There are five reasons for drinking: the arrival of a friend, one’s present or future thirst, the excellence of the wine, or any other reason.
—Latin Proverb
Three days later
“So, the invalid is now up and about?” Madeline inquired, raising a quizzical brow as she gazed about Gervase’s room, from which Gervase himself was conspicuously absent.
“The convalescent,” Margaret emphasized the word, “decided to resume walking today.” And would not listen to a word of advice to the contrary. At least he’d taken a cane with him.
Elaine hid a smile behind her hand. “Oh, dear. You have my sympathies. Convalescents are always hard to manage, and Lyons men more than most.”
“Tell me about it,” Margaret sighed.
Like most people who were seldom ill, Gervase was a difficult patient, especially after the dazed docility from the concussion wore off. She’d tried not to hover, knowing it would make him even testier, but her heart had whimpered over every wince, every sign that he was in pain. And yet another part of her had taken comfort simply in the knowledge that he was here to be snappish over his lingering aches, to scowl in a rare display of temper over the tonic and teas she made him drink. To be fair, he seemed angriest with himself and the current limitations of his body rather than with anyone else. But he’d grown increasingly restless and irritable in the last day or so.
Messalina brushed against her leg, meowing plaintively. The cat had somehow found her way into the room yesterday, settling herself in a purring heap beside the patient, who had given a martyred sigh, but neither ousted her from her position nor demanded her removal. He’d seemed to find stroking her soothing. Feste, much to his displeasure, was denied access to the bedchamber until Gervase was stronger; Juliana had taken charge of the kitten until then.
Elaine stooped and picked up the cat for a cuddle. “Poor Messalina! She’s utterly besotted with him, you know.”
She wasn’t the only one, Margaret reflected with a bittersweet pang. Love had its hooks deep in her as well—as she’d finally acknowledged on the night of her vigil. When she’d realized she still might lose him, without even the joy of having had him—fully and completely—as her husband and her life’s companion. The thought of remarrying, of opening herself anew to the potential loss and grief, still frightened her... but not as much as life without Gervase.
Distractedly, she fingered the cameo pinned to the collar of her shirtwaist. She’d donned it just this morning, but if Gervase had noticed—surely, he must have noticed—he hadn’t said a word. Nor had he brought up the subject of his proposal, not once since he’d awakened. She told herself that he was only giving her the time he’d promised, but it was hard not to wonder—and even harder not to fear that he’d been the one to have a change of heart.
Her own heart ached at the possibility, the heart that she’d believed irreparably broken by Alex’s death. This wasn’t exactly love as she’d known it for him, but they were such different men. Alex had been all comfort and reassurance, while Gervase was challenge and fulfillment: a man whose physical presence made her pulse quicken, whose incisive intellect stimulated her own, who could rouse her to fury with a few well-chosen words and melt her heart like butter with one dimpled smile. And she was almost embarrassed to admit how much she desired him, even in his present condition—battered and somewhat surly. Where was he now? She hoped he wouldn’t jeopardize his recovery by trying to do too much too soon.
Madeline’s voice broke into her thoughts. “What a lovely brooch, Margaret! Is it new?”
Margaret roused herself quickly. “Yes, it is. A Christmas gift, from a dear friend,” she added. That was still true, whatever else happened between her and Gervase.
“Well, that friend has excellent taste,” Madeline approved.
Elaine put down the squirming Messalina, who promptly vanished under Gervase’s bed, and admired the brooch in turn. “How pretty! I do love cameos—Alasdair gave me a cameo necklace for my last birthday. I’m thinking of wearing it for the wedding tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Margaret echoed, dumbfounded. “I thought it had been postponed, because of the accident?”
The sisters exchanged a look. “That was discussed, yes,” Elaine admitted. “But since Gervase is recovering well, Papa suggested that the wedding go forward as scheduled—to give us additional reason to celebrate.”
“I see.” Margaret cursed the duke inwardly, along with her own preoccupation. She’d had no thought to spare these last four days for anyone but Gervase—and assumed that held true for the rest of his family. How naïve of her to think that an injured son might take precedence over His Grace’s marital schemes!
