London, November, 1858
“You can’t think to marry that wicked little tramp, Terry. She gulled you into proposing, didn’t she? God, I can’t believe how naive you are!” Neil Bronwyn knocked back his whiskey with an audible gulp and poured himself another. He felt like taking a stick to the boy. “Whatever possessed you to announce such a thing? And at White’s, of all places? Everybody’s laughing.”
“You think I care? Just because you’re eight years older, you think you can tell me—”
“Shut up and look around you, man,” Neil said with a sweeping gesture of his glass that threatened the Aubusson carpel. Havington treasures dotted even the study of the town house—expensive cherry, Ming dynasty vases, silver-crested crystal decanters, a Rembrandt drawing, a solid gold paper-weight with the family crest. A long-dead countess, immortalized by Vigée-Lebrun, glared at them from over a classic mantel designed by Wren. Probably turning in her grave, Neil thought. “Recall who you are, for God’s sake—an earl now, with all the responsibilities that come with it. Your name and title are who you are, Terry.”
“I will marry her,” the boy said simply. There was no belligerence now, no wrathful, rebellious tone. The angelic face with its guileless blue eyes looked calm and determined. The narrow shoulders were firmly set against Neil, who was easily twice his size. He admired the lad’s resolve, if not his cause.
Until the rascal spoke. “I will have her, Neil.”
“Then take her to bed if you must! But marriage? Hell, you’re only twenty-one. You have no conception of what commitment is all about, and she wouldn’t know the meaning of the word. I know you don’t believe me, but she’ll play you false before the ink dries on the license.”
Neil mellowed a bit after his outburst, both from the whiskey and a sharp wave of sympathy for the lad’s infatuation. He’d been where Terry was and survived it. The scar had healed. Almost. Watching his nephew struggle through a similar coil didn’t bear thinking about.
“She’s not that sort, Neil, regardless of what you think. I know you mean well,” Terry said with a protracted sigh, “but I’ll remind you that I am of age. The time has passed when you need to wipe my nose.”
“If you’d keep it clean, I wouldn’t have to,” Neil scoffed. “I promised Jonathan on his deathbed that I would—”
“I know, I know. Watch after me.” To Terry’s credit, he didn’t show half the resentment Neil knew he must be feeling. “Neil, he was a good father to me and to you as well, even if he was your older brother. You’ve always been more like a brother to me than an uncle. I do appreciate your concern, but…”
“But you’re the earl and will do as you damn well please, eh?” Neil asked, knowing the answer. The boy had a head like marble.
“Just so. I am the earl,” Terry said unequivocally.
“Then I bid you good night, my lord,” Neil said quietly. He set his glass down carefully on the mantel and strode to the door.
“Aw, Neil.” Terry came after him and caught his arm. “Don’t leave angry.”
“Just leave, eh?” Neil offered a tired smile with the tired joke. He loved his nephew and hated to see the boy distressed. But damn it all, how could he stand idly by and do nothing while Terry wrecked his future? “Meet you at the races on Saturday?”
Terry nodded once and let go of his sleeve.
“I’ll see myself out,” Neil told him. “And, Terry…please think very carefully about all the repercussions of this, won’t you?”
Lost in his thoughts, Neil strode down the brick walkway to his waiting carriage. Terry left him no alternative but to approach the woman. Hell, he couldn’t even buy her off; she already had a bloody fortune. Perhaps if he appealed to her sympathy, Lady Marleigh would be willing to set her sights elsewhere. Not likely, though, if all he heard was true.
Old Marleigh’s daughter had a reputation as black as the devil’s hoof, smutted beyond repair by every wagging tongue in London. The Gazette published accounts of her antics almost weekly. She had to have worked damned hard to ruin herself so completely in the four months since her father’s death. Totally wild, they said, as amoral as an alley cat. Worse than Caro Lamb, old Byron’s paramour. And God knew that one had been a trollop of the first water. Decades later her adventures were still legend, just as Lady Marleigh’s were becoming.
Neil peered out into the night as his carriage trundled along toward his bachelor digs near the hospital. The foggy night and his mission left him with a chill that his fox-lined cloak couldn’t warm. Godamercy, he should be with the army now, where he could do some good. Horrible as it was, he’d at least felt. useful. What the hell was he doing here, trying to sort out Terry’s life when his own lay in pieces?
If only Jon had lived. Coming home on leave had been a mistake. Would it have been any easier if Neil had heard of his brother’s death while in the Crimea? Would he still be alive if the fox hunt to entertain Neil had never taken place?
Jon’s deathbed request had forced Neil to resign his commission so he could stay and look after Terry. Pitiful job he had made of that! The three months he had needed to study the latest medical developments—first in Florence, then in Boston—had been three too many away. He never should have left Terry at such a vulnerable point—orphaned, young, newly titled, inexperienced. And ripe for plucking by a jaded little tart who knew exactly what she was doing. Women like that were a scourge!
Jon had always been so careful about the Bronwyn name and the Havington title. How adamant he was, even as he drew his last few breaths, that Neil protect the boy and give him proper guidance until he gained maturity. With both his mother and father dead, Terry would have no one else, Jon had said.
Why couldn’t Jon have survived and handled this himself? Neil cursed his brother’s carelessness in taking a jump beyond his mount’s ability. He despaired at the helplessness he felt watching his brother die. All those years spent becoming a physician and he could do nothing. Jon lay dead only half a year, and now his only son planned a marriage that would destroy him socially, politically and probably emotionally as well. No, by God, Neil vowed, he’d do his duty by Jon, and by Terry as well. He’d put a stop to this if it was the last thing he ever did.
Neil pulled out his watch; it was a bit past ten. He ran a gloved thumb over the timepiece, considering whether it might be too late. Then he raised his malacca cane and rapped on the top of the carriage. When it slowed and his driver peered down through the small opening, Neil ordered, “To St. James’s, Oliver. Marleigh House.” Might as well have done with this distasteful business now. Tonight.
Elizabeth Marleigh stuffed her traveling case to bursting and sat on top to pack it down for fastening. Footsteps in the hallway gave her just enough time to drag it off the bed and see if she could lift it. “What?” She answered the knock.
“Sorry, milady, but there’s a doctor downstairs in th’ foya wishin’ to speak wi’ you. Says it’s frightful urgent,” the tweenie said, sounding upset. “Mr. Thurston’s abed and I didn’t know where ta put—”
“Tell him I’ll be down directly,” Elizabeth interrupted. Who had called a doctor? Thurston complained so constantly she hardly paid attention anymore. She hadn’t seen him up and about for several days, though. No doubt he’d been just as useless in his prime, when he’d been in her uncle’s employ. She ought to have turned him off when her father died, but he had nowhere else to go. Butlers in their dotage were in short demand. Maybe the doctor would recommend retirement and she could let Thurston go with a pension. Well, with her away in Scotland, there would be very little for him to do but rest and recover, anyway.
She