Page 8 of Lady Daring
Well. Looking into the library, Darien saw there were at least two men left who would acknowledge him, possibly because they had him to thank for the roof over their heads. One was his old schoolmate, Peregrine Empson, at loose ends because his uncle refused to buy his colors so he could join the regiment as an officer. The other was his weedy cousin, Rutherford Bales, Rathbone’s younger brother, who had been ordained into the priesthood but had no living and no prospects.
“What! Still have your head attached, I see.” Perry slouched in an armchair next to a decanter of brandy. “Disinherited at last?”
“Not yet, though he considered it.” Darien accepted the glass Perry handed him. “He threatened to have Highcastle force Celeste to take me.”
Perry choked on his liquor. “Tenant for life? With that baggage?”
“Can’t see how she refuses me, prize that I am,” Darien drawled. “Jilting Havering, that I can understand.”
“Pestilent harpy,” Perry grunted. “Know yet whose babe she carries?”
“Not Havering’s, and it may not be mine.” Darien swept up the brandy decanter. “I’d very much like to know who else she had on the line.”
“They say the duke is threatening to send Lady Celeste to a nunnery if she won’t name the father.” Rutherford spoke from behind the afternoon paper.
“Rufie, please tell me that my valet was not responsible for that atrocity around your neck. Also, tell me how you manage to hear gossip about Celeste when you live in my library.”
Rutherford cast a self-conscious eye over his attire. “I beg your pardon. You said your servants were at my disposal. Lady Celeste is under discussion in all the coffee shops, when they’re not talking about France, that is. Or you.” He fussed with his cravat, crumpling it terribly.
“Perry, remind me when I get up to deal Rufie a facer,” Darien said. “By the by, cousin, his lordship wants me to take over Bellamy. In fact, he wants to have Lucien declared dead and have me made heir.”
Rutherford lowered his paper. A dreadful silence filled the room.
“It has been seven years, Darien,” Rutherford said finally. “It is not out of bounds for him to do so.”
Darien stared into his drink. “He could be rotting in some Hindoo hovel. He could be chained in a galley plying the coast, carrying silk and spices.” His fingers whitened around the glass. “He could be in some sultan’s prison, blinded and trapped, not knowing his own name.” They’d sent inquiry after inquiry, with no result. Perhaps it was time Darien went himself, now that the latest war in Mysore had ended.
“It’s a simple process,” Rutherford said. “A death certificate from the coroner, and it’s done.”
“Not with the estate involved.” Darien topped off his drink. “It will entail legal action. My father came to town to start hunting up support for his cause.”
Again, that terrible silence. Perry avoided Darien’s gaze. Rutherford, called by his pastoral profession, made an effort.
“Your father is concerned?—”
Darien held up a hand. “Stow it, Rufie. Perry, what’s to do this evening?”
Rutherford had suffered their family losses with dignified solemnity. He had come pious and black-garbed when they laid Horace to rest in the tomb at Bellamy. It wasn’t Rufie who lost the brother he loved, their solid, respectable Horse, whom his younger brothers led around by the nose and blamed when they were caught out in a mischief. Rufie came again to officiate when they ferried Horace’s son to the family tomb, laying that slender, laughing, mischievous boy beside his father. Rufie had his studies and the cold promise of his faith to console him.
Darien, with no such recourse, tried to escape his sorrows with travel abroad and, when that didn’t work, returned to his London townhouse and commenced drowning himself in the clubs and theaters, pleasure gardens and gaming hells, trying to obliterate the sense that he had failed his brother and his brother’s son.
Waiting for the family curse to cut him down too.
“To do tonight?” Perry yawned. “The usual, I suppose. Card party at Sharp’s, or we might take our mutton at the club and see what’s playing at the theater. Isn’t there an opera dancer you’d like to visit?” He waggled his brows.
“She’s moved on,” Darien said from the bottom of his glass. “What invitations have we gotten?”
“Your man put them there.” Perry pointed to the mantel, where a small silver tray sat next to the clock.
There were three envelopes. Darien could usually expect a mound of invitations during the height of the Season. He read them aloud. “Dinner at Grafton’s—not to be borne. Musical evening with the Snellings—hideous. And a conversazioneat Ellesmere House. Fitz must have purloined some new marbles that he wants everybody to admire.”
“Show your face in a drawing room? Are you loose in your top hatches? No—you’re out to curry favor with the marquess.” Alook of horror crossed Perry’s face. “Canhe make you marry the shrew?”
“He wants me married. That much was clear.” Darien grimaced.
“Well, find some unsuitable gel, then! Put his lordship’s nose out of joint.”
“And how is my cousin to conduct a courtship,” Rutherford asked, fumbling with his neckcloth, “when any young woman he addresses at a social function is considered ruined on the spot?”
