Chapter 2 #3
Behind the desk, a high-backed leather chair bore the faint creases of frequent use.
An expansive window overlooked the private garden beyond.
To the side of the window, a small sitting area offered comfort.
Two wingback chairs upholstered in deep red velvet flanked a low table, where a silver coffee service gleamed in the light.
Philip gestured to the wingback chairs, and Sebastian dutifully took a seat, leaning forward to pour himself a cup of aromatic coffee.
His brother sat opposite, his expression somber, and Sebastian knew they would finally have to clear the air.
This discussion had been inevitable the moment he had decided to return to England.
He only hoped Lorenzo would one day appreciate the lengths to which he was going to assist him, because, given the choice, he would never have left Florence.
“You no longer accept the allowance I have been sending.”
Sebastian could almost discern a note of hurt in his older brother’s tone. But perhaps that was whimsy on his part.
“I have no need. Business in Florence has been good.”
Philip breathed in, his expression unreadable.
What did His Grace, the celebrated Duke of Halmesbury, make of his little brother engaging in trade? Considering they were not close, Sebastian had no notion of his brother’s thoughts on the matter.
“I am told you trade in art?”
Sebastian nodded. “Renaissance art. My partner, Lorenzo di Bianchi, whom you met at the Scotts’ residence, is quite the expert.”
A shadow of a smile crossed Philip’s lips. “You are quite knowledgeable yourself.”
It was a compliment, and the unexpected warmth Sebastian felt on hearing it caught him off guard. Despite their differences, they were still family. Blood.
And for all that they did not see eye to eye on one essential subject, Sebastian respected that Philip was a good man, one who took his responsibilities to heart.
“I mostly provide introductions and credentials. The Markham name carries weight, even in Europe. Lorenzo is the true connoisseur. It runs in his veins. He had a great-great-something uncle who worked in the workshops of both Botticelli and Da Vinci.”
Philip nodded.
A handful of years older than Sebastian, they shared the same features, but the duke's hair was close-cropped, his manner more serious.
It was a clash of temperament between Philip, ever the duty-bound peer, and Sebastian, who considered what was de rigueur in high society to be of scant importance.
That was the prerogative of a spare. Although, with the duke now having an heir, he supposed he was a spare no longer. He was just a wayward relation who had left for his Grand Tour and never returned.
Philip nodded again, appearing momentarily at a loss for words as he leaned over to pour his own cup before settling back in his chair.
Sebastian watched closely, noting the subtle tightening of his brother’s broad shoulders.
As if he were bracing for battle.
“Why are you here?”
“I am doing a favor for Lorenzo. Retrieving something. Hopefully, we will depart from London soon.”
Especially if the painting was lost.
Which was when Sebastian realized, in the heat of his anger, that he had quit Harriet’s home without learning who she had given it to.
Bloody fool.
He wanted to curse himself for his stupidity, because once Lorenzo heard the news, he would be relentless, harassing Sebastian into returning to Harriet for more conclusive information.
Deuce it!
It was as if London had grabbed hold of him in its suffocating embrace, refusing to release him until he drowned in memories and regrets.
After all this time, why had he not found another woman to capture his heart? Was it because he no longer had a heart to give?
Philip’s baritone interrupted his wandering thoughts, yanking him back to the contentious subject that had severed their bond so many years earlier.
“Does it have anything to do with Lady Slight?”
Sebastian stiffened, setting down his cup to think.
“Why do you ask?”
“She is why you left. I wondered if she is why you have returned.”
“I think, perhaps, we should not discuss Harriet.”
Philip sighed sharply, setting his cup down with a decisive clink before rising abruptly to return to the window.
“I should never have allowed Lady Hargreaves and her daughter to visit Avonmead as often as they did.”
“We are neighbors. It is the way of things in the country.”
“It was a mistake I have long regretted.”
“Because of Lord Hargreaves?”
“Precisely. The man is poison. And the water drawn from that well is logically compromised.”
Sebastian’s fist clenched, his carefully maintained equilibrium threatening to shatter.
More than five years had passed, yet they had resumed this argument as if it had begun only this morning.
“For a nobleman known for his philanthropic works, you have always been most uncharitable toward Harriet, who cannot be blamed for her father’s failings.”
The duke exhaled sharply, an uncharacteristic display of ill humor for a man renowned for his composure.
“Failings? The man is evil incarnate. He exploits his tenants, discards his mistresses without recompense, not to mention his habitual coercion of those in his household who had no power to refuse him. If I had known what he was about, I would never have allowed his wife and daughter so much access to our home.”
Sebastian rose, unwilling to hear Philip censure Harriet yet again.
Truly, it was as if they had begun this argument only minutes earlier, rather than years earlier, when Sebastian had first approached him for help in courting Harriet.
“It is not like you to condemn an entire family by mere proximity! I could never understand why you held Harriet accountable for Hargreaves.”
“Because I saw the same weakness of character when you did not. The self-absorption. The disregard of servants. The naked ambition.”
“Harriet is no angel, I will grant you, but she was just a young woman under the influence of a foul parent. Her mother is weak, and Harriet had no true opportunity to walk away. She is intelligent and lively, whether you choose to acknowledge it or not.”
Sebastian wanted to fall to his knees and howl to the heavens, the despair of a man trapped in an infinite argument.
Was he Sisyphus, the cunning king who repeatedly deceived the gods?
As punishment, Zeus had condemned Sisyphus to push a massive boulder up a hill, only for it to roll back down every time he neared the top, forcing him to begin again for all eternity.
What had Sebastian done to deserve such a fate?
Caught between the woman he had once loved and the brother he had once looked up to.
How could he, at thirty years of age, still be engaging in this same endless quarrel?
Yet he was not attempting to court Harriet now, so this was a futile battle to revisit.
Philip scoffed in rejection.
“Not an angel? London has no shortage of tales about her exploits. That apple did not fall far from the tree.”
“And you never gave her the benefit of the doubt, so we will never know what might have happened if she had married me instead of that … that wrinkled old goat, Horace Slight!”
For the second time that day, Sebastian turned on his heel and departed without a farewell.
Smoldering, he stalked out the front door, ignoring the footman on duty, and exhaled in relief when he saw the Scott carriage at the end of the street, moving at a slow, deliberate pace, awaiting his departure, as they had anticipated this would be a short meeting.
He stormed toward it, eager to be free of his past.
What a wretched day this had been.