Again Madeline and Elaine traded significant glances. “Margaret, I hope you’re not too upset—at being left out of the wedding plans,” the latter began. “It’s just that we all knew how busy you were, taking care of Gervase.”
“And thank God for that,” Madeline added, more warmly than usual. “We couldn’t have done without you. I suspect even Farnsworth was glad to have you in charge of the sickroom.”
“Thank you,” Margaret acknowledged mechanically, suspecting that Alicia had probably been relieved that she’d been too busy to interfere. “I appreciate all the support you offered during that time, and I know Gervase does as well. He’ll be sorry to have missed you.”
“We’ll come back later,” Madeline promised. “Even Lyons men need their rest.”
Margaret closed the door behind them, then leaned against it, one thought uppermost in the chaos swirling through her tired brain.
One day left to stop a wedding... how was she to manage it?
Gervase paused, ostensibly to catch his breath, but really to let the aches subside. Stubborn as a mule, Margaret had declared in exasperation when he stated his intent of being up and about today. He hadn’t denied her charge, though he was rather relieved she wasn’t presently about to witness his efforts. He’d walked the length of the Long Gallery and back, and to his chagrin, found himself as weary as if he’d traversed the entire estate.
Braced against the wall, he contemplated the journey back to his chamber without enthusiasm. Ordinarily, he made nothing at all of the distance, but today that length of corridor stretched like a trek through the Sahara, even with a cane to help him along. Nor was he looking forward to Farnsworth’s disapproval—his valet had made it clear that he sided with Margaret on this. Not to mention Margaret herself, who could not always resist the temptation to say, “I told you so”—one of his least favorite phrases in any language.
The door just down the passage opened, and Reg looked out. “Oh, it’s you. Should you be out of bed?”
The note of concern in his voice, muted though it was, came as a definite surprise. “Probably not, if you ask Margaret,” Gervase admitted ruefully. “But I couldn’t face another day flat on my back, with nothing but the canopy or the opposite wall to look at.”
Reg grunted in what might have sympathy. He himself was a terrible patient, Gervase remembered vividly; short-tempered, impatient, and forever attempting to circumvent the doctor’s orders. It must run in the family.
“I was about to have a drink,” his brother announced abruptly. “Care to join me?”
An invitation, from Reg? “All right,” Gervase said after a moment. “Thank you.”
Reg turned and went back into his room, and Gervase followed.
“So, what’s the occasion?” he inquired, closing the door behind him.
“Have you not heard? My wedding is tomorrow. Postponement was considered,” he added as Gervase raised a questioning brow, “but as you’re making a good recovery, our father suggested that we keep to the original plan.”
Gervase wondered what it said about him that he was neither surprised nor hurt by the duke’s suggestion, though perhaps he should have been. “And you agreed to it?”
Reg shrugged, not quite meeting his eyes. “It’s what Alicia wants.” He strode over to the sideboard, where several crystal decanters stood. “Brandy or whiskey?”
“Brandy, thanks.”
His brother unstopped one of the decanters and poured a measure of amber liquor into a pair of snifters. “So, come tomorrow, I shall be Reginald the married man.”
The prospect did not appear to fill him with delight. Gervase had seen enough friends and acquaintances married to know that the night before a wedding tended to be a festive occasion for men. Grooms would be spirited off by friends to observe their last night of bachelorhood with stiff drinks at a pub—or rowdier entertainment elsewhere. No such revelry tonight, however... just Reg, stoically drinking by himself in his chamber.
Did that stoicism hide loneliness? Gervase thought about his own mask, carefully constructed to hide any sign of weakness or vulnerability. Perhaps he and Reg weren’t so different after all.
Accepting one of the snifters, he sank down upon one of Reg’s well-padded leather armchairs, thankful to be off his feet. He could not remember when he had last been in his brother’s room—not since boyhood, perhaps. But now, as then, it was a study in darker hues and solidly masculine furniture, as well as being scrupulously neat and orderly, the way one imagined a soldier’s room to be.
Reg took the armchair opposite, and set his glass on the table between them. “Well, shall we have a toast?”
“To...” Given his brother’s somber demeanor, it seemed inapposite to toast to the wedding. “To the future,” Gervase said at last, lifting his glass.
