Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Present Day
St. James, London
Four days after departing Southampton, Julian stepped into Oliver’s stifling sickroom. Until this day, he had believed his father’s summons a dramatic gesture wherein the earl meant to broach his favorite subject: Julian’s complete disregard for his father’s opinions.
Against the windows’ sealed copper silk drapery and the room’s white paneling, Oliver was the shade of gruel.
His brother sifted through official-looking correspondence on the bed, much to the chagrin of his nurse.
The green pillows surrounding him did nothing to improve his color nor the brown wig he’d donned, obviously in protest.
Oliver slapped down the papers with a squint. “Come to take my place, have you? Wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.”
Julian strode to the bed. “Ollie. Bloody hell. You look like hell.”
“Thank you. Now be a good brother and bring me a brandy and cigar.” At the nurse’s objection, Oliver shot a finger at her. “If I’m forced to drink another glass of buttermilk, I will die before forty. And fetch my daughter, Sophia. If you’ll not allow my secretary, I’ll have her write my letters.”
Oliver had beads of perspiration at his brow. Julian leaned over, pressing the back of his hand there to feel for a fever. Not that he knew what a fever actually felt like.
Oliver slapped his hand away. “I’m not feverish. I’m mad with boredom. And insufferably hot.” He jabbed at the roaring fire being fed by a discreet footman. “The quack believes roasting me alive a damn cure.”
Julian rubbed the sweat forming at the back of his own neck. It was hotter than a bonfire on Guy Fawkes Night.
“Get me a brandy,” Oliver said.
Julian acquiesced, dousing the fire with a pitcher of water, pouring a scant glass of his brother’s favorite beverage, and returning to sit on the bed.
Oliver smacked his lips in appreciation while Julian did something he had never done.
He took hold of Oliver’s clammy hand. His brother was not going to live forever.
He was grey and short of breath. Who was going to see to Oliver’s four daughters?
Who was going to care about England’s affairs as much as Oliver St. Clair?
“Christ, Ollie.”
“If you cry, I’ll clout that pretty face of yours.”
Julian might cry. Something else he’d never done except twice.
Finishing off the liquor, Oliver clutched the glass. “Do you know what I’ll regret about dying?”
“Nothing. I’ve already decided you’re living forever.”
A grumble arose in Oliver’s chest, followed by a hacking cough.
Julian offered him a handkerchief, and his brother swiped it from his hand like he had insulted him.
But he used it and fixed Julian with a squint.
“Seeing you married and gloating over it. Damn, but I’d live another twenty years to watch that. ”
“In that case, I intend to oblige you.”
“Good. At least ten children you’ll put on your wife, no doubt.”
Julian laughed at the impossible picture but inside was a sting. He had never cared to beget children. But Kitty had. And by virtue of their marriage, he had consigned her to a motherless future.
“You’ll need some Royal Navy commissions for your yard to support them,” Oliver said.
Julian’s expression flattened. Whether he succeeded or failed, it would be without his brother’s influence. “No.”
A knock sounded at the door, and after Oliver bid entry, a footman announced, “Mr. St. Clair, Lord Tindall wishes to have a word with you in the library.”
The earl paced the Axminster carpet while Julian dropped back in a chair, stretched his legs, and waited for the lecture. At least the room was cooler than Oliver’s.
The pacing continued until Julian went for a bumper of brandy and took another seat, between the twin windows overlooking the north garden. It provided a wider view of the earl’s relentless campaign over carpet.
His father’s hands whipped behind his back. Next, he would halt, turn on his heel, and spear him with the St. Clair glare.
Reaching the end of the carpet, the earl twisted about. Brown eyes with a fierceness not lost to age flashed beneath his impeccable wig. “Damn you, boy! Leaving us for two years without a word.”
A six-and-twenty boy. He’d be a boy as long as his father lived. “I wrote my mother. Did she not share with you my prayers for your good health?”
“I have allowed you your freedom, but no more.”
“Allow is a stretch, isn’t it? What bothers you more? That you cannot control me or that I am in trade?”
His father’s lungs heaved under his stock and ruffled shirt. “If I did not know your mother to be true, I would declare you a by-blow of a pirate.”
“Pirate? I’ve never stolen a pence. Which is more than I can say for you and the Lords. Claiming your privileges, accepting bribes—sorry, favors—for your votes.”
“You irresponsible, worthless spawn of the devil!” His father slammed a fist to his palm.
Now they were getting to the heart of it. Julian was five years old again, exhibiting a precocious aptitude for the calculus and physics. The problem was, his talent was shown by his devilish left hand.
Julian had hurried to his father’s study to show him Archimedes' principle, the discovery that would one day assist Julian in building his dreams. His mother had been there as well as his tutor. Julian had dropped the apple into the bowl of water and proceeded to write out the equation for buoyant force. The earl had narrowed his eyes at his son’s left hand.
He had sent Julian away, but behind the study door, Julian had listened while his father terminated his tutor’s employment for his inability to defeat his youngest son’s evil proclivities.
“If we cannot quash his left-handedness, it must be concealed,” the earl had said when the tutor had departed. “The boy does this to embarrass me.”
“My lord husband,” his mother had ventured, “all his tutors remark he is a bright child. Perhaps we might see our son’s handedness as a gift instead of a curse.”
“You shall never accept this smear upon my name. It is disgusting and humiliating. I can hardly be in the boy’s company without wishing to strangle him. Nay, he will likely amount to nothing good, but I must endeavor for the sake of our family. And ships! By God, the demon wishes to build ships!”
Running from the hall out of the house and through the garden, Julian had yanked down a hatchet in a shed and placed his hand upon a wooden bench.
His mother had rushed into the shed just as he had found the courage to cut off his disgusting hand.
