They all rode back to Whiteoaks together, Lucas and Tom, the girls, the governess, the groom who’d accompanied them. Lucas stayed as far from Tom as he could. He conversed with the governess in awkward, stilted sentences. Did she know what she’d almost stumbled upon? By the time they reached the stableyard, he was fairly certain she didn’t.
They’d been lucky. Undeservedly lucky.
He dismounted and gave his mount to a groom.
“Lu,” Tom said.
“Not now,” Lucas said, brushing past him. Not now. Not ever again.
He climbed the stairs to his bedchamber fast, and stripped off his riding clothes. His hands were shaking. “Pantaloons and Hessians,” he said to Smollet. “The bronze green tailcoat. And a fresh neckcloth, please.” No more riding alone with Tom. No more trysts. Why did that make him want to cry? He’d known all along that what he was doing was wrong and dangerous and stupid. I should never have let him come here with me.
He dressed in the clothes Smollet brought him. It took three tries to tie the neckcloth. His damned fingers wouldn’t stop trembling.
He gave up on the Mail Coach and tied a Barrel Roll instead, then shrugged into the tailcoat and looked at himself in the mirror. A little too pale, a little too tense.
“Are you all right, sir?” Smollet asked.
“Perfectly,” Lucas said. “Never better.”
He was in the green and gold salon, sipping tea and eating macaroons with Robert and Almeria, trying to pretend that he hadn’t nearly brought disaster down upon his whole family, when he remembered the handkerchief. He choked on his tea, put the cup down in its saucer with a clatter, and pushed to his feet. “Forgot something!” he blurted, and hurried from the salon.
Lucas took the stairs three at a time, half-ran down the corridor, burst into his room.
Smollet wasn’t there.
He went hastily through his clothes, found the tailcoat he’d worn riding, groped in the pocket. The handkerchief was gone.
Lucas closed his eyes. Shit.
After dinner, when Tom said, “Lu, we need to talk,” Lucas didn’t try to brush him off. He went with Tom to the library.
Neither of them sat. Lucas was too tense. The meal he’d forced himself to eat sat uneasily in his belly.
Tom said, “Look, Lu, about today,” at the same time that Lucas said, “Do you have your crest on your handkerchiefs?”
“What?” Tom said.
“Your handkerchiefs. Do you have your crest on them?”
Tom’s brow creased. “No. Why?”
“Because Smollet found that handkerchief you used today. I put it in my pocket—and I forgot it was there—I should have rinsed it out, but I didn’t—and Smollet found it!”
Tom stepped forward and laid a hand on Lucas’s arm. “Lu, he’s not going to wash it himself. The laundry maid—”
Lucas jerked free and retreated two steps. “We have to stop. We have to stop right now.”
Tom lowered his hand.
“It doesn’t matter who washes the damned thing. Smollet found it, and he’ll know it’s not mine, and it smells of us.” He heard his voice, heard the panic in it.
“Lu, you’re overreacting—”
“It’s not just the handkerchief! Robert would never forgive me if his daughters had seen us—and he’d be right.”
Tom grimaced faintly, and Lucas read that expression as agreement.
“Tom, we have to stop this. You know we have to stop this.” He took a deep breath. “I think it’s best if you don’t come back after seeing your brother.”
Tom physically flinched. “What?”
Lucas looked away from his face. “I don’t think you should come back.”
There was a long moment of silence, and then Tom said stiffly, “What about Pendarve?”
Lucas shifted his gaze, met Tom’s eyes. “I’m sorry.”
Tom stared at him for a long moment. His eyes were bright and hard, his mouth tight. He turned on his heel and walked stiffly across the library and shut the door behind him with a short, sharp click.