“To the future,” Reg echoed, touching his glass briefly to Gervase’s before tossing off a healthy swallow of brandy.
Gervase drank as well, savoring the smooth caress of the brandy. “Better than tincture of willow bark any day,” he observed.
Reg’s mouth crooked in what might have been a smile. “Oh, God—yes. You have my sympathy, brother.” He held up his glass again. “To courage. Yours, in particular.”
“Mine?”
“Saving the pup from his folly on the hunting field.” He paused, then added with the air of one making a confession, “In your place, I don’t know that I’d have done the same.”
Gervase frowned. “You ride like a centaur, Reg. Of course you could have done it.”
“Could have. I just don’t know that I would have.” Reg’s mouth tightened. “God help me, I saw him struggling with that damned horse, and my first thought was that it served him right. Riding to his rescue... never occurred to me. Hell, I actually thought it might do him some good to fall.”
“In ordinary circumstances, perhaps,” Gervase conceded. “We took our share of falls over the years, didn’t we? But this was a hunt—and I couldn’t forget Hal.”
“I did. Until it was almost too late.” Reg took another swallow of brandy. “Jason and I—may never be on the best terms, but... this family did not need to bury another child.”
“Exactly.” Rare to find himself in such accord with Reg. He was reluctant to lose their present amity. “Those happened to be my thoughts as well. Jason’s been thoroughly spoiled by Father, and he can be an ass at times—like most young men—but he didn’t deserve to die for it.”
Reg grunted, whether in agreement or amusement Gervase could not tell. “He’s in a somewhat chastened mood these days. I suggest you enjoy it while it lasts. I plan on doing so.”
“Perhaps some of it will take,” Gervase suggested. Soon after he’d regained consciousness, Jason had visited, almost babbling with relief and touchingly grateful for Gervase’s intervention—more the engaging boy and less the overindulged brat. Margaret, he recalled, had been quite thoroughly disarmed.
“Mm.” Reg did not look overly convinced. “I’m tempted to make him an offer on that horse—it’s far too strong for him to ride.”
“That may be, but you’ll undoubtedly set his back up if you put it that way,” Gervase warned. “And then he’ll hang on to the horse just to spite you.”
“True enough,” Reg conceded.
“But you still want the beast.”
“Guilty, Your Honor,” his brother confessed. “Do you know, when the horse first showed up at Denforth, I deluded myself into thinking that he was meant for me—as some sort of reward for doing what the old man wanted.”
“I wondered that as well,” Gervase admitted, taking another sip of brandy. “It’s like Father, isn’t it? To give with one hand, and take away with another. And dangle the grandest prize of all in exchange for complete obedience.”
“You’d think we’d have learned better by now.” Reg brooded over his glass. “And our mother’s a match for him, in good ways and bad.”
Gervase raised an eyebrow. It wasn’t often that he heard Reg criticize their mother.
“You may have the right idea—washing your hands of them both,” his brother went on. “And for what it’s worth, I’m relieved that you weren’t killed or maimed that day.”
“Thank you. Though I find this tedious enough as is,” Gervase added, gesturing towards the cane he’d propped against the arm of his chair.
“But necessary. Your lady wouldn’t thank us for letting you overtask yourself.”
Gervase eyed his brother warily. “You know, then?”
“About you and Margaret?” Reg smiled, just a little. “Hard to overlook it, especially after she took charge of the sickroom and threatened us all with bodily harm if we interfered with your recovery in any way. You mean to marry her, I trust?”
“I hope to. But I suspect it’ll take some persuading on my part.” He thought of the cameo he’d seen pinned to her collar, the flash of hope followed by a surge of caution. She might have chosen to wear it out of simple friendship; he did not yet dare to read anything more into it.
“Try your luck tomorrow. They say one wedding is the making of another.” Reg’s tone and expression had gone flat again. He lifted his glass, drained the last of the brandy, then gestured towards Gervase’s own nearly-empty snifter. “Care for another?”
“Maybe a small one. Let me get the decanter.” Gervase reached for his cane. “I should move around, or I’ll stiffen up.”
