Chapter 1 #2
Most of Brendan’s acquaintances would describe him as an affable young man who always had a friendly word for everyone he met.
If he were honest, he caroused too frequently with his friends—not to mention, his days were decidedly idle.
But he took the time to lift the spirits of those around him, and he enjoyed visiting his sister and brother-in-law, the Duke of Halmesbury, as well as his nephew, Jasper.
Yet seeing Lord Filminster for the first time in some years had reminded him of the wrenching anxiety that his uncle stirred in the region of his gut, which was currently twisting and writhing as he began his reluctant walk down the hall.
That cold tension had never quite gone; it merely slept until roused, and now it stirred with every step.
Fortunately, he had not seen the baron much, but today, he was to meet with him in his study. The baron’s study.
Deuce it! It is my study!
Brendan had been working out of it since leaving Filminster on his twenty-first birthday, and it was rotten luck that his uncle-father had finally found the courage to leave his estate.
The only explanation for showing such fortitude was that the baron was a vainglorious buffoon whose craving to attend the prestigious coronation had finally outweighed his fear of travel.
Lucky me.
With an increasing sense of dread, he began his descent, the worn carpet beneath his boots speaking to how long it had been since the townhouse had been renovated, while the wide wooden boards creaked in protest at his weight.
Why would the old man bother to keep the townhouse properly maintained?
It was a source of irritation to Brendan, one of many.
That he was beholden to the baron, a mean-spirited old goat, was galling.
Had events transpired as they should have, Brendan’s own father would be Lord Filminster, and Brendan himself would be a valued heir.
Instead, he was an orphan and obligated to obey his uncle so he could access his allowance.
As he reached the front hall, Brendan’s thoughts flittered to the last time he and the baron had corresponded.
Three years earlier, Brendan had fancied himself in love with a lovely young woman, until Lord Filminster had written to her father and informed him that Brendan would be cut off if a match was made.
The baron had deemed the young woman unsuitable, being from a wealthy but untitled family.
Brendan would have proceeded despite the baron’s interference, for he would eventually inherit the title, and it would restore his finances.
But her father had abruptly ended their courtship, with a formality that left no opening for hope.
Brendan had buried his sorrows in the arms of a friendly widow, who had been flirting with him for some time, and subsequently vowed to never make a match that his uncle approved of.
Unfortunately, he feared their conversation today was to address this subject, for he knew of no other reason for the baron to require his presence.
The scent of beeswax and aged plaster lingered in the corridor, faint and dry.
Shaking the thoughts from his head, Brendan noticed he had arrived at the study.
The carved paneling of the door bore scratches that had not been polished out, and the brass knob was dulled from age and use.
He raised a heavy hand to rap his knuckles on the door.
“Come,” intoned a disinterested voice.
Brendan entered and closed the door behind him, before finding his uncle standing by the fireplace.
The room smelled faintly of lavender water, the sort a valet might splash on linens.
He choked back a laugh when he saw how the old man was dressed, raising a hand to cover his mouth as though suppressing a cough.
The baron was in heeled court shoes, which did little to raise his diminutive stature, his spindly legs revealed in white stockings while his white-and-gold striped trunk hose—an antiquated style of short, voluminous breeches—ballooned absurdly around his hips.
His doublet was form-fitting, which revealed a potbelly spilling over his codpiece, while a velvet and ermine cape was fitted over his shoulders.
A ruff around his neck made him appear to be all shoulders and head, while the gilt circlet on his head did nothing to disguise his thinning hair, which was brushed forward in the style of Napoleon.
The baron was at once gaudy resplendent and ridiculous in the unbecoming attire.
Lord Filminster’s beady eyes narrowed in suspicion, and he tugged at his doublet with a smugness that belied any awareness of what a humorous figure he cut.
But the baron had always had a poor sense of fashion, and no one could accuse him of being a Beau Brummell, so perhaps he thought his attire handsome.
Not for the first time, Brendan was grateful that he did not view the world through his uncle-father’s eyes.
He did not think he would enjoy the perspective.
“There you are, Ridley.” Brendan grimaced. Was he going to be addressed as a passing acquaintance, then? “Is it customary for you to leave your rooms so late in the day?”
Brendan once again bit back a laugh. The man probably did not know how to pull on his own stockings, but he was to lecture on tardiness?
Forcing a pleasant smile, Brendan walked forward to sprawl into an armchair facing his uncle.
From past experience, he knew the old man was like a dog with a bone.
If Brendan revealed any reaction to one of his vicious nips, the baron would gnaw at the offending subject with relish, seeking further cracks in the armor.
The trick was to keep a friendly face and steadfast composure.
Brendan had not missed these biting conversations in the least, not the hollow remarks nor the grating pretense.
Even when he had pined for his half-sister, the only family connection he had ever truly cared for, he had not longed for the baron’s company.
Fortunately, he and Annabel had reunited after her marriage.
Lord Filminster had lost the power to keep them apart once she had gained her autonomy as a duchess.
“While I am in Town, I am arranging for you to meet suitable women.”
Brendan kept the smile on his face, though every muscle ached to twitch. Internally, he cursed.
How long is the baron staying?
“My social calendar is currently filled, with engagements with unsuitable women and whatnot.”
Lord Filminster clenched his jaw at the supercilious tone, and Brendan squashed a kindling of delight at having raised a reaction from the man who loathed him so. “Those types of engagements will have to wait until you marry.”
“You mean I should pursue the type of marriage you were attempting to force on Annabel? Her prospective husband knocking boots on the side while she waits for him in the country?”
The baron’s fists balled at his sides, small and pale with liver spots, his rings glinting in the firelight.
For a moment, he looked ready to stomp his foot like the imp from the German tale of Rumpelstiltskin.
