Chapter 8 #2
“Understood,” Doctor Grantham said briskly, opening the file once more and noting Gideon’s words—at least he hoped that’s what he was doing. Then he closed the file and got to his feet. “Well then. Now that business is taken care of, I shall take you to her.”
“Take me—” His words died as Gideon stared at the man, his heart suddenly beating too hard, too fast.
“Surely you did not come all this way to see me and not visit her?” There was an edge to the doctor’s voice. Gideon could hear the challenge in it clear as day. You nigh on accuse me of heartless treatment, yet you will not set eyes on her?
He did not need the doctor’s opinion of him to know he was a coward, but Dr Grantham did not have the threat of such an end hovering over his future.
The good doctor might know how the woman had treated her two little sons, who she had been certain were possessed by demons determined to murder her and take her to hell, but he’d not lived it.
They’d been small children, scared and confused by a woman who ought to love them, but who told them they were wicked like she was, that they possessed an evil spirit instead of a soul, that their hearts were rotten and that their insides writhed with maggots.
It was a wonder Damian was as sane as he was. Five years his junior, Gideon had escaped the worst of it, for Papa had confined her to her rooms and brought people in to care for her when he was still a toddler. Until that had gone wrong.
Gideon steeled his nerve. Five minutes. He could manage five minutes. He wasn’t a child any longer, but a man. His mother was sick. It was not her fault. She knew not what she said or did.
“Of course. I would be grateful if you’d take me to her,” Gideon replied, relieved that his voice was steady.
The doctor nodded. “This way, Mr Bramwell.”
The Grand Hotel Building site, Little Valentine, East Sussex, 28th July 1816
Damian Bramwell, Viscount Rivington, glared at the man in consternation. “Devil take the fellow, what do you mean he’s not here? Everyone tells me he eats, breathes and sleeps this blasted building site. He’s been hounding me to speak to him, and when I arrive as demanded, he’s buggered off.”
The man, who had introduced himself as Mr Ludlow, rubbed the back of his neck, looking awkward. “I’m right sorry, my lord. I’m afraid he ain’t never took a day afore now, but he said he had private business that wouldn’t wait.”
“Private business, eh?” Damian repeated, considering this.
That Gideon might do something as wild and self-indulgent as have a pretty little ladybird tucked away somewhere snug was so laughable he dismissed it at once.
His poor brother didn’t have private business, which meant one thing.
He’d gone to that bloody asylum, the pitiable fool.
“That’s what the note said. That were it, weren’t it, Mr Ridley?” Ludlow called across the site to a small hut where a man had appeared in the doorway.
“What’s that, Ludlow?” the man asked, shading his face against the sun. His voice held a faint note of disdain, which Ludlow clearly heard, for his shoulders stiffened a degree.
“This is Mr Bramwell’s brother, sir. Lord Rivington.”
A spark of curiosity lit Mr Ridley’s eyes, quickly replaced by one Damian recognised as calculation.
Mr Ridley hadn’t known Gideon Bramwell’s brother was titled.
Not that Damian was surprised, he suspected Deon would disown him completely given half the chance, but he certainly wouldn’t broadcast the information. He didn’t entirely blame him.
“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, my lord,” Mr Ridley said, smiling broadly as he moved to greet him.
“I am afraid Ludlow here is quite correct, however. Mr Bramwell has gone for the day, leaving the site in my hands. Might I interest you in a tour of the place? I would be happy to show you around, or I can offer you a cup of tea. The facilities are rudimentary, but that much can be managed,” he said with a jocular chuckle.
Damian considered Mr Ridley for a moment.
He was a pretty fair judge of character, and in his estimation, Ridley was an arsehole.
“No, I thank you. If you would inform my brother that I called upon him, that will be all. Good day to you.” He turned to Ludlow and nodded to him. “Thank you for your time, Mr Ludlow.”
He strode away, but Ridley’s eager voice followed him as he went.
“Good day, my Lord Rivington. Let me know if I can be of service to you. I will be certain to let your brother know you called.”
Damian suppressed a grimace. He could not abide toadies.
Before he left, he turned to regard the vast building, the men who scrambled over the scaffolding and moved purposefully about the site. Though it was raw yet, and a long way from finished, Damian could not help but admire the bare bones of the place.