“If you’re sure you can manage,” Reg began, eyeing him with genuine concern.
“I’ll be fine.” Gervase levered himself out of the chair and made his way slowly to the sideboard. A little stiffness, but not too bad—a brief rest seemed to have eased the aches... or perhaps he was sufficiently numbed by the brandy not to feel them.
Reaching for the brandy, he noticed a photograph sitting at the end of the row of decanters. Two photographs, rather—facing each other in a silver frame: a dashing young man wearing the uniform of an army captain, and opposite him, a dark, almost exotically beautiful woman holding a dark-haired baby. Gervase studied both faces, but could not identify either.
“Second decanter from the left.” Reg spoke from over his shoulder. Then he saw what Gervase was looking at, and stilled abruptly. “I meant to put this away.” He picked up the photographs, stared at them as though no longer sure what to do with them.
“Were they friends of yours?” Gervase kept his voice low, even gentle.
“In a manner of speaking,” his brother replied, after a moment. “Adrian Markham was a captain in my regiment. We were both stationed in India three years ago.
“He was... a good officer. And a brave man. I was honored to serve with him.” To Gervase’s surprise, Reg’s eyes had moistened, and there was just the slightest tremor in his voice. He cleared his throat before resuming. “He died quite suddenly—a border skirmish.”
“I’m sorry.” Gervase had heard of the bond that could exist between fellow officers. Perhaps Reg had found “a new-sworn brother” in the army, one far more satisfactory than any of those he’d been born with. “And the other photograph is of his wife? And their child?”
Reg hesitated just a fraction too long before replying. “His wife, yes. Priya was half-caste. Her mother was a native, but well-born and very beautiful. All the same, it’s not easy for a child of mixed blood, not even in India. She and Markham had known each other for years—their marriage suited them both.” He cleared his throat again, turned away, still cradling the photographs to his chest. “I should like that brandy now. How about you?”
Taking the hint, Gervase picked up the decanter. Questions crowded his mind—chief among them why Reg was brooding over pictures of a dead comrade and his family on the eve of his wedding. And why Reg should have revealed this much to him, of all people. Their mother was usually his preferred confidant. Was it simply that Reg needed to talk? And about something that he felt more comfortable discussing with another man? Whatever the reason, Gervase found himself increasingly curious about this unexpected glimpse into his brother’s past. When all was said and done, they really didn’t know each other that well as adults. Their lives had diverged after Oxford: Reg vanishing into his regiment, while Gervase focused on his apprenticeship.
Returning to his chair, he poured more brandy for them both. Reg had placed the Markhams’ photographs on the table before him and was still gazing at them, his expression characteristically stoic—but Gervase recognized melancholy when he saw it.
“I hope Mrs. Markham found comfort in her child at least,” he ventured.
To his surprise, Reg stiffened, something flickering behind his eyes. Then he said in a voice carefully devoid of emotion. “Surya... was born almost ten months after Markham died.”
Not “her father” but “Markham.” Did that mean...?
Reg’s next words confirmed his suspicions. “There was a lover—another childhood friend of Priya’s. He died in a cholera epidemic, six weeks after she was widowed. And to complicate matters further, he was a native. Fortunately, Surya favors her mother.
“Priya was a good woman,” Reg went on, his tone strangely gentle. “Her marriage to Markham had always been one of friendship and convenience, not passion. I do not judge her for seeking comfort elsewhere, least of all when newly bereaved.”
Gervase just managed to conceal his surprise. Reg had blamed their father most bitterly for his infidelity. And yet here he was, expressing sympathy for an unfaithful wife. Granted, Markham might not have been an ideal husband. Had Reg harbored tender feelings for the lady? Gervase knew what it was to covet a woman bound to another man, a hell made even worse when that man was a friend—or brother. But, if so, why was Reg not hurt or outraged that she had turned to someone else after Markham’s death? Just where did his brother fit into all this?
“There must have been a great deal of unkind gossip—and speculation,” he said.
“You’d be right on both counts. Priya spent her confinement in seclusion, but that didn’t stop the whispers, or,” Reg’s expression hardened, “the wagers about Surya’s true paternity.”
Enlightenment did not so much dawn as strike like a hammer blow. “You?”