He had cried in her arms. She had told him he was good and he could use whatever hand he wished.
From that day forward, Julian had endeavored to show his father how futile his attempts were at reforming his demon son by using his left hand more so than needed and by being as no good as he could be.
Julian presently sipped his brandy. “You once predicted I would amount to no good.”
“Yes, I did, and here you are.” The earl’s shoulders hunched like a caged beast. “Here you are! While my beloved son—”
He couldn’t say it and neither could Julian.
Nor could Julian make a jest of his father’s blatant partiality for his eldest son.
What man wouldn’t prize Oliver St. Clair as a son?
An MP since one and twenty, honest with a strict avoidance of favors, a loving father and faithful husband, the loyalest friend.
Julian was sure Oliver had slept with only one woman—his wife.
“Who is that black-haired bit of fluff you’ve been rutting on?” the earl asked.
Julian silently cursed his father’s spies. He had joined Anthony Philips and the black-haired Lady Daniels at Drury Lane on his first night in London. He hadn’t rutted on Louisa Daniels or any woman in two years except Kitty. Once.
“My men saw you disembark at Southampton with her and take her to your apartments. A French whore, Joseph says, you brought back from the Continent. Cyril relates she is of no account. Which is she?”
So his father had spies in Southampton as well.
Julian’s reply was contrary to his desire to plant the earl a facer for calling Kitty a French whore. “You mean, Madame Féline?”
“Madame is it? Don’t dare think of marrying her.
I won’t tolerate it. She’s a Frenchy. Whores, all of them.
You need a gently bred English girl. One with a large dowry to support your spendthrift ways and keep you out of trade.
One who will turn a blind eye to your love of whoring.
A worthless husband you will be, but you will.
I’ve had your mother draw up a list of the best candidates.
I struck a few off on account of their common blood. ”
The earl withdrew a sheet of paper from his desk. Julian didn’t read it. He was too furious. He had been about to admit Kitty was his wife. Now, not even screws could get him to talk.
“Well, boy?” he asked with a wink. “Any of them suit your fancy?”
Always disconcerting, the way his father shouted his son’s worthlessness and then went on as if there were no hard feelings. “I am not marrying any of them.”
“It is time to fulfill your duty to this family, the expectations of your existence. By God, you will marry. And those girls will suit. All have sizable dowries and titled, influential families.”
“Good to know your requirements for a lifelong companion. Thank you.”
“I’ll cut off your allowance.”
“That allowance has not been used in years and would be best served if you stuffed it up your arse.”
His father rushed him in a rage. Julian leapt to his feet, seized him by his waistcoat, and stuffed him down to the chair he had just vacated. Nose to nose, he said coolly, “I draw the line at violence.”
His father’s cheeks broke into a grimace. “Andrew.”
They stared at each other, father and spawn, both of them aware that Oliver could not be replaced.
Not even a close second could be had. Julian was the spare heir that had survived, untouched by the childhood illnesses that had killed two of his older brothers.
The scarlet fever that was finally conquering Oliver.
The earl beseeched in a broken whisper, “My son cannot die.”
It softened Julian’s heart enough to cup his father’s shoulder. “He’ll turn around.”
“Oliver would have wanted to see you settled.”
“He’s not dead. He’s currently drinking brandy and likely has bullied the nurse into fetching him a cigar.”
His father ground the heel of his hand at his eye. “He always had faith you’d make an excellent father.”
Julian snorted. “Laying it on a bit thick, aren’t you?”
The bastard was going to cry. Was the grief real, or was this display a calculated tactic to have Julian wed? The latter, he was sure. Julian tested his assumption by saying, “I’ll find a wife.”
His father jerked up, a gleam in his watery eyes. “I knew you’d come around, boy.”
A smirk hardened Julian’s mouth. “Didn’t you, though?”
He returned to Oliver’s sick room and sat with his brother, who finagled Julian into taking dictation.
He kindly ordered Julian not to smear the ink lest his correspondence become unreadable by Julian’s left-handedness.
A few hours later, his brother shooed him off, and just for being shooed, Julian kissed his brother’s stubbled cheek in goodbye.
Oliver squinted, not wiping off the peck. “Don’t you bloody look at me as if you’ll never see me again. I’ll be a thorn in your side, brother.”
Julian took a long look at the best man he had ever known. “Promise?”
“Mark me.”
He passed the library door at the foot of the stairs. Three of Oliver’s daughters attacked him. Uncle Julian, he made out between the screeching and joyful cries. One of the girls, Edie, who was actually crying, he hauled up in his arms. He let them drag him to the yellow sitting room.
Sophia, the oldest, rose from a cozy chair with a book in hand. She dropped a curtsy, and when Julian beckoned her with a smile, she ran into his arms. This struck jealousy in the other two middle daughters, Mariah and Casey, who competed on who could embrace Julian longest and hardest.
He danced with all of them. He played dolls with Edie while Casey critiqued their play—they did it all wrong—and after an argument, they ordered him to tell them sailing stories. He obliged with his best privateering tales while the girls circled around him on the floor.
Sophia, the serious sister who knew their time was at an end, said, “How long are staying, Uncle?”
“Perhaps another week.”
Sophia followed with, “Will you return to us every day?”
Children, he thought. “I will try.”
“Try?” Mariah said. “What sort of trying? One just walks themselves along the street, and by what I can see, your legs are in good order.”
Casey, for once her life, agreed with Mariah and Edie started to sniffle.
“I will return every day,” Julian promised in haste.
Disaster averted, Julian exited his brother’s home.
He felt a strange yearning for his wife, a condition brought on by Oliver’s daughters and the memories of his brother as a younger man. Kitty had been a continuous presence in his life for two years and often a thorn in his side. But she was a habit.
And God, how he had once loved her.