7. A Plea From Home #2
Count van der Meer, seated beside Alex, observed the exchange with quiet satisfaction.
Only three months ago, he had found Lord Sinclair brooding in a self-imposed prison of remorse.
Now, that same man sat at the Obsidian Table, transformed—an Englishman of rare philosophical temperament, capable of steering even the most fractious debate toward something profound.
Johan, too, felt a surge of pride for his friend, who had emerged from the shadows of his mind to wield a quieter, yet undeniable, influence.
For a moment, no one spoke. Then, as though a spell had been broken, the general cleared his throat, and the diplomat leaned forward, eager to engage. The conversation resumed, richer and more reflective, as each man weighed the implications of Alex’s words.
Late into the night, the two friends returned to Johan’s townhouse on Rue Ducale . The household had long since retired, save for a lone footman stationed drowsily by the door. Grateful to receive his master’s dismissal for the night, he presented Lord Sinclair with a letter before departing.
“Thank you, Hans,” Alex murmured, noting the Sinclair crest in the wax seal before pocketing the letter.
Later, in the stillness of his guest chamber, Alex sat before the wavering light of a lone candle, the letter unfurled upon the desk.
He sighed, raking a hand through his hair.
His brother’s familiar scrawl carried an uncharacteristic note of anxiety.
Indeed, he had long been aware that Miles’s beguiling charm and reckless nature would one day land him in mischief.
But to what extent, he could only guess.
Miles needed him now, and Alex could not ignore the plea of desperation in the penned letter:
Dear Alex,
I’ve done something foolish—a great many foolish things, if I’m honest. Debts I cannot repay, wagers I ought never to have made.
The creditors are most impatient, and every knock upon the door feels like a noose tightening.
I’ve managed to buy some time with some fast talking, but it’s a fragile arrangement at best. Please, Alex, come to London as soon as you can.
I can’t hold them off forever. I wouldn’t burden you if there were any other way out.
If Mother or Lady Marlstone were to hear about this… well, you know how that would go.
Your loving (and thoroughly wretched) brother,
Miles.
Alex exhaled slowly, tapping his fingers against the letter’s edge. There was no question of remaining in Brussels much longer. Miles was in trouble—his course was clear. He must needs return to London.
But not quite yet. The Rainiers had shown him unfailing hospitality, and to make a sudden exit before the ball in his honor would be a grave discourtesy. No, he would make his farewells, and then—come Monday—begin his journey home.
By the week’s end, the Rainiers’ ballroom gleamed with gilded brilliance, its mirrored walls reflecting the gathered crème de la crème of Brussels society.
As the evening’s guest of honor, Lord Alexander Sinclair—an Englishman whose effortless charm had captivated both the Rainier clan and the city’s elite—stepped into the room.
A hum of conversation in Dutch, French, and German wove through the strains of a waltz, but near the doorway, a perceptible hush descended as Lord Sinclair entered.
Dressed in a masterpiece of Henri Verdelle’s making, Alex was the very picture of understated grandeur.
His midnight-blue coat, cut to perfection, spoke volumes—each movement revealing the faint shimmer of velvet lapels and the glint of silver lining his coattails.
The brocade of his waistcoat caught the light in delicate flashes of gold embroidery, while the pristine folds of his cravat, secured with a sapphire pin, framed his face between high, starched collars.
Charcoal-gray trousers led the eye to polished black leather pumps adorned with gleaming silver buckles, completing an ensemble that spoke of impeccable taste.
As he exchanged pleasantries with his hosts, a ripple of interest stirred the room.
Heads turned, fans fluttered, and whispers carried through the assembly—the guest of honor had arrived.
At his elbow, every bit as impeccably turned out, the Count inclined his head to the Rainiers, acknowledging their murmured praise for his evident influence over his English friend.
Yet, amid the blaze of chandeliers and the rustle of satin, Alex felt the walls press upon him.
His brother’s letter weighed upon him. Nevertheless, when Madame de la Tour’s daughters cast coquettish glances from behind their fans, he could not, in conscience, neglect his obligations as a gentleman to escort one of these enchantresses onto the dance floor.
