Chapter 13
Julian did his utmost not to shift on his feet as he waited for the butler to return from announcing them.
Calling on Lord and Lady Wexford had not been his own notion, but on hearing of the previous evening, Brookmire had all but insisted they come at once.
After the coldness the lady had shown him, Julian was far from certain they would even be admitted.
But, as his brother said, they had to try.
Lady Wexford plainly knew something of their father in relation to Miss Trent’s family — something that lay as a black mark upon their name.
“Do you think we are to be turned away?” Brookmire asked from the corner of his mouth. “Sent back to our carriage in disgrace?”
Julian shot him a glance and caught the rueful edge of his brother’s smile. “I cannot say.” They had no real claim to call, being not even properly introduced. “Let us pray that, whatever our father did, they will at least consent to speak with us.”
The butler’s footsteps brought him to attention.
“To the drawing room, my lords,” the man said, gesturing. “This way, if you please.”
Relieved, Julian surrendered his hat and gloves and followed him down the hall.
Lady Wexford was standing as they entered, no sign of her husband.
She inclined her head a fraction, her spine straight, her eyes moving slowly over Julian and then Brookmire, as if she were judging the quality of goods set before her.
“Lord Carrington.” She lifted a brow. “And your brother, I presume, given how alike you are.”
“Viscount Brookmire.” Brookmire bowed low, keeping the warmth in his voice. “A most unexpected visit, I know, and we not even introduced. We thank you for receiving us.”
A short silence stretched thin. Julian swallowed and pressed his lips flat. The clock ticked on, over-loud, and he noted that Lady Wexford had not asked them to sit. Perhaps this was to be the briefest of visits.
“We come without an introduction, as my brother says,” Julian began, choosing to break the silence and speak plainly while they had the chance. “Nor do we come merely for the pleasure of one. We — ”
“You come to speak of your father.”
Julian paused, then nodded. Lady Wexford’s eyes glinted, and she opened her mouth — only for the door behind them to open and a gentleman with a thick gray beard and quiet, sharp eyes to step in. He came toward them without hesitation, looking them over as keenly as his wife had done.
“Ah.” He tilted his head at Julian. “Lord Carrington, I presume. You favor your mother.” He turned to Brookmire. “And you, Brookmire. You will not remember us, but I have seen you in London now and then these last few years.”
Julian bowed, his heart quickening. “I have not had the pleasure of a proper introduction, Lord Wexford. Forgive our intrusion.” He looked again to the lady.
“After we spoke last evening, I found I could not rest for wishing to know why my company should give such displeasure. I speak plainly, I know. But the confusion troubles me greatly.”
Lord Wexford made a low sound in his throat and looked to his wife, who only lifted her chin and ignored him. “You are truly unaware of your father’s connection to Lord Tyne?”
Julian’s heart leapt at the name of Miss Trent’s father. “Truly.”
Lady Wexford’s lips pursed, as if weighing whether he spoke the truth.
“Please, do sit, gentlemen.” Lord Wexford, a weariness in his voice, waved them to chairs. “My dear, there is no call for animosity. They know nothing of it.”
“So long as we believe them,” Julian heard her say as she sat. “I am surprised it was never spoken of in their growing years.”
Disliking being discussed as if absent, Julian perched forward on the edge of his chair.
“I assure you, I am wholly perplexed by the notion that Miss Trent and I ought to have no connection. Pray, Lady Wexford — if you will tell me what my father did to set such hostility between our families, I would be grateful.”
The lady drew a long breath, her eyes still on him, then gave a small shrug and looked to her husband.
“We knew your father when you were very young,” she said, her tone softer now.
“We knew Lord Tyne too, for we lived near him, and he was always good to the local gentry. Your father and Lord Tyne were friends. Your father came to visit often — though he brought you only once, as I recall.”
“More than friends, my dear,” Lord Wexford put in. “They were near to brothers.”
Julian blinked, astonishment spreading through his chest. He turned and found Brookmire’s mouth a little ajar.
“They first met at Eton,” Lord Wexford went on.
“Became the dearest of friends, and this from your father’s own lips, Lord Carrington.
” He narrowed his eyes a fraction. “You will understand our astonishment, then, when Lord Tyne fell into difficulty, through no fault of his own, and your father turned his back on him entirely. As though he no longer knew the man. As though they had been strangers all along.”
