Chapter Two #3
And since he knew what lay ahead of him in the house across the street, Timothy had lingered before disembarking.
An unfortunate delay. By the time he had worked up the nerve to leave the ship and arrange transportation for London, the spring rains had returned with a vengeance.
The normal three-day trip from Falmouth turned into a five-day trudge through axle-deep mud, further deepening Timothy’s ongoing dread of returning home.
Even the sweet barmaids along the way, who had been all too eager to help Timothy with a hot bath and a warm bed, did nothing to ease that nagging pit in his stomach that told him he should tend to his investments quickly, then leave again without gracing the front hall of this not-quite-so-lofty mansion he had once called home.
But that urge did not hold a candle to the dread he felt about what would happen if he did not.
All because a reprobate prince was now their king.
“Gah.” The harsh sound of disgust sounded deep in his throat.
From the corner of his eye, Timothy saw a gentleman approaching from the left with a slow stride marked by a pronounced limp.
His frame—lean and elegant—carried his indigo frock coat well.
A light-blue cravat had been tied neatly at his neck and a matching indigo top hat pressed down on a hair style from almost ten years ago.
A gray silk waistcoat with indigo embroidery added to his elegance.
Britches the same pale blue as his cravat disappeared into boots polished to a high sheen.
A sturdy black cane evened out his balance, and a slight smile lingered on his lips as he approached.
Timothy returned the grin. Many things had changed over the past six years. His brother Luke was not one of them. He turned to face him. “Have you considered a more recent hair style?”
Luke gestured to the queue hanging down Timothy’s back. “Have you considered looking less like an American? Mother will be aghast.”
“It is practical at sea. And most of the ladies seem to like it.”
“The ladies of your acquaintance, dear Timothy, are not interested in the style of your hair.”
Timothy chuckled. “Perhaps not.”
Luke’s gaze traveled from the chapeau down to boot tips. “Although the Americans do seem to have some fine tailors. That should make up for the queue.”
Timothy straightened his shoulders, glancing over his own frock coat of a deep-green superfine wool and the green, black, and yellow plaid waistcoat.
His black britches were tucked into leather Hessians.
He felt dressed to ride, although he had not been on a horse since returning to New York from his latest South Carolina expedition after Christmas.
“It is one of the few suitable kits I have left, and I am wearing my last clean shirt. If you think my hair looks American, you should see me on an average Tuesday. What brings you out on the street?”
Luke pointed at the house. “Mother. She told me she had invited you for luncheon, and she wanted reinforcements, since Mark is in the country and Matthew is in meetings all day with the estate managers.”
“Where are the others?”
“Mostly in the country or out of it. Mother complains about how all her offspring have scattered to the four winds.”
“The natural result of multiple marriages.”
“Paul is at the country estate, and Peter, James, and Theophilus are somewhere on the continent. Paris, I think. With their wives. I suspect Peter and James will remain there.”
“So you do not live here anymore either?”
“Rachel and I bought a house over on Grafton Street.”
Timothy took this news in. “Are you happy? Everyone seemed to think you would be the one to join the church. You were quite the pious one when I left.”
Luke’s smile broadened. “I am happier than I have a right to be. And my investments with Mark helped me avoid the church, although my faith is still sound.” He nodded across the street. “Why are you lurking out here? Are you not staying here?”
Timothy shook his head. “I did not have the nerve. Like you, I’m a beneficiary of Mark’s financial prowess, as well as Gordon’s. I am staying in Mark’s house in Bloomsbury. More convenient to my business here and a good distance from Mother’s campaign.”
“She does bemoan that you are the only one who remains unwed.”
“I receive frequent letters to that effect, no matter where I am. It is almost uncanny that her letters have found me in India as well as on the African continent.”
“As persistent as always. And with more contacts among the government than even when Father was still alive. They do not consider her one of the ton’s dragons without reason.”
“She even wrote to Gordon. I suspect she is fearful I will allow some American lass to turn my head. She was most insistent that I return for all the coronation ceremonies, thinking this would be the best season to find a bride. Some of her demands have begun to sound like threats.”
Luke paused, his brows furrowed as he studied the pavement a moment.
“What bothers you?”
Luke shook his head, then looked up again. “Rumors about the coronation. Just rumors. You know our new king never avoids a drama if he can stir one up. You might ask Matthew when you get the chance. He would have better insight, since he hears more in Parliament. Shall we go in?”
“I think it’s inevitable.”
Timothy matched his stride to Luke’s slower limp as they crossed the street. “Does it still cause you pain?”
Luke’s expression turned distant, and Timothy wondered if he were dwelling on the moment of the injury, that time on the field of Waterloo before the tide had turned in the allies’ favor.
His brother shrugged. “Sometimes in the winter.” He lifted the cane. “Otherwise it is a mere nuisance.”
Timothy nodded and reached for the door’s knocker.
All three of his older brothers—Matthew, Mark, and Luke—had served with Wellington.
All three had been forever changed. And none wished to openly discuss their time on the continent.
Matthew buried his troubles in his responsibilities as duke.
Mark in his management of his wife’s estate.
Luke in his faith, and he had seemed destined for a vicarage until a woman from his past had appeared, bringing with her enough drama to keep the entire family occupied.
Twelve years Timothy’s senior, Luke had lived an entire and tumultuous lifetime by the time Timothy had boarded that mail boat six years ago. He deserved some peace in his life.
The front door swung open, and the family’s butler, Stephens, greeted the two men with a nod. “Good afternoon, my lords.” He stepped aside as they entered, accepting Mark’s great coat and both men’s hats. “Lady Embleton is in the drawing room, awaiting your arrival.”
Timothy took a deep breath. “So, shall we enter the lion’s den?”
Luke chuckled and held out his hand. “Lead on.”