Chapter 4
Alexander walked with the measured unhurry of a man who had learned long ago that speed announced itself to the wrong people.
The ballroom received him the way it received all returning prodigals — with enthusiasm that contained, if one knew how to look for it, a considerable quantity of calculation.
He knew how to look for it.
Anthony materialized at his shoulder within moments of his reaching the floor, as reliable in this as he had been in childhood, falling into step beside him with the easy coordination of someone who had spent years reading the same room from the same angle.
"Brace yourself," Anthony murmured from the corner of his mouth, his smile perfectly maintained for public consumption. "Reginald Cavendish at nine o'clock. He has been angling toward you since you appeared on the stairs."
Alexander did not alter his pace. "Cavendish. Refresh my memory."
"Coal interests in Wales, shipping routes through the Cape, and a very persistent desire to acquire your father's diamond operation.
Made four separate approaches over the past four years, each refused with decreasing politeness.
" Anthony accepted two glasses of wine from a passing footman and pressed one into Alexander's hand.
"He will not lead with the business. He never does. "
"No," Alexander agreed. "He will lead with sentiment."
He was correct.
Cavendish was a broad man in his mid-fifties, prosperous in the way that certain men of commerce became prosperous — visibly, thoroughly, and without particular apology for it.
He arrived before them with his hand already extended and his expression arranged into the warm particularity of a man greeting a lost friend rather than a business prospect.
"Alexander Harrington," he said, with the familiarity of someone invoking a first name he had not earned.
"My God. I would not have credited it had I not seen it with my own eyes.
" He gripped Alexander's hand with both of his own and pumped it with vigorous feeling.
"Eight years, my boy. Eight extraordinary years.
" His eyes moved across Alexander's face with the assessment of a man pricing livestock at auction.
"I confess, if one looks past the beard and the rather — shall we say, distinguished — evidence of your travels, I can still see the young man your father presented at his last dinner party.
Before all of this." He gestured vaguely at Alexander's face, meaning the scar, the weathering, the general evidence of a life lived outside drawing rooms.
A silence followed. Anthony, standing slightly to Alexander's left, studied the ceiling.
"Hypocrisy," Alexander said pleasantly, "is what I despise the most."
Cavendish blinked. His smile held but required visible effort. "I — beg your pardon?"
"You attempted to acquire the diamond operation from my father on four separate occasions," Alexander said. "He refused you each time. I presume you are here to make the same approach to me."
The bonhomie retreated from Cavendish's expression, revealing whatever sat beneath it, which was harder and considerably less warm. "I merely thought, given the complexity of managing such an operation after so prolonged an absence—"
"It is not for sale."
"Your Grace, if you were to hear the figure I have in mind—"
"Are you deaf, Mr. Cavendish?"
The question arrived without heat, without emphasis, in precisely the same register as everything Alexander had said before it.
That, somehow, made it considerably worse.
Around them, the ballroom moved and glittered with complete indifference to the small, precise exchange taking place beside the second pillar.
Cavendish stiffened. Something had fully abandoned his expression now. "I stand corrected, Your Grace," he said, the courtesy sitting on the words like a coat on the wrong man. "You are — considerably changed from the young man I remember."
"The young man you remember is long gone," Alexander said, "went down with that ship six years ago." He held Cavendish's gaze for one moment precisely. "Enjoy the evening."
Cavendish departed.
Anthony watched him go in silence. Then, carefully: "That was rather direct."
"Was it?" Alexander took a sip of his wine.
"The man turned a color I do not believe I have seen on a human face before. Somewhere between outrage and genuine alarm." Anthony glanced at his cousin sidelong. "You have developed a most unsettling quality, Alex. I cannot quite name it."
"When one allows the wolves to smell blood," Alexander said, "one spends the remainder of the evening removing them from his throat. I find it more efficient to disappoint them early."