Something heavy slammed into Julian’s heart and dropped into his stomach.
“Lord Tyne would never have asked him for anything,” Lady Wexford said. “But he did expect his friendship to hold. Your father was a wealthy man, forever bent on increasing his fortune and his standing. It seemed to me he would not part with a single coin for a friend in need.”
“We all assumed he would offer Tyne assistance — a loan, at the least,” Lord Wexford said. “Every soul in society knew of his wealth, his prosperous lands, his prudent investments. It seemed only right he would come to the aid of a man with two daughters to provide for.”
Brookmire dragged a hand down his face. “Perhaps he did offer a loan,” he said, near desperate. “Perhaps Lord Tyne refused it out of pride.”
Lady Wexford’s gaze snapped to him. “No.” The single word fell like a blade, and Julian winced though it was not his question.
“You are quite sure?” he made himself ask. “How can you know it, if I may be so bold?”
“Because I was well acquainted with Lady Warrington.” She held his eyes. “We spoke often in those years. She confided in me at times, and I valued her trust in my discretion.”
Brookmire blew out a breath. “Our father was always somewhat selfish, I will own. But this is far worse than anything I suspected of him.”
“Your cousin told me she was greatly exasperated with him,” Lady Wexford said.
“That he would not part with a sovereign beyond what he thought strictly necessary, and held that to intervene would only encourage weakness in Lord Tyne. He judged Tyne’s misfortune the fruit of folly, and so undeserving of rescue.
Though to every other eye, the man had made no grave mistake, nor gambled himself to ruin. ”
Julian looked at the floor and wished to shrink into himself, the shame of his father’s inaction beginning to cling to him.
He had no doubt every word was true. It sounded just like his father.
How many times had he heard him speak with contempt of those who came seeking charity — berating men as if the building of an orphanage were some disgrace?
“Pray do not think we mean to wound you by it,” Lord Wexford said, leaning forward.
“You wished to know the truth, and now you have it. That said”, he pressed on before anyone could speak, “we do not hold you in the same light as your father. There is no cause to treat you with any dislike.” A pointed look went to his wife, and dots of red rose in Lady Wexford’s cheeks.
“I understand entirely why you might,” Julian said, his own face hot as he thought of all the pain his father had caused.
“Had he been generous — had he thought more of Lord Tyne’s struggle than of his own coffers — Miss Trent might be in a far more secure position now.
She need not have stayed so long from London.
She might have had her Season, and married well. ”
Lady Wexford regarded him a long moment. Julian neither shunned nor welcomed the scrutiny, still holding his father’s selfishness in his two hands.
“That much is certainly true, Lord Carrington,” she allowed, her voice still hard. “But you have both come here to learn what your father did — so you were plainly unaware of it, and have been for some time. I shall grant you that.”
“Though understanding does not undo what was left undone,” Brookmire said, and the words pressed Julian deeper into his chair.
“No. It does not.” Lady Wexford sighed. “I must hope, and I believe I may, that neither of you is your father in this.” She gave Julian a small smile as he lifted his gaze. “I had thought you came this afternoon to defend him.”
Julian shook his head. “I wished only to learn, and to understand.”
“And now you have,” Lord Wexford said steadily. “It will be a burden to you. I am sorry for that.”
Julian nodded and rose, bringing the visit to its end.
Lord Wexford was right; the weight of it rounded his shoulders and bore them down.
His heart cried out in pain and frustration both — angry with his father for his coldness to a friend, and that he had done nothing where he might have done so much.
Miss Trent’s whole standing might be different now.
“I am grateful to you both for your candor,” he said as Brookmire came to his side.
“It has been painful to hear. But I am glad to know it.”
Lady Wexford came closer, her hand light on his arm, her eyes no longer sharp as she searched his face. “I can see the pain this has cost you, Lord Carrington. And you, Lord Brookmire. But the past cannot be undone. It is good that you know it — yet you cannot change it. You can only accept it.”
Julian bowed. “Your words are appreciated, Lady Wexford,” he said, and felt the burden ease the smallest fraction. “I am determined to be the opposite of my father in this. I shall apologize to Lord Tyne, if it is wanted of me. I would make amends, not keep my distance.”