Page 55 of The Lawrence Browne Affair
“I suppose one of you will tell me where to find the stables?” Even through the falling snow, the man’s sneer was visible. “Assuming there are stables, and I’m not meant to leave my horse tied to a tree in the middle of a blizzard.”
Simon gave a small gasp and squeezed Georgie’s hand. “Uncle Courtenay!” he squealed. “You’ve come!”
“Courtenay iswhere?” Lawrence bellowed, causing the housemaid to take a step back. He had never seen her before in his life, this neatly dressed servant who had the temerity to knock on his study door and announce that the kingdom’s greatest reprobate was here at Penkellis.
“In the blue room, my lord. Mr. Turner ordered that he be put there until better accommodations could be sorted out.”
“Better accommodations—like hell he is.” The last Lawrence had heard, Isabella’s wastrel brother was in Constantinople, where he had fled his creditors. Even the Antipodes would have been a good deal too close, as far as Lawrence cared. “He’s not staying another minute under this roof.” Courtenay had always been a blackguard, an infamous scoundrel, for as long as Lawrence could remember. Christ, he had been friends with Percy, which would have been bad enough—birds of a feather, and so forth. But where Percy had contented himself with duels, drunkenness, and domestic cruelty, Courtenay dabbled in political radicalism, overt sedition, and orgies of depravity.
Lawrence brushed past the servant and made for the blue room, his heavy steps causing the candle flames to dance in their sconces. The blue room, his arse. Georgie had given up his own room? Infuriating. To be sure, Georgie had no need of his own room—he had spent the last two nights in Lawrence’s bed, and Lawrence had no intention of letting his lover sleep anywhere else. But for Georgie to give up his claim to a bedchamber, and for the comfort of such a one as Courtenay, offended sensibilities Lawrence hadn’t even known he had. Courtenay could go to the local inn or bed down in a cow shed, for all he cared.
He absolutely ought not to be anywhere near Lady Standish or her prig of a brother, certainly not even in the same county as Simon.
The blue room, however, was empty, its door standing ajar, with no trace of either Georgie’s or Courtenay’s belongings within. Lawrence strode downstairs, taking them two at a time. He was dimly aware of footmen and housemaids scattering as he approached, but he paid them no mind. Never had he cared less how many strangers were present in his house, how much noise they made, and whether they interfered with his work. His only concern was finding Courtenay and throwing him into the nearest snowdrift.
“I was expecting a shambles, dear Laurie.” The voice was cold, urbane, and tinged with a vaguely foreign accent.
Lawrence spun on his heel to find Courtenay himself leaning against a pillar in the great hall.
“Don’t call me that,” Lawrence spat, as if forms of address could possibly matter in these circumstances. But Courtenay had always taken a patronizing, elder-brotherly air, and Lawrence would be damned if he’d allow it under his own roof.
“Of course, you’re Radnor now.” As Courtenay spoke, he emerged from the shadows. “I dare say you hardly remember me,” he drawled.
“Go to hell, Courtenay.” The bastard had to know perfectly well how notorious he was.
“So youdoremember me.” A cruel smile twisted Courtenay’s lips. “How flattering.”
“Get out of my house,” Lawrence ground out.
“No shelter for a weary traveler? That’s not quite in keeping with the spirit of the season, I fear. And to think, I came all this way to make sure my nephew was in good hands.”
Lawrence snorted. “Since when do you give a damn about Simon? Or anything but your own pleasure?”
“I could ask you the same thing, now, couldn’t I? For how many years have you been living like a hermit in a ruin of a house? When my idiot sister wrote that Simon was to come here for his holiday because her own brats were breaking out in measles, I half expected to find him alone among the rocks and the sheep or whatever it is you have in Cornwall.”
Lawrence narrowed his eyes. How did Courtenay know anything about his house or his habits? He raised an eyebrow. “You can see for yourself that the house is perfectly habitable.” He had never been so grateful for Georgie’s machinations. “And I have guests in the parlor this very moment, so if you’ll excuse me.” He gave a slight, insignificant bow. “Oh,” he said over his shoulder, “you’ll find that the Fiddling Fox in the village offers acceptable lodgings.”
“Have you grown too respectable for your old friends, Lawrence?”
There was something about the man’s tone that made Lawrence halt and turn around. “We never were friends,” he ground out.
“A pity, that. But I’m the only friend Simon has, let’s not forget.”
“How dare you—”
“Enough.” The facetious drawl was quite gone from Courtenay’s voice now, replaced by something that in a less despicable man might be called earnestness. “I know he’s never been here before. I know he’s never had so much as a letter from you.” They both knew Lawrence couldn’t deny it. “And now you’ve taken a fancy to acknowledging him. That’s all well and good. But when I found out that my daft sister had sent Simon toyou, I traveled night and day to get here.”
Lawrence reeled at this information. “You traveled—why?”
“Because until an hour ago I was under the impression that Penkellis was no better than a lunatic asylum, and you no better than a bedlamite. I have to say I’m delighted to be wrong so I can get out of here as soon as the weather permits. I wasn’t looking forward to having to throw my nephew over my saddle and take him back to France. My mode of living doesn’t quite accommodate children, as you know.”
Before Lawrence could contemplate why Courtenay knew anything about the goings on at Penkellis, the parlor door opened and Julian Medlock stepped out.
“Radnor, I hate to be a pest, but the tea is quite cold. Good God, is that—” He put his quizzing glass up to his eye. “Heavens above, it’s Lord Courtenay.” He took a step back as if there were a live tiger in the hall. “Eleanor, stay where you are. Don’t come out.”
Lady Standish promptly appeared by her brother’s side. “I should think Lord Courtenay has better things to do than interfere with middle-aged matrons, Julian.”
Courtenay didn’t even look in their direction. “Simon and your secretary are in the kitchens, drying off your dog. I mention that in case you were wondering whether I’d murdered and disemboweled them, all for want of better amusement.”
