Kathryn Smith (26 page)

Nathaniel’s hand on her arm stopped her. “Let me.”

Ire rose in her chest. “You do not have to protect me, Nathaniel.”

Her friend stood. “Dearest, I know that. But Mr. Ryland may need protecting from you.” His expression changed, as
did his tone, from teasing to genuine caring. His voice was hushed, for her ears alone as he spoke, “Moira, if he sees you now he is going to know you spent the night lying awake because of him. Do you want to give him that advantage?”

She hadn’t thought of it that way. Trust dear Nathaniel to do the thinking for her. “No.” She squeezed his hand. “Thank you, my friend.”

He flashed her a smile and then breezed off to face his adversary. Moira sank into her chair and gazed across the table at her sister.

“Maybe he came because he is remorseful,” Minnie suggested.

Moira would have laughed, if she were capable of it. “Maybe,” she agreed.

But she doubted it.

“May I help you, Mr. Ryland?”

Wynthrope turned from studying one of the late viscount’s paintings and faced the voice. It wasn’t Moira. Of course, he had known that the minute he heard the footsteps in the hall. His heart would have jumped if the steps had belonged to Moira. His heart had stayed dead.

So she had sent out Nathaniel Caylan, her loyal friend and protector, to face him, had she? He supposed he should have expected as much, but he had half hoped that she had spent as wretched a night as he—maybe that she missed him as much as he missed her as well.

Obviously that was too much to ask.

He skipped all pretense of pleasantries. “She refuses to see me.”

Nathaniel nodded, even though it hadn’t been a question. “I am afraid so.”

He didn’t sound regretful at all. Perhaps Caylan hadn’t
been sent. Perhaps he had offered to confront him. “What did she tell you?”

The fairer man’s smile was cold and unfriendly. “Nothing. She did not have to.”

What did that mean? “Is she all right?”

“No, Mr. Ryland, she is not, but she will be. Do not trouble yourself with that.”

Wynthrope nodded. The man made it sound as if that might be something Wynthrope would hope against, but he was wrong. He hoped to God that Moira recovered from his betrayal. And more quickly than he himself would.

He should have expected this kind of reception. He hadn’t actually thought she’d come to him with open arms and forgive him, had he? Of course not, but maybe a part of him had hoped just a little…

“I will not keep you any longer then,” he said, donning his hat. “Just tell her that I will keep my promise, will you? And tell her…tell her that the white king is hers if she wants it.”

Nathaniel frowned. “All right.”

Wynthrope managed a half smile. “Thank you.” He turned to go.

“Mr. Ryland?”

He faced him again. “Yes?”

Nathaniel’s expression was void of any warmth at all. “Whatever it was you did to her, I hope you live long enough to have someone do it to you.”

Another smile. “So do I.”

He left the other man to think that one over and took his leave. Outside the morning was gray and crisp, and Wynthrope wasted no time as he strode down the freshly cleared steps to his horse.

He cast a glance at the house as King picked his way down the snow-covered drive. His heart gave a mighty jolt
as he met the gaze of the woman standing in the parlor window. He couldn’t see her clearly but he knew merely by the moss green of her dress, the stiff set of her narrow shoulders, that it was Moira. Then she turned her back to him and was gone.

It was a dismissive gesture, one that would have been disheartening to a more intelligent man, but Wynthrope wasn’t disheartened.

He was just happy to have laid eyes on her one more time.

“What the hell do you want?”

Leaning heavily on a gold-topped cane, Brahm smiled wryly. “Good afternoon, little brother. May I join you?”

It was a testament to just how low Wynthrope had sunk that he said yes. He didn’t want to be alone with his thoughts any longer, and if Brahm was the only distraction available to him, then he’d take it.

They were at Blakney’s coffee house, the warm interior rife with the smells of freshly brewed coffee and fine cigars. Brahm pulled a slim cigar from a silver case before offering the case to Wynthrope. Normally Wynthrope didn’t smoke, but these were expensive and it gave him some degree of pleasure to take something from his brother. He took one with muttered thanks.

