FIVE
FIVE
“Is it not early in the day to be reading?” Bradbury moaned, dropping languidly into the empty chair directly across from Henry inside the coffee room at their club.
“Is there a time of day you do read?” Henry asked with an indifferent tone he struggled to maintain as he snapped the book closed, his thumb remaining inside the pages. He stared at his friend over the top of his book, his heart racing, and silently upbraided himself for allowing Bradbury to sneak up on him.
“Not if I can help it.” Bradbury smiled, his eyes briefly scanning the room, which held only a few members. “But if the task cannot be avoided, then the subject matter had better be entertaining.” Leaning forward, Bradbury squinted at the cover of Henry’s book. “Agriculture?” He lurched back in disgust. “For pity’s sake, man. You truly cannot think of anything better to do with the bounty that surrounds you?” He held his arms out to the room.
“I cannot,” Henry replied. The leather-bound book began to bow beneath the press of his fingers. His thumb brushed the edge of the lunacy pamphlet pinned inside the pages.
Henry had always come to Brooks’s seeking solitude. It was the one place he could go where his aunt couldn’t follow. But this time he’d taken his search for solitude even further by choosing the coffee room over the cardroom in the hopes of avoiding Bradbury. To be found reading a pamphlet about lunacy was an invitation for questions he didn’t want to answer.
Afraid to speak the truth?The voice inside his head whispered.
Henry’s hand gripped harder on the book. As if that could somehow contain everything.
“Honestly, Beasty, when am I going to convince you to have a little fun? You are far too serious. When was the last time you took a chance on anything?”
The answer was never. And for good reason. His father’s poor example had rid him of any desire to gamble. “I took a chance on befriending you,” he replied, knowing he needed to say something to satisfy Bradbury.
Bradbury snorted. “We both know that was Emerson.”
He was right. Emerson had been the first to befriend Henry, and that was only because Bradbury had wagered with him to sit at Henry’s table one afternoon. Emerson had struck up a mostly one-sided conversation that had left Henry both bewildered and intrigued. But even more surprising, after that initial encounter, Emerson sat with Henry again, and just like that, he became part of the Brooks’s Brotherhood.
Bradbury cleared his throat.
Henry found his friend watching him with a questioning look.
“If you enjoy taking risks so much,” Henry began, wanting to redirect Bradbury’s attention, “I wonder why you are here and not in the cardroom.”
Bradbury let out a frustrated breath. “That beef-witted Mr. Deighton ruined a perfectly good game of cards by wagering the hand of his well-dowered sister.” He shuddered. “I had to leave fifteen guineas on the table just to get out of there before it was too late.”
Henry resisted the urge to shake his head. “Did it not occur to you that Lord Deighton wanted you to withdraw from the game?”
Bradbury’s brow furrowed as he slipped into a contemplative silence. Once realization dawned, he shot upward in his seat. “That conniving, odious bounder! I ought to march right back up there and fleece him of his inheritance.”
“By the sounds of it, he would have to pay you with the hand of his well-dowered sister.”
Bradbury turned his scowl on Henry. “For once in your life, can you stop thinking with your head and more about a man’s pride?”
“He that is proud eats up himself.”The words slipped off Henry’s tongue before he could stop them.
“Was that Shakespeare?” Bradbury asked, tilting his head.
Henry didn’t answer. To do so felt tantamount to admitting he’d read all of Shakespeare’s plays because of Arabella.
A commotion at the doorway on the far side of the room saved Henry from further questions. Everyone else in the room turned their heads toward the noise, but Henry did not. It was easy enough to recognize the owner of the overly loud voice, his slurred words, and the heavy, uneven footsteps.
Lord Digby had managed to find his way to the coffee room.
“This is interesting,” Bradbury said, turning more fully in his chair to face the doorway, leaving Henry with nothing but a view of the back of his head. “Who is that with Lord Digby?”
Not caring which poor soul Lord Digby had latched himself onto to get him to the room, Henry took the opportunity to secure his book inside his jacket pocket. It slid in easily, which was why he’d chosen that book in the first place.
“Step lively, Latham,” Lord Digby called out just before an audible crash of furniture filled the room.
Latham? Emerson wasn’t due home for several more weeks.
“Did he say Latham?” Bradbury vacated his chair, and Henry stood in time to see his friend reach Lord Digby’s side.
“Steady on,” Bradbury said, swooping in and taking hold of the drunkard’s free arm as the butler stepped aside to stop another table from toppling.
Looking to Lord Digby’s other arm, Henry’s heart stopped.
No.Henry shook his head and closed his eyes before he dared look again.
It cannot be.
Howcould it be?
The person standing next to Lord Digby in a dark blue jacket and—he swallowed—breeches was Arabella. He knew it without a doubt. Though her curves were disguised beneath carefully tailored wool and linen, he’d been discreetly gazing upon her for long enough to know those unique, fawn-colored eyes and full red lips. They’d tempted him many times.
