Chapter 8
After Kerr’s father died, the viscountess remarried to the Marquess of Greyhold.
From that, Kerr gained a brother in the marquess’s son.
Where Kerr got his arse handed him for being a scraggy little fellow and a slow grower, Greyhold had been all legs, arms, and eventually muscle enough that by his entry to Eton, he went from tall, slender, sapling to thick mighty oak.
No one crossed Greyhold.
They wouldn’t dare.
The naval hero’s huge strides ate a swath so quick through the busy club, none of their trio had time to rise.
“Gentlemen,” Lord Greyhold greeted. He assessed the more than half-empty snifter and motioned to a server.
“Happy to have you,” Kerr took delight in saying and meaning it for a host of reasons.
“Speak for your bloody self,” Culross muttered.
“Ah, Culross. A pleasure. Tell me, how is the lovely Lady Culross?” Kerr’s brother timed his polite query with military-like precision.
The jealous husband surged forward just as a server arrived with a fresh glass, but Archdale’s heavy hand clamped over his volatile brother’s fist, forcing him to compose himself.
Greyhold grinned. In fairness, Greyhold was always smiling.
An unlikely feat for a man who’d served under Nelson at thirteen and went on to survive some of the bloodiest battles at sea.
All that should have made Kerr’s younger brother the perfect stand-in for Culross’s quartermaster when Kerr’s injuries kept him from the sea.
Greyhold stood in on the voyage that included the now Countess of Culross.
Few could withstand Greyhold’s charm. On their shared voyage, Lady Culross had proven no exception.
“Control your brother,” Culross snapped after the servant left.
Kerr made no effort to hide his wide grin. “I can no more control this one than you can yours.”
The younger brothers tapped glasses.
“Laugh all you bloody want,” the earl warned, wagging his signet-wearing finger. “You’ll see for yourself soon enough.”
They both knew that wasn’t true, since Kerr had no intention of marrying. Yet one of them, the sole starry-eyed husband among them, went soft and contradicted it in the very next breath: “Every bachelor swears off marriage.”
“Ah, but not every bachelor sports the scars I do.” For that very reason, he didn’t mind the marks he wore.
“Bah, the ladies love them,” his brother said. “Unfortunately, in my career, I wasn’t so generously compensated.”
Collectively, the three men booed and threw various gestures at a jovially laughing Greyhold.
Not every bachelor, however, heralded from a line of madness—nor were these the sort of thoughts he shared aloud. Friends, best friends, or brothers didn’t speak of such things. And so, he kept quiet, continuing the same guarded way he did with Culross, Archdale, and Greyhold.
Archdale thumped a fist on the table to quiet the rowdy group, wagged his eyebrows, and said, “Not all the ladies despise them—the wicked ones love them.”
He sipped his brandy and watched the younger brothers—who looked like university boys—bang the bottoms of their glasses on the table, failing to see Culross setting up a sudden, out-of-left-field checkmate until it was far too late.
“Well, that no longer holds. Not after the Dashing, Devilish Lord Kerr’s heroics.”
There it was.
And Kerr knew precisely the reason for the long stares, whispers, and more than mild amusement from his trio of friends, which only called for the memory of how close Andromena came to having her body broken, and drawing her last breath. A fresh burst of blood rushed into his ears.
Lord Archdale’s voice came muffled. “You saved Miss Smith not once, but twice.”
Three times. He clenched his teeth. “I’m aware.”
Greyhold, as any good brother, sensed his need for a refill.
As for Culross’s sibling, the young man continued down a dangerous path. “Surely you didn’t expect word of your heroism didn’t find its way to White’s?”
Kerr caught the look Culross and Greyhold shared.
The earl gave his head a slight shake. “Arch.”
Culross’s warning went unheeded.
Archdale burst out laughing and drew stares from the members. “Oh, my God, you actually did!”
“I’m seriously regretting my decision,” Kerr muttered, but that wasn’t true.
The only thing that made him truly uncomfortable was the sight of Andromena’s tears, and her slumped shoulders as she forlornly walked off.
He frowned. What if she had been hurt? He had taken the force of the fall, but she had hit twice and landed right on top of him, and he certainly hadn’t offered any actual cushion to—
Greyhold gaveled the table to order. “Details.”
Cutting through the noise in his own head, he measured his silent audience with a cold, steady look.
Details? They wanted bloody details. “The youngest Miss Smith stopped in the middle of New Bond Street—”
“That news already made the rounds.” Kerr’s impatient brother made an impatient sweep with his hand.
“—for no bloody good reason. The chit nearly got herself run down by a carriage. And not even five or so minutes later, she was almost trampled by a mount,” he raged. “Your sister-in-law is a bird-wit, Culross.”