From the edge of the floor, the Count observed his friend’s elegant figures. He stood beside his hostess, his expression thoughtful.
“The guest of honor at such a ball as this ought to be happier, would you not say, Your Grace?” he murmured, leaning towards her, his tall frame bending discreetly.
“René tells me he is leaving us,” she replied with a delicate shrug. “Naturally, he must be miserable.”
“Leaving?” Johan echoed, his brows lifting. “To where is he leaving?”
“Where else but England?” Louise sighed. “His brother has need of him, and being the good-natured creature he is, he cannot cry off. We shall all miss him dreadfully—Louis most of all, I daresay.”
As Alex and Mademoiselle de la Tour swept past in the waltz, the Count’s brow darkened. It was not a sensation familiar to him, this odd disquiet. He leaned once more towards the Archduchess.
“Your Grace has been to England, yah ?”
She smiled indulgently as her daughter and son-in-law whirled past in a shimmer of silk.
“Indeed.”
“It is a place, something interesting, yah ?”
“René and I attended the King’s coronation four years ago. It was pleasant enough.”
“ Yah , that is something out of the common way. One does not witness a coronation every day. How are the people? If they are something like Alexander, it might be an amusing place to visit.”
“Count,” Louise said suspiciously, “what mischief are you plotting?”
He grinned, his smile inscrutable yet suggestive.
The Archduchess turned her cool, assessing gaze upon him. “Take care, my dear Johan, London today is as hidebound as Brussels was fifty years since. Traditions are entrenched, and the oddest set of women regulate society. If you flout their rules, not even divine intervention will save you.”
Johan’s smile deepened. Rising on his toes, he considered this with evident delight.
Later, at the midnight supper, the Count appeared at Alex’s elbow, depositing a coconut confection onto his plate.
“You will not regret this morsel,” he assured him.
Alex barely noticed the addition to his plate.
His gaze rested on the laden buffet, his mind elsewhere.
The decision to return to England pressed upon him, but the prospect of parting from his hosts and dear friend weighed heavier still.
Informing Johan of his imminent departure was no trifling matter.
“You know,” Johan remarked, selecting a delicacy with thoughtful precision, “the guest of honor on such a night as this ought to have worn out the leather on his shoes, yet you have hardly danced.” He gave Alex a sidelong glance. “Am I to assume the evening bores you?”
“Not at all. I am merely—preoccupied.”
“ Ah , the letter,” Johan said, without looking up.
Alex’s head snapped around. “What do you know of it?”
“Do you intend to share its contents, or must I guess?”
Alex exhaled. “It is from my brother,” he confided. “He finds himself in difficulties—financial difficulties, to be exact.”
“And you mean to rescue him,” Johan said, unsurprised.
“I must,” Alex said firmly. Then, after a pause, he amended, “No, I want to.”
Johan nodded, as though the correction pleased him. “I admire the conviction. So do it!”
“It means leaving Brussels.” Alex turned pained eyes towards his friend. “I cannot say when I might return.”
“But you won’t be leaving me, and that is all that matters, my friend.” Johan dabbed his mouth with his napkin, then said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, “I shall accompany you, of course.”
Alex blinked. “You shall what?”
“I have not yet seen England,” Johan replied. “Your brother is in need. You dislike traveling alone. And frankly, I cannot pass up the chance to observe that mad little island where the women run society and the men pretend not to notice.”
Alex gave a short laugh. “You would leave Brussels—for me?”
Johan shrugged. “I am fond of Brussels. But I have a greater fondness for good company.” He glanced sidelong at his friend.
Alex laughed, startled and touched. “You astonish me.”
“ Yah , that was my intention. Now—” He leaned closer, as if to impart a great secret. “A word of advice? It would be prudent to make your departure known to Madame de la Tour.”
Alex followed Johan’s gaze to the far end of the buffet, where Madame and her daughters regarded him with undisguised interest.
“Her daughters hold you in high regard,” Johan continued. “Should you quit Brussels without a word, you may well be branded a heartless flirt.”
Alex groaned. “Must everything come back to women?”
Johan grinned. “Not everything. Just the important things.”