“And you are?” Bradbury’s voice cut through the room, snapping Henry to the present.
Panic constricted his lungs, and Henry wondered how obvious his panic would be if he plowed through the tables and chairs separating him from the disaster playing out before him. He had to get Arabella out of the club before anyone else recognized her.
“Sebastian Latham,” Arabella said in a ridiculously deep tone. She gave Bradbury a quick nod as they continued their struggle to steady Lord Digby. “I am—I am a cousin of Emerson Latham.”
Bradbury smiled, but his expression was nothing in comparison to the gleam of satisfaction in Arabella’s eyes as she appeared to fool him.
Shaking himself from his initial shock, Henry moved toward Arabella with a determined but unsuspecting pace.
Was this some sort of joke to her? A game?
Sebastian?This was no Shakespearean comedy to be performed for her entertainment. One wrong move and she risked utter ruination for herself and her family.
His temper rose with every step, forcing him to clench his fist to regain some control. He knew better than anyone how quickly one mistake could become fodder for the gossips.
“Aiden Bradbury,” his friend replied, pulling on Lord Digby’s arm and leading them away from Henry and toward the wingback chair specifically placed in the corner of the room where Lord Digby liked to sleep off his drink. “I am sure your cousin has mentioned me. I am, after all, his closest friend.”
Arabella grunted out an acknowledgment, straining under Lord Digby’s weight as one of his legs dragged behind him.
Henry vowed then and there to have Bradbury checked for the need of spectacles and an ear trumpet. Could he truly not detect the ridiculously forced tone?
Bradbury looked up, his eyes quickly finding Henry. “Beasty?” His forehead creased with confusion. “Is everything all right?”
Henry gave no reply, his eyes locking on Arabella as her head jerked quickly in his direction and then back to Lord Digby. Only a few tables and chairs separated them, and Henry had no intention of slowing his pace until he reached her and removed her from the building.
“Did you not hear me, old man?” Bradbury called out while still pulling Lord Digby along.
“I am only one year older than you are,” Henry replied, the urge to make that perfectly clear suddenly very important to him.
Worried she will think you a dull, old man, compared to the intrepid Mr. Bradbury? The voice taunted.
Shoving back the voice, Henry kept his focus on Arabella, who, with the significant aid of Bradbury, was almost to the wingback chair. When she finally looked up at him again, he shot her a sharp look of warning, telling her he wasn’t fooled by her disguise.
Her eyes widened and darted away just as her foot caught on one of the chairs, sending her sprawling to the ground with Lord Digby tumbling after her, leaving Bradbury helpless to stop them.
Henry spanned the remaining distance in a matter of seconds, his hands going to Lord Digby. He grabbed hold of the lord’s jacket and yanked him off Arabella, pulling him up in almost an arc, and then down hard onto the cushion of the wingback chair.
Lord Digby grunted from the force of the impact, but Henry didn’t care. He had already moved to Arabella, who clutched at her chest, struggling to regain her breath.
Henry knelt beside her, using his larger frame to shield her from the few patrons occupying the room. He reached out, his only thought to assess her for injuries, but she pushed his hand away with a grunt.
“I can manage,” she said in a strained but deep tone, keeping her eyes averted from him as she quickly worked to straighten her appearance. Her hands were shaking.
Henry’s anger returned full force. She’d nearly injured herself with this foolishness.
“Devil take it, Northcott,” Lord Digby spewed and sputtered from behind him. “With a grip like that, you should have been a pugilist, not a lord. You could have killed me.”
All the air in the room vanished, and the hairs on the back of Henry’s neck stood on end.
He could feel every eye in the room turn upon him. No doubt everyone, including Arabella, remembered who had murdered his uncle.
A hand pressed upon his shoulder, and he twisted his body around to look behind him.
Bradbury stared down at him with an uneasy smile that Henry suspected he used for the benefit of watching eyes. “You help our new friend. I will see to Lord Digby.”
Henry nodded, finding it hard to do much of anything else. In the eyes of many members of the ton, he was just as guilty for his uncle’s death simply because he shared the same blood as his mother.
Bradbury offered him a solemn nod in return and turned his attention to Lord Digby. “How about some coffee, my lord?” he said loud enough to draw the attention of everyone in the room. “We would hate for you to take another stumble. How fortunate you were to have Lord Northcott assist you the rest of the way to your seat.”
The air slowly returned to the room, followed by the soft hum of chatter.
Henry pushed out a breath and looked down at Arabella.
A book lay open across her stomach. Dread iced his veins as he recognized both the cover and the folded piece of paper she held in her hand.
Color drained from Arabella’s skin as her eyes focused on the cover of the pamphlet.
Bile rose in his throat, and his hand pointlessly clutched where the book should’ve been inside his jacket.
The situation had gone from bad to worse.