Brendan might have enjoyed the comparison more had it not been his own future the imp meant to unravel.
“It is the way of high society,” his uncle responded defensively.
“Not according to the man she actually married—the duke.”
“The duke is obsessed with the hoyden for no reason I can fathom. She is a useless girl with no feminine accomplishments.”
“I am not sure about that. My friends seem quite impressed with the duchess.”
Lord Filminster broke eye contact, his mouth tightening in ire.
He was not accustomed to having his heir defy him.
The last time they had met in person, Brendan had been little more than a green youth, but the years had lent him something more solid beneath his skin, a quiet defiance that no longer trembled.
“We will meet Miss Hartnett with her family tomorrow night for supper. And you are to meet with me first thing tomorrow morning so I can provide you with a list of engagements we will be attending together.”
“Miss Agnes Hartnett? She is seventeen years old!” Brendan knew he should not react, but the exclamation had slipped out before he could contain it.
“And the daughter of a viscount.”
“You mean the child of a viscount?”
The baron smirked, his eyes glittering with triumph. He seemed to relish Brendan’s discomfort. “All the better for your pursuits with merry widows.”
Brendan wanted to roll his eyes, but refrained.
He had no intention of pursuing the sort of marriage where he and his wife would live as polite strangers, crossing paths like two guests in a wide hallway.
When he married, it would be to a woman with wit, warmth, and steel beneath her stays.
A true partner. And he would not stray. But this was not the time to speak of ideals.
He needed to meet with the duke. If anyone could help formulate a plan to rid him of the baron, it would be Halmesbury.
Annabel and her husband were among the few people who understood Lord Filminster’s particular strain of manipulation.
Unfortunately, with coronation obligations consuming them, Brendan would have to endure a few more days of meddling before he could seek their aid.
“When would you like to meet?”
“I expect you to be here at first light.”
Brendan forced an affable grin and stood up. “I will see you first thing, then.”
The baron waved a hand in a lazy gesture of dismissal, his circlet catching the lamplight. Brendan accepted the wave as his opportunity to escape. And to think.
As he left the study, he nearly collided with Michaels, their London butler, who was stationed directly outside the door.
The older man straightened to his full height, several inches shy of Brendan’s, and bent his neck back awkwardly to cast a look down his nose with all the theatrical disdain of the little French emperor.
With a haughty sniff, Michaels turned and stalked away, the tails of his coat swaying stiffly behind him, leaving Brendan to wonder whether the scornful servant had been eavesdropping.
When Lily came down for supper, she found her brother in the front hall.
He was dressed to go out, with a tall-crowned beaver hat perched at a jaunty angle atop his dark hair, a coat slung carelessly over his shoulders, and gloves in hand.
The scent of leather and a hint of bay rum clung to him, carried on the faint draft from the opened front door.
Her spirits plummeted in disappointment. “You are not staying in with me?”
Aidan caught her hand in a coaxing manner as he smiled down at her.
His cravat was too impeccably tied for a quiet night at home, and the gleam in his eye spoke of mischief and freedom.
Lily cursed her height. Her brother towered over her, and all she could do was stand about with the appearance of a child, barely clearing five feet in her satin slippers.
If she displayed any anger at being abandoned for the evening, she would simply appear to be throwing a tantrum.
“You do not mind, do you, Lily Billy? It is just that my friends have invited me to enjoy a game of whist at our club, and all the titled nobs are occupied with the coronation, so we will have the run of the place.”
“I was looking forward to catching up, Aidan! You have barely spent a moment with me since you returned to London. I am going to be dragged to the country soon for a house party, and Mama will be throwing titled gentlemen at me with every step I take.”
“I swear I will stay in tomorrow, but tonight is too unprecedented to pass up. You would not want me to miss out, would you? Not after I distracted Mother from her ideas about Lord Ashby?”
“I did not know that would be an excuse to abandon me!”
“It is not abandonment. It is merely a postponement.”
Lily relented. Aidan was clearly committed to his plans, and she did not wish to stand in the way of his fun.
She wished she could go with him, to slip past the paneled threshold and out into the lamplit night, where laughter echoed down club-lined streets and gentlemen smoked cheroots beneath the glow of gaslight.
But she was a young unwed lady and not permitted to do anything interesting.
The rules penned for her gender hemmed her in like the boning in her stays.
If only she could find a gentleman whom she wished to marry. As a married woman, her whole world would open up—an independence of schedule, of conversation, of freedom. But she was unwilling to compromise her standards by settling for an old or inferior gentleman.
“Oh, very well! But I expect you to regale me with stories of your travels tomorrow night.”
Aidan lifted a hand to chuck her on the chin. “We will spend the entire evening together in the library, Lily Billy. Thank you for this. You are a dashed fine sister!”
Lily sighed, smiling as she watched him draw on his gloves. The supple leather gleamed softly as he tugged them over his fingers.
“I am holding you to that, Aidan. No begging off tomorrow night.”
Once he departed, the house grew still, the echo of the front door fading down the tiled corridor.
Lily requested her supper tray be brought to the front drawing room, which overlooked the houses across the street and offered an oblique view of the square.
The fire had been lit earlier, and the gentle crackle added warmth to the hushed space.
She would feel silly eating alone at the dining table, and the window seat in the drawing room was her favorite reading spot.
Cushioned and curved into the bay, it offered a view of flickering streetlamps and the distant glow of lamps in the neighboring houses.
She could not help reflecting that she had been doing far too much reading this past year.
It was better than fending off elderly lords at a ball, but still.
After three years, it was time she met a genuinely eligible man so she could enter a courtship, but that seemed as likely as sprouting a tail, after her third Season of no success.
Where were the truly intriguing gentlemen? Not on the marriage mart, it would seem.