Chapter Three
Wilfred Zouch, Duke of Aynor, was acting oddly.
Now, Irene was not normally one to be suspicious, but the man had given her three clear signs that something was dreadfully wrong.
Firstly, he bowed to her.
Bowed!
“Are you feeling ill?” Irene asked promptly, staring at the man in horror as he straightened up outside the Pump Rooms.
“Ill?” Wilfred said lightly. “No, I feel quite well, thank you.”
“But…” There did not appear to be a way to say, “But you have never bowed to me in your life” without it sounding like censure.
And she wasn’t complaining. Not exactly. It was just so…odd. Wilfred did not bow to her, and she did not curtsey to him. Why would they?
“Shall we?” Wilfred asked, offering his arm.
Well, that was more likely it. Irene took his arm and they entered the Pump Room, which was surprisingly busy this early in the morning.
She had gone so far as to lose Wharton, the lady’s maid she shared with her mother and sisters, whom the viscountess sometimes feebly sent to chaperone Irene while in public.
The poor, overworked woman was never hard to lose on the busy streets of Bath or any other place and would usually give up and meet Irene back at home sometime later.
And Irene knew her mother would only be mildly irritated when she found out, reminding Irene that Society at large had different opinions than the Chance family.
Opinions Irene cared little about. She had thought she and Wilfred could benefit from the exercise on this rainy, wintry day with relative peace and quiet, but as it was—
And that was when Wilfred had done the second clear sign that something was amiss. He paused at the book and started to look down the names.
Irene stared. At least, she stared after she had straightened up, for the sudden cessation of movement from her friend had made her jerk backward from her intended steps.
“What on earth are you doing?” she hissed.
“Perusing the book,” Wilfred said calmly, as though this was something he did every time they came to the Pump Room.
And he never had. Neither had she. What use did they have for the book which told them who was in Bath at present? There was no one else, other than each other, that they wanted to see.
So whom was he looking for?
“Does this have anything to do with the secret you were going to tell me last night, at the opera house?” Irene asked, the idea suddenly striking her.
If she had not been examining the man’s face closely, she would have said that for a moment, a shadow passed across Wilfred’s face. A shadow that was dark, and pained, and disappeared almost as soon as it had arisen.
Still, it had definitely been there. Hadn’t it?
“No,” he said lightly, turning the page.
Irene stared. She knew Wilfred better than she knew herself. His face was as familiar to her as her own, as were his habits. She had seen the boy grow and become a man, and he had done nothing to surprise her for about seven years.
And now here he was, bowing to her, and looking for—whom?
The prickling heat that was creeping through her was most unaccountable, and for a moment, Irene could not precisely tell what it was. When she realized that it was jealousy, she could have laughed at the shock.
Jealous? About Wilfred looking for someone else?
Ridiculous!
“Come on. I want to stretch my legs,” Irene said with a tug at his arm. “After all, we have much to discuss about the opera, do we not?”
That caught the man’s attention. Wilfred looked up, gaze narrowed. “We do?”
“That soprano! I thought she was going to fall out of that gown, and yet her singing was truly quite incredible. Perhaps that was why her stays were so loose.” Irene clamped her lips together, as if fighting back laughter. “And the baritone…Wilfred? Is everything… Are you quite well?”
The gleam had disappeared from the man’s eyes and he was looking as though…as though he did not know her.
Which was ridiculous. But Irene could think of no other way to describe it.
“You go on,” he said quietly, releasing her arm and stepping back to the book.
And that was the third sign that something had gone terribly wrong with Wilfred.
It wasn’t so much the letting go of her arm that was the problem. Hold her arm, don’t hold her arm, what did she care? But it was the fact that he had encouraged her to walk about the Pump Room on her own.
They always walked together. Now that Irene came to think of it, she could not recall a time when she had ever visited the Pump Room without Wilfred. She must have done at some point, with her sisters, perhaps, or her mother. But no memories came to mind. It was always her and Wilfred.
And now he thought she should just walk about…alone?
“You are behaving most oddly.” Irene had not meant to thrust her accusation at the man quite so violently, but really, the circumstances demanded it.
Wilfred was leaning over the book nonchalantly and turned a page without even looking at her. “I have not the faintest idea what you mean.”