Still tight-lipped, Reg nodded confirmation. “I called on her several times after Markham died—he’d have wanted to me look after her. I suppose it was inevitable that our names would be linked... especially after I suggested that we marry.”
Gervase stared at him. “You proposed to her? Even though—”
“Even though I was engaged to Alicia,” Reg finished. “Yes, I did. It wouldn’t have been a love match, but we were friends—and I could protect her and the child.” He picked up his glass, swirled the contents around, but did not drink. “But she said that one marriage of convenience in her lifetime was enough. And if the child was a boy, she didn’t want him thrust into the position of being Duke of Whitborough someday, when he’d no right to the title.”
Dear God—the dukedom. Gervase pushed aside his own brandy. His head was already swimming without it, especially when he tried to envision their father’s reaction to Reg jilting Alicia and bringing home a half-caste bride with an illegitimate child. He’d speculated before about Reg having a mistress, but this was far more disconcerting.
“Priya agreed to have me as Surya’s godfather,” Reg continued. “And we correspond—more frequently, now that we’re both in England. She’s living with her father’s relations, in Cambridgeshire. They’ve accepted Surya—but it hasn’t been easy.”
“Do our parents know anything about this?”
Reg’s smile was blade-thin. “I don’t know about Mother, but our father’s—informants are nothing if not thorough.” His hand tightened around his snifter. “He thinks Surya is mine. I couldn’t convince him otherwise. He’s relieved that I did not marry her mother, but he’s... prepared to be generous.”
“Generous in what way?” Gervase inquired, but he suspected he already knew.
Reg stared into the depths of his glass “He’s offered to help provide for Surya—to make sure she and her mother never want for anything. That she’ll have the proper advantages when the time comes. Schooling, a dowry, possibly even a Season...” He looked up and Gervase saw the strain on his face, the storm of emotions in his eyes. “How could I refuse, when I know how hard it will be for her—for both of them—otherwise?”
“And, in exchange, you marry Alicia tomorrow?”
Reg’s silence was answer enough. Gervase reached for his glass and drank some brandy after all, remembering the Duke’s promises to him regarding Margaret’s stepsons.
“Wishing to help a comrade’s widow and her child is certainly commendable,” he said finally. “But you don’t lack other resources, Reg—and Mother would probably be happy to champion your goddaughter and Mrs. Markham. Not even the Duke of Whitborough’s support is worth binding yourself in marriage to someone you do not care for.”
Reg flushed. “I never said I did not care for Alicia—”
“In the last half-hour, you’ve spoken more warmly of the Markhams than you have of Alicia in the last five years,” Gervase pointed out. “You were prepared to break your betrothal for Mrs. Markham, despite not being in love with her either.”
“With our parents’ example before us, you’re recommending marriage for love?”
“I wouldn’t marry without it,” Gervase retorted. “Permit me to enlighten you. I have cared for Margaret for years—through her engagement to Hal and her marriage to Bellamy.”
Reg’s gaze sharpened. “I—I never knew that...”
Gervase shrugged. “No reason you should. I did not know that she would ever return my affections or be in a position to do so. I could have married at any time, but I chose not to. Not because I was pining away, but because I knew how unfair it would be to marry a woman I did not love... as I loved Margaret. Unfair to her—and unfair to me. And now,” he added softly, “it’s as well that I didn’t, don’t you think?”
Reg said tautly, “It’s not the same. No one is out there waiting for me.”
“You can’t know that for certain. And what about Alicia?” Gervase persisted. “What if there’s someone out there for her? Someone who could give her—more than indifference? Who could actually make her happy?”
“You think that I would make her unhappy.” It was not a question.
“I think you’d make each other unhappy,” Gervase replied evenly. “You by not giving Alicia what she most wants, Alicia by wanting more than you can give. And in the end... I believe the guilt would eat you alive.”
Reg swallowed and looked down, his hands white-knuckled about his glass. Gervase breathed out a sigh and set his own empty snifter down on the table.
“Think carefully, brother, about how you wish to live the rest of your life.” Gervase rose with the aid of his cane. “Thank you for the brandy. I’ll see myself out.”