His little brother had designed this elegant structure and was to see it built.
It was strange, really. Damian had teased Gideon mercilessly for being too straitlaced, too afraid to kick up his heels and have fun, yet he realised now that Deon was the braver of them.
He had turned his back on society, knowing they would do likewise if he was foolish enough to work for a man like Mr King, and he hadn’t cared—or not enough to back down, at least. He’d wanted to create this place, and he was doing it, whereas Damian was—bored out of his bloody mind.
If only he had something to drive him as Gideon did, something to give his existence meaning.
Ah well.
Leaving the site, he wondered what to do next. The day had cleared after a dismal start, not that he’d seen much of it, but the afternoon was brighter, with even a touch of sunshine to warm his back as he returned to town.
He wasn’t entirely certain why he was dithering and avoiding Deon when he’d come here expressly to speak to him. But his courage kept failing him at the last moment and tormenting Deon was always entertaining. It was so damnably easy to do, that was the trouble.
Besides, his old friend Ravenscroft had been waxing lyrical about the bloody place, so he thought he’d look it over.
Little Valentine was certainly every bit as charming as the man had suggested, a quaint little seaside town that was so respectable it made Damian’s skin itch. He must have been out of his mind.
Still, he’d taken the rooms Ravenscroft had booked for the summer but had been unable to use after all.
He may as well stay. The food was good and his liver would probably appreciate the respite.
There were a few young bucks around if he grew desperate for a game of cards and if he was lucky, he might find a willing country lass to pass the time with.
Walking out onto the promenade, Damian stood and admired the sea for a moment, watching the tiny fishing boats bobbing about on the horizon. He was just wondering whether to return to the hotel for a bite to eat, or to try the Dog and Duck instead, when two elegant females caught his eye.
Dressed in the height of fashion, one in a pale primrose yellow, the other all in blue, he recognised them at once.
He’d made the darker girl scowl prodigiously when they’d entered the foyer of The Mermaid.
Later, they’d been with the Dowager Duchess of Hawkney, and a fellow guest had confirmed their identity.
“Good day, Lady Henrietta, Lady Cecilia.”
Lady Henrietta stiffened, as well she might, for they had still not been introduced. Her sister’s eyes were cool, too, but there was a glint of curiosity there.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, employing the effortless charm which he was well capable of when the mood took him. “It’s just that I know you are acquainted with my brother, so I am taking the most shocking liberty.”
“You are,” Lady Henrietta replied, looking unimpressed. “As you are not your brother.”
Oh, he liked her. There was a world of meaning behind those words, the implication that she knew and admired the saintly Gideon and had heard about his wicked older sibling too.
“Sadly, I am not. I am the black sheep, the one that people whisper about and tsk and shake their heads, but in truth, I am not so dreadful.” He gave them a soulful look that had melted a good few hearts in its ill-spent time.
“Merely misunderstood?” Lady Cecilia replied, quirking one eyebrow.
Damian grinned. “There, you do understand,” he said, considering the woman, who was perhaps on the high side of five and twenty.
A spinster? He could not see why. The Duke of Langley’s daughters were said to have significant dowries, and she wasn’t bracket faced.
No diamond, perhaps, but there was a certain something: dignity in the way she carried herself, a quiet calm that was rather restful.
Yet there was something else, a sense of something being tightly contained, controlled.
For a moment he wondered if she was always so restrained, or if it took effort.
Lady Henrietta was a different kettle of fish.
Restless energy rolled from her with no attempt to disguise it, and she clearly had no problem speaking her mind.
Not a comfortable sort of female, but the kind who would lead one a merry dance.
Damian’s gaze returned to her sister, intrigued by how different they were.
“Are you off to sample the delights of ices at The Mermaid?” he asked.
“We are, if you would excuse us,” Lady Henrietta said, taking her sister’s arm and walking past him.
“I was on my way there myself,” he lied. “I have not yet tried the ices, what would you recommend?”
“That you cast your lures elsewhere,” Lady Henrietta replied shortly, and towed her sister away.
Damian laughed, taking no offense. It was no more than he deserved, he knew. Yet Lady Cecilia turned just as they entered the building, meeting his eyes.
He winked at her, unsurprised by the colour that rose to her fair cheeks.