Page 17

Sixteen

40 BLOOMSBURY ST, LONDON - JUNE 30, 1816

TOM

The fervency with which I was avoiding Hugh was truly impressive.

It used to be a regular event—avoiding one or the other of my brothers. But not like this.

I hadn’t left my apartments in days, instead pacing, drinking—tea and whiskey in equal measure—trying and failing to read, and reliving the life-changing moment when Alexander Hasket, Duke of Rosehill’s lips met mine. And cringing when I reached the end of that memory and Hugh’s shocked, horrified voice washed over me like frozen rain.

How was it possible to have your greatest wish and your worst nightmare wrapped into one shining, rotting memory?

The kiss—it had been the culmination of weeks, months, years of moments between Xander and me, coincidental and contrived. And it had been everything I’d ever wanted. It was heart and heat, sweet and sensual, raw and restrained. And Hugh, stodgy, proper Hugh, destroyed it.

After he’d ordered me inside with all the lofty, formidable viscount he could infuse in his tone, I slipped out of Grayson House and into the night.

No word of a duel between an imperious viscount and an unlikely duke appeared in the papers—so at least their conversation hadn’t come to blows. And Mother hadn’t seen fit to grace my humble abode with her presence—presumably he hadn’t told her either. Perhaps Hugh was content to never see me again. Or more likely he had reverted to his former problem-solving method which involved ignoring the problem until it resolved itself or exploded in his face.

I hadn’t bothered with the grey curtains that morning, or any of the others. Daylight peered in around the edges, threatening me. Last evening’s drink left me bottle weary and I doubted today would be the day I braved the curtains.

The collection of empty tumblers and teacups on my table was beginning to disgust even me, though I still left one or two unused—perfect for at least another day or two.

As the second son of an impoverished viscount, I didn’t employ a valet, and my maid had been caring for an unwell mother for some weeks. She’d likely quit when she returned and saw the state of the place.

The chamber pot was calling me but the thought of moving was exhausting. Instead, I watched the light spilling in from above the curtain spread in an ever-lengthening semi-circle across the ceiling.

My bedding was unmade and smelled of sweat and whiskey, and the scent wasn’t improving my stomach. Tea would help, but I’d have to make it first—and that was an unappealing thought.

With a sigh that would have been performative if I had an audience, I rolled to my side and curled my knees up. There, on my bedside table, lay a metallic snuffbox—the one I’d stolen from the Duchess of Sutton like a desperate child because Xander’s fingers brushed mine when he handed it to me on Hugh’s wedding day.

With the curtains drawn, the light couldn’t reach it, didn’t caress the delicate facets sending fractals dancing around the room. That, more than anything, had me considering the curtains with more seriousness.

Before I had worked up the will to move, a heavy knock in the entry rattled the door in its frame and my stomach dropped.

I rolled over, silent, desperately praying Hugh would assume I was away, but another few pounds sounded from the hall.

“Tom, open up!” a masculine—distinctly not Hugh—voice called. I was all astonishment when I placed the voice of Kit.

Kit and I got along well enough at family dinners, but we weren’t what anyone would consider close—certainly not visiting each other’s homes close. Which meant one thing. Kate had sent him.

It was an interesting strategy, I had to give her that.

“I know you’re in there—I can smell you from here.”

With a sigh, I rolled to seated, grabbed a shirt from the end of the bed and gave it a tentative sniff—damn. He probably wasn’t lying.

I dug a fresh-ish one from the wardrobe and tugged it over my head before padding to the hall barefoot.

“What?” I demanded as I yanked the door open.

“Christ…” His gaze flitted up and down my sad form.

“That bad?”

He nodded. “And worse, I have to admit to Kate that she was right to be worried. Do you know how insufferable she is when she’s right?”

“She’s only insufferable to you. She’s sweet to everyone else.” I turned and trod back down the hall, leaving him to follow.

“Precisely… Did something die in here?” he asked when we reached the dining area where the majority of my cups were perilously piled.

“Tragically, no.”

He hummed thoughtfully before beginning to collect the glasses in the crook of his arm.

“Leave that.”

“Absolutely not. Katie would have my head if I left it like this. And don’t bother glowering at me, you’re not nearly as terrifying as my baby sister. Go—wash up, get dressed. I’ll manage this.”

“Why?”

“I shoved Will off on his honeymoon and I need an extra set of hands at the offices,” he explained.

“Don’t you have clerks for that?”

“Astonishingly, a few of them quit when their office nearly burnt to the ground.” It was a shock when someone attacked Will Hart outside of his offices and set them alight. Though Will’s injuries were relatively minor and no one else save the perpetrators were injured, I could understand the reluctance to work out of a half-ash office.

“No one has any work ethic these days…” I quipped.

“I know, such an inconvenience. Don’t think you’re distracting me—get dressed.”

I sighed, then wandered off to my bedroom and left him to my beverage receptacle collection. By the time I returned, he had them in an orderly stack by the sink for the maid.

“I’ll see if Katie can spare anyone for a day or two—you cannot live like this,” Kit muttered, eyeing a teacup warily before perching it atop the rubbish pile.

“It doesn’t bother me.”

“Well it should.” He finally glanced up at me, now mildly more presentable after a few moments at the wash basin and a pair of fresh breeches.

“Why are you here, Kit?” I pressed.

“I told you, Katie sent me.”

“But why?”

“I don’t know. Didn’t ask.”

“You just came all the way over here on your sister’s instruction with no further questions?”

He shot me a look. “You’re family—even if it’s by way of your arse of a brother.”

“But—”

His head tipped toward the hall, and as I started down it, his hands made a shooing motion, urging me along. “This is what you do for family. I know yours hasn’t been strictly… functional. But I promise, Katie and Lizzie have both done this for me a time or two. And Will as well. Now, come make yourself useful. I’ll buy you one of those little cake things from Hudson’s on the way.”

“I prefer the tarts,” I explained as we spilled onto the street and turned toward his law offices.

“Blasphemy!”

“Do you— Does Kate know— Did Hugh tell— I don’t even know what I’m trying to ask.”

“I gathered that,” he replied, a sardonic note in his voice. “And probably—Kate always knows everything. But she was only worried after you—nothing else.”

I turned to meet his gaze, trepidation slowing my steps. “You sound as though you know something.”

His lips pressed in tight together, as though he were biting them shut from the inside. “I know nothing, and even if I did, it wouldn’t change a thing, Tom. You’re still by far the most acceptable of Katie’s relations—save Jules, of course.” He clapped me on the shoulder and squeezed before shoving me forward along the pavement.

“Of course,” I agreed, quietly considering the implications of his words. “More acceptable than Michael?”

Kit shrugged, considering. “Yes, but do not tell him. His club is our biggest client by far.”

“To the grave,” I agreed.

He nodded. “To the grave.”