L
orelei made it to her bedchamber before the dam of tears broke. She didn’t manage to keep the door from slamming. Why was Aunt Isobel in such a hurry to marry her off? True, she teased the duchess unmercifully, but she seemed to take it with gruff affection, and on occasion, even reveled somewhat in the attention. But Aunt Isobel had gone too far. Shufflebottom would never tolerate Brandon, and Lorelei would not stand for her brother being mistreated. More than that, he needed a sponsor for his art.
She paced off her anger until the tears dried and she could think coherently. She blew her nose and studied her red-rimmed eyes in the mirror. What the devil was she to do?
Someone tapped at the door. Quickly dropping her linen handkerchief, she walked to the window as the door opened.
“Lore?”
She spun around. “Oh, Brandon. Come in.”
He looked behind him then entered, dragging a case behind him.
“What—”
“I’m not staying here. I’m going back to Spixworth.”
For the second time in a day, she was stymied, left with her mouth gaping.
“She hates me. I’m a viscount. I have a home, and I’m going back. I don’t care what anyone says.”
Lorelei went to Brandon and wrapped him in a hug, warmed when his own arms tightened around her. She stepped back and, taking his hand, led him to the settee in front of the fire blazing in the hearth. “How will you get there?”
“I have funds.”
“Brandon, Spixworth is three days from here.”
“I don’t care. I’m leaving. Today.”
Lorelei studied this half-man, half-child before her, with his gangly limbs and awkward height he hadn’t quite accustomed himself to. “What garnered this decision, Bran?”
“I heard the old battle-axe. She plans to sell you off to that popinjay. She even called him a scoundrel and doesn’t give a damn.” His voice cracked, in another sign of his shift to adulthood.
She gasped. “Brandon, your language.”
He lifted a stubborn chin. “She doesn’t like you any more than she likes me. And that’s a fact.”
Lorelei stared into the fire. Perhaps he was right. Slowly, her gaze moved back to him. “What if… what if I went with you?”
Hope flared in his face but quickly faded. “You’ll never be able to get away.”
“How much funds do you have?”
“Sixteen shillings.”
Lorelei gasped. “Where did you get that much blunt?”
Dark red spots flagged his cheeks. “I won it off the stable boy.”
“Brandon, the servants can’t afford to lose their money,” she said, appalled. She patted his hand. “You’ll return it.”
Outrage flooded his features, followed by sheer defiance. “I won’t. He was going to gamble it away anyway. Why shouldn’t I be the one to cash in?”
“It’s wrong, Bran. Don’t you see that?” She fingered the locket around her neck. “Let’s return to the original issue.”
His spine was rigid as a stone pillar. “What was that?”
“Me going with you.”
His bottom lip protruded. “It’s not feasible.”
“Yes, it is. But we need to time it just right.”
“I’m not staying here another night, Lore. I hate it, I tell you.”
“I know, darling. I’m not thrilled about the situation myself. But we have to arrange it where we can get away without anyone’s notice. I shudder to think what could happen if you were lost in the bowels of London.”
He frowned. “I’m not afraid.”
“Well, you should be,” she snapped. “Anything could happen.” She let out a sigh and squeezed his hand. “We have to stick together, and I think I have an idea to get us away with no one the wiser. But you have to trust me.” She pierced him with a hauteur to rival that of the duchess. “Can you trust me?”
Her brother was no match against that look, and they both knew it. She’d proved years ago the lengths she would go in keeping her word to him. It was an oath between them that began when Baron George Welton had skipped out, leaving Brandon to shoulder all the punishment that day back in 1804. Lorelei did what she decreed, and she was decreeing her vow to him now.
“Yes,” he said softly, “I trust you.”
She let out a long slow breath of relief. “All right. We have a lot to accomplish before the Peachornsby rout tonight.”