Chapter Seventeen
Nicholas rode toward London. Rain spattered his face, sharp drops stinging his eyes and making it difficult to see the road ahead. He swore good-naturedly at the weather, though the memory of his unexpected meeting with Miss Harwick the previous day buoyed him.
“Sorry, old boy,” he murmured to his horse, patting the stallion’s neck. “A miserable day to be out, but we are nearly there.”
He narrowed his eyes against the drizzle. Another mile, and he would reach his destination. His purpose was simple: fetch Sebastian—or at the very least, have a frank talk with him.
He needed to understand why his brother had shut himself away in London for nearly two days.
Evelyn was visibly unhappy; their mother had begun to complain of the estate business piling up on Sebastian’s desk; and the entire staff whispered concerns about the Duke’s absence.
If Nicholas could simply learn when Sebastian meant to return, perhaps everyone might rest a little easier.
Four carters blocked the road ahead, their wagons laden with fresh produce and hay.
Nicholas swore again. That was the trouble with London—everything grown on the surrounding farmlands had to be carted into the city, and it slowed the roads to a crawl.
Carriages and coaches could stand still for long stretches while hay for London’s endless horses, along with wood, coal, vegetables, fruit, wool, cheese, and milk were brought in.
On market days, the delays were even worse.
“Dash it all,” he muttered. His horse snorted as though in agreement.
Nicholas had hoped to be in London before luncheon, but by the time the road cleared and he was able to press forward, midday had already struck.
Church and cathedral bells rang out joyfully as he rode through the bustling streets.
Men and women strolled the pavements despite the drizzle; some returning from the park, others seeking an inn or public house for their midday meal.
Ladies and gentlemen in greatcoats and pelisses brushed shoulders with traders and carters—London’s lively chaos spread before him.
Near Hyde Park, he allowed himself a small smile.
Perhaps, if fortune favoured him, Miss Harwick might enjoy a walk after luncheon.
But first, he reminded himself, he had to find Sebastian.
He turned at the crossroads and rode down toward the club Sebastian frequented.
The entrance hall was cool and dim, even compared to the grey day outside, and Nicholas blinked as his eyes adjusted.
His horse, Night Star, was stabled, and he thought that he had seen Stormcloud in the stables not too far down, which was a good sign.
Sebastian must be somewhere within the club, or at least close by.
In the dining room, with its dark mahogany furnishings and west-facing windows letting in a muted wash of light, Nicholas glanced around.
Sebastian was nowhere in sight. Irritation pricked at him.
If his brother were anywhere in London at this hour, surely it would be here?
He turned toward the proprietor, who hovered nearby as though anticipating an order.
“I will dine here,” Nicholas said. “Whatever the kitchen serves today will suffice.” He hesitated. “Is my brother—the Duke of Brentfield—presently staying here?”
The proprietor nodded. “He spent the night in the rooms upstairs, my lord. He breakfasted here, departed for business in Westminster, and I expect his return for luncheon.”
“Grand,” Nicholas breathed.
He took a seat near the back and waited for his meal—and for Sebastian.
Five minutes passed. Nicholas stared at a discarded newspaper, not truly reading a word. His thoughts were too full of unease.
A commotion at the door made him look up.
To his surprise, Mr Wilton, the family solicitor, stood there.
Ordinarily, a solicitor would not be admitted to a club of this exclusivity, but Mr Wilton was the second son of a baron, which afforded him tenuous entry.
Still, Nicholas watched him with interest as he settled near the back and requested luncheon.
A moment later, another man—the son of a baron, with a notably dissolute reputation—came to join him.
Mr Wilton called for brandy, which was already loosening his tongue.
His voice grew loud and slightly slurred.
His companion hardly attended to him, his gaze drifting lazily about the room.
Nicholas, though not accustomed to eavesdropping, sat only two tables away.
Mr Wilton’s rising volume made it impossible not to overhear—and when Nicholas heard his own family name, his attention sharpened.
“This Brentfield match,” Mr Wilton declared with a nod. “It was the will, you know. I wrote it.”
“Mm?” the baron’s son murmured.
“There was a clause, you see. A clause.” Mr Wilton hiccupped, then pressed on. “The Duke could not touch the money without being wed. Couldn’t touch a penny.” He nodded emphatically, as though delivering weighty news.
“Mm?” the baron’s son repeated, barely following.
“Thing is,” Mr Wilton insisted, “I wrote it.”
“You are a solicitor,” his companion said mildly.
“No, no—you mistake me. I wrote it. Not the Duke. Not the duke who passed away.” He waved vaguely toward the countryside. “His wife… she wanted it. Wanted to make her son marry. Thought he never would otherwise.” He shook his head. “Poor fellow.”
Nicholas stared at them, stunned. His mind reeled. The clause had been falsified? Sebastian had acted under pressure that should never have existed? Nicholas’s stomach tightened. He could hardly comprehend the implications.
Should he tell Sebastian? His brother’s fury would be overwhelming.
Perhaps wait until we are home, he cautioned himself.
He hesitated, listening in again, but Mr Wilton was rambling about something else.
“Taxes...so many taxes nowadays. I do hate them.”
The baron’s son was nodding, his eyes unfocused. Nicholas looked away.
“Luncheon, my lord?”
Nicholas sighed and nodded. The smell of the stew caught his nostrils, and his stomach twisted painfully. He would stay for luncheon, and if Sebastian appeared, he would do his utmost to bring him back to the manor. Only there—in the quiet of home—could he deliver what he had overheard.