"Very philosophical." Anthony turned to face him more directly, his easy manner shading into something more serious beneath the surface. "Though I confess the wolves metaphor gives me pause. It implies you expect more of them."
"I expect considerably more of them." Alexander's eyes moved across the room with the systematic patience of a man conducting an inventory.
"Anthony." He kept his voice level, his expression unchanged for the benefit of anyone observing from a distance.
"In this entire city — this entire room full of people who have known my family for generations and are delighted to welcome me home — you are the only person I trust."
Anthony was quiet for a moment. "And your mother."
"Yes." A slight pause. "And my mother. Though I would prefer to keep her removed from whatever comes next."
"And what does come next?"
Alexander looked at him then — directly, briefly. "I came home to do some rather foolish things, cousin. The particulars can wait for a quieter evening than this one." He returned his gaze to the room.
Anthony absorbed this with the stillness of someone who has just understood that a conversation is larger than it initially appeared. His usual facility for light remark seemed to have temporarily deserted him. After a moment, he said simply: "All right."
"Now let us focus on the guests."
"Though I will say," Anthony added, recovering slightly, "that whatever expression you were wearing during that last exchange with Cavendish — the one that turned him that remarkable color — you might consider deploying it more sparingly in public. You will empty the room before supper."
The corner of Alexander's mouth shifted. "Perhaps that is the intention."
"Alexander." His mother's voice arrived at his left shoulder with the gentle authority it had always carried, capable of cutting through any conversation without raising itself above its natural register.
Margaret Harrington appeared beside them, her expression the composed blend of maternal satisfaction and social pragmatism that Alexander had known since childhood.
"You have been standing in this corner conducting what appears to be a very serious conversation with your cousin for the better part of twenty minutes, during which time half the room has been attempting to attract your attention and the other half has been watching Reginald Cavendish turn colors. "
"Mother," Alexander said.
"This is your evening, my dear. It would be a considerable waste of it to spend it exclusively in Anthony's company, charming as he is.
" She nodded toward the far side of the room.
"Lady Anna Pemberton and her friends have been looking in this direction with great patience and admirable restraint.
It would be very gracious of you to go and speak with them. "
Anthony's expression brightened with immediate and genuine enthusiasm.
"She makes an excellent point. A Duke brooding in corners is merely eccentric.
A Duke who is gracious and sociable to the female guests is perfect, considering the circumstances.
It will soften your reputation, and make people feel more comfortable. "
"You are absolutely correct. I am blessed to have you both by my side," Alexander said.
"Come. I will introduce you. I know half of them — Anna Pemberton and I very nearly got into serious trouble at her family's summer party a few years ago, which means she at minimum finds me entertaining."
Alexander turned to his mother. She was watching him with the expression she reserved for moments she intended to remember. He took her hand and raised it briefly to his lips.
"You are," he said quietly, "the better part of whatever is good in me."
Margaret's composure held, as it always held, with the particular strength of a woman who had learned to carry large feelings in a very small space. "Go," she said. "Be charming. It is, I assure you, a skill that does not require six years of practice to return."
Alexander held her gaze for one moment. Then he turned, set his glass on the tray of a passing footman, and crossed the ballroom toward Anna Pemberton and her friends.
They crossed the ballroom at an unhurried pace, Anthony greeting several guests along the way with the practiced ease of a man entirely comfortable in his social skin.
Alexander moved beside him and said nothing, which several people they passed appeared to find more unnerving than anything he might have said.
Anna Pemberton saw them coming. Her eyes moved from Anthony — whom she greeted with the warm familiarity of shared history — to Alexander, where they settled with the unconcealed appreciation of someone looking at something genuinely remarkable.
Catherine, standing at Anna's shoulder, did not look up immediately. She was studying the room with the same quiet attention Alexander had observed from across it earlier.
"Lord Anthony," Anna said, dropping into a curtsy of entirely appropriate depth. "What a perfectly timed rescue. We were in grave danger of having to discuss the weather."