“She’s a McQuoid,” Greyhold reminded.
That Culross didn’t disagree with that assessment of his in-laws revealed much.
Kerr’s blood hammered a fresh beat of fury against his temples.
“How casual you are about the lady’s life,” he bit out, his voice a low, gravel-scrape in the well-lit room.
“First last night. Now this. By all that’s holy, she walks about like an open prize for every rogue,” And worse.
“Who cares nothing for her sharp tongue.” He snatched up his snifter, threw back the raw amber liquor, and let the burn scour the rage down his throat.
It didn’t help. “What are you thinking?” he whispered furiously. “I’ll tell you; you aren’t. By God, she’s trouble for any man who can handle her sharp tongue. She’s going to get herself killed, and it will be entirely your fault.”
A trio of slack-jaws and peculiar stares met him.
“What?” Kerr snapped.
Culross answered for the group. “It don’t recall ever seeing you in such a state.”
“Yes, well, that’s because I never had to deal with Andromena Smith.”
He grabbed his glass, remembered too late it was empty, and put it down hard. The stem cracked and the round bowl of his glass splintered like ice.
A servant rushed over.
Kerr’s glacial glare sent the footman racing for the shadows.
The younger brothers fell into a private conversation. They knew better than to say a bloody word.
Culross tightened his jaw, his voice hard and flat. “I had no right to mock what almost took Andromena from us.”
“Damned right you didn’t.”
“I’m grateful for all you’ve done to help my sister-in-law,” Culross said.
“I don’t want your thanks.” And for good reason.
They were best chums. But if Culross knew Kerr dragged Andromena on his lap and mated his mouth against hers like she was a common strumpet, their shipping partnership—and likely one of their lives—would end that night.
The lady did not need a chaperone; she needed a guard with a heavy club to keep her out of trouble.
He stilled. Wait a moment…
She’d been alone again. Same as before in the Rookeries and on the way to Hartwell’s wedding, Andromena had neither a maid, a strapping footman, a non-strapping footman, a sailor, a brother, a cous—
“You deserve my gratitude,” the earl was saying.
Kerr sensed a trap under those casual words. Kerr was so confident, he almost quit the table and placed a wager in the White’s Betting Book.
“What do you want now?”
Hadn’t it been enough he’d abducted the bloody fellow’s youngest sister-in-law?
But apparently it was not because Culross proceeded to enlighten Kerr with what he needed this time.
Lady Culross’s dim-witted uncle, the Earl of Abington, collector of gibbity-whats-its and peculiarities but misplacer-of-daughters and nieces, had—or had not, it was really rather difficult to say at this point—with the meandering the once articulate fellow was doing, lost some of his gew-gaws.
“And so, I was hoping you’d be open to meeting with Abington. Hear what he has to say—.”
“Abington?” said Kerr.
Culross nodded.
“As in the same man who believes that fraud, George Psalmanazar’s tale of cannibalization on the Island of Formosa?”
“The very same,” the younger Archdale confirmed.
Culross glared.
Hastily averting his eyes, Archdale topped his personal glass off.
Culross recalled Kerr’s attention. “It’s unlikely there’s any sinister plot against Abington, and he’s merely misplaced some of his pieces—”
Kerr cursed. “King George could haul Abington’s Elgin Marbles out in front of him, and the earl wouldn’t know they were gone.”
Archdale and Greyhold laughed. Even Culross grinned.
When the earl finished, Kerr was certain his longtime friend and second brother was joking. Except, this time Kerr laughed, and Culross, Archdale, and Greyhold drank in silence. Alas, the glasses weren’t bottomless.
“You are actually serious,” Kerr said flatly.
“Very much so.”
Culross couldn’t tear himself from his wife’s side, bed, or wherever the hell he kept her these days.
He looked at Archdale.
The younger man held his palms up. “I sail within the week.”
“That’s a new sailing added to the line,” said Kerr. “Convenient.”
Guilty color splotched young Archdale’s cheeks.
Kerr contemplated his brother, decided he couldn’t inflict maximum pain upon him, and then settled his fury on Culross.
“I’ve gone to battle with you, for you. I’ve helped quell a mutiny on your ship. Taken a blade for you, and I can say with absolute certainty, any one of those acts would be preferable to what you’re asking.”
“I know,” Culross said. “Just as I know you won’t decline.”
“I bloody should.” But he wouldn’t.
They both knew it.
“Give him a week, Kerr,” said Culross. “Who knows, you might even enjoy it.”
Of a certainty, regular calls to Abington would be what ultimately shoved Kerr into stark, raving lunacy.
While they settled in for another round of drinks, Kerr found some consolation. At least Culross hadn’t saddled him with the hellish nuisance of Andromena and her beautiful, stubborn mouth.