Irene’s lips parted in astonishment.
But he was—he was Wilfred. Her Wilfred. He had been the same man, the same person, forever.
Slightly slow on the uptake sometimes and not particularly good at reading social cues, but the man was…
was brilliant. He was charming and clever, and he never looked at her as though she were a woman, but merely as a friend.
It was one of the things she liked best about him.
Wilfred would never look at a woman merely to admire. He wanted to listen to what they said. It was most endearing.
And now he was acting aloof and strange and distant, and Irene did not like it.
Jess had gone off and gotten married, and she… Well, Irene had always taken care of her. Jessica may have been the eldest Chance sister, but it was Irene who looked after her and the others. And she was gone and Wilfred was changed and…
Only then did Irene notice the heat that had blossomed within her, prickling and tight and scalding hot.
Everything was changing, and she hated it.
“You are acting strangely,” Irene said, grabbing Wilfred’s arm and pulling him away from that damned book. What could he hope to find in there? “When I say you are acting strangely—”
“Reeny—”
“And don’t call me that,” she snapped, ignoring the curious glances of other ladies and gentlemen as they promenaded up and down the place. “You know I don’t like that.”
“Isn’t teasing what brothers do?” came the cool reply.
Irene stared up at the profile of Wilfred as they walked sedately along. “What—what brothers do?”
“That’s what I am to you, isn’t it?” he said blithely, not bothering to look at her as he spoke. “A brother.”
“Well, yes,” Irene said, not sure what this had to do with why the man was being such a dunderbore this morning. “But—”
“So there we go,” Wilfred said quietly, keeping his voice low so no one else could hear him. “And as I am like a brother to you, I shall act as a brother does.”
Irene almost tripped over her own skirts as she tried to stare and walk forward at the same time, something she did not usually have trouble with.
She was having trouble now. There was something…
different, about Wilfred. Now that she examined him, she could see small clues in the corners of his eyes.
The lines there that were always present due to his almost-continuous smile…
they were gone. There was a hardness around his jaw she had never seen before.
No, that wasn’t quite right. Irene remembered the day they had been walking in London and taken an alley as a shortcut, and there had been a dog there tied to the wall, tied and starving.
And the same hardness had come across Wilfred’s expression as Irene had rushed to the dragon, as her family always called dogs, and the hardness had not left Wilfred’s face until they had safely found a loving home for it with his housekeeper.
Yes, it was the same hardness. But why?
“I don’t understand,” Irene found herself saying, with no guile or teasing at all.
That somehow gained Wilfred’s attention. He halted, turning to her and only then did Irene realize just how tall the man was.
Which was ridiculous. She had always known it, but somehow Wilfred towered over her in this moment.
“I—” he began fiercely, and then the fire died away, and the same hardness returned as before. “I know you don’t.”
Without another word, Wilfred continued walking down the Pump Room, not waiting for her to join his side.
Irene could hardly understand what on earth was going on. This was not the Wilfred she knew. He was perfectly fine last night, she thought as she strode forward and walked silently beside him, trying to untangle the knot of confusion in her mind. At the opera house, he had been himself entirely.
But had he? He had been when they had arrived, but when they had left… Well, he had been quiet. It had been a long opera; Irene had merely presumed the man had been tired. She couldn’t begrudge him tiredness.
But this?
“Wilfred—”
“A great number of people appear to be in Bath early this winter,” he said over her, still not looking at her. “I suppose there are a number of them you will want to see.”
Irene gaped, utterly lost at the direction that the conversation was taking. “I…I suppose so, but—”
“And there will be people that I will need to see. Or should see. Or want to see.”
The man wasn’t making any sense. Why would he want to see anyone in Bath? Any persons the Duke of Aynor needed to see could have been seen in London before he’d come here. And Wilfred, he didn’t want to see anyone. They spent all their time together.
Unless—
And that was when she realized it. The thought was sharp, spearing through her mind as though she had never had a thought before, and Irene stumbled again at the sudden insight it brought.
A hand moved swiftly, steadying her. Irene looked down to find Wilfred’s hands, both of them. One held her arm, the other was at her waist.
He released her almost as soon as he had grasped her.