her…”

He nodded and waved Christian on. “Please continue.”

“Secondly, we all know she has a tendre for you.”

“A tasty morsel of information, to be sure.”

“Damn it, will you stop interrupting unless you have a confession to make?”

Thomas closed his mouth and leaned against the windowsill.

“Thirdly.” Christian raised his hand, clearly showing three fingers. “I know that you and Dalton don’t get on very well, and he towed Frankie, Anna and Mother out of the opera in a state of extreme agitation.”

“Dalton and I get along just fine.” Thomas thought it was a valid contribution to the conversation.

“You still have all the bruising on your face from your boxing match,” Christian sputtered. “You hate each other.”

“That’s not so. I think he’s a fine fellow.” Now—since Dalton was well on his way to no longer being a rival.

Christian snorted in disbelief. “You’re trying to tell me you had nothing to do with Dalton dragging my family out of the opera last night?”

It seemed Christian really didn’t have any idea about anything. His entire argument was conjecture, but Thomas had a few questions of his own.

“What does the gossip mill say? Surely if there is something to know, the entire
ton
is talking about it.”

Christian leveled a steely glare upon him from the other side of the room. Thomas waited patiently, a slightly condescending smile on his lips. Lord be praised. How could they have been so fortunate?

“No one knows anything, do they?” Triumph sounded in his voice. He turned on his heel and headed to the steaming bath Johnson had drawn for him.

Clearly enraged by the dismissal, Christian grabbed his arm and yanked, turning Thomas back to face him. “Damn it, Thomas, do not ignore me.”

“Christian, if you don’t know anything, and the blasted
ton
doesn’t know anything, I’m sure as hell not telling you.” Thomas continued on his way towards the bathing chamber.

“Ah, so you admit there was something,” Christian demanded, his voice growing loud again, probably due to frustration. “Did you try to force yourself on her?”

Thomas turned to face the other man. “I won’t even dignify that with a response or the punch in the nose it deserves.” He strode through the passage into the tiled room.

“Everyone knows you were in an alcove alone with her,” Christian insisted from behind him, his anger echoing in the room. “For that alone I should kill you.”

“Hmmm.” Thomas dropped his dressing gown and stepped into the steamy tub, groaning as the hot water sluiced over his skin.

Christian stood in the doorway, frustration clear on his angry face.

“If you’re so positive something happened, and that I’m the cause of it all, why haven’t you gone and asked Dalton himself?”

“He’s not been home.”

Thomas nodded knowingly. “I see.”

Christian concentrated his most fearsome scowl on Thomas, his feet and shoulders squared, his arms crossed over his chest. Thomas knew this trick from the old duke, Christian’s father. The man had used it every time he was trying to get one of the boys to crack. He would simply stare them down, not speaking a word, and waited for the pressure to get to them, and one would eventually tell him everything. Thomas laughed and laid his head back against the copper tub. He knew Christian was still there; he could hear him huff out an exasperated breath every so often.

“Dalton caught you two together, didn’t he?”

Thomas exhaled out his nose. Somehow, he hadn’t thought Christian would guess correctly. He didn’t know why. It was the logical conclusion.

“He walked in while you were all over her. You unbelievable son of a bitch.”