“That must have pained you,” Brahm remarked with a rueful smile. “Thanking me for anything.”

Wynthrope simply scowled in reply and lit his cigar from the lamp on the table. It was late afternoon, and night was already descending upon the city.

He didn’t really know why he resented Brahm so much. Yes, there had been the constant comparisons growing up, and the constant scandals his eldest brother brought down upon the family, but Brahm himself had never tried to make Wynthrope feel inferior. Perhaps that was why he resented
him as he did. Perhaps if Brahm had been a bit more of a bully or a bastard, Wynthrope would be able to tolerate more than a few minutes in his presence.

Brahm ordered a pot of coffee for the two of them and lit his own smoke. When the pot arrived, he poured two cups and slid one across the table to Wynthrope.

“You don’t have any whiskey, do you?” Wynthrope asked.

His brother shot him a pointed look. “What do you think?”

At one time Brahm would have pulled a flask from his pocket and dumped half of it in a cup and then poured an ounce of coffee on top. Now he drank his coffee black, and free of liquor of any kind. Wynthrope knew that, he was just being cruel.

“I like being cruel to you.” Why the hell was he admitting it? Because he was spoiling for a fight and hoping his brother would give it. He was so angry at himself for the mess he was in, he needed to abuse someone other than himself or he’d explode.

Brahm’s brows rose as he inhaled deeply on his cigar. “You don’t say.”

“Yes. I am not sure why.”

His brother leaned back in his chair, his reddish-brown eyes flickering with mild amusement. “I always likened it to the child who torments those he loves most.”

That was a joke. “You think I love you?”

Brahm exhaled a thin stream of smoke, his expression changeless. Anyone else would undoubtedly have been hurt by such a blunt retort, but not his brother. “As much as I love you.”

What a perfect response. Brahm usually had a perfect reply for everything. It was one of the many things he had always envied yet resented about his brother. Wynthrope might be the most caustic wit in the family, but Brahm was
the one who could make an insult sound like flattery and vice versa.

“You love me?” It was damn near impossible to keep the disbelief from his tone. “You, the one who beat on me whenever you had a chance when we were children? The same one who always had to be the best in everything? God forbid I ever best you at anything. You blackened my eye that time I beat you in a foot race.”

Brahm shrugged. “I never claimed to always
like
you. That’s a different matter entirely.”

Wynthrope tapped ash off his cigar into the glass dish on the table. “I never would have guessed.”

Brahm smiled at his sarcasm. “You were always such a snarly little ponce.”

He couldn’t stop the sneer. “And you were always perfect.”

Disbelief lit Brahm’s features. “According to who?”

He couldn’t really be that dense, could he? “Father.”

Brahm inhaled smoke with a sour expression. “He was wrong.”

“I know.” He couldn’t seem to stop himself from saying cutting things to his brother, even though he felt badly for them afterward. What did he want, for Brahm to tell him that he wasn’t better? It wasn’t Brahm’s place to do that. The only person who could tell him that and have him even remotely believe it was dead.

Fragrant smoke drifted from his brother’s lips across the table. “Yet you resent me for it. He made you feel inferior and you blamed me.”

Wynthrope fiddled with his own cigar. “Well, yes.”

“And he made me feel that I had to be the best in everything or I wasn’t worthy. That’s why I blackened your eye that day, because I knew he’d berate me for it later. I sometimes hated you and the other boys for not having such expectations upon you.”

Wynthrope stared at him, clenching his jaw to keep it from falling open. He had never known that their father pushed Brahm to excel. He never knew that Brahm resented him in return.

“It was an unfair situation for both of us, do you not think?”

When he put it that way, it did sound unjust, yes. Probably better not to respond.

Brahm smiled. “That is what I thought. I would apologize but since I’ve done nothing wrong, I won’t.”

Wynthrope scowled at him. He couldn’t simply blame everything on a dead man and erase all the bad feelings. “Get off that high horse of yours, Brahm. You were an arse when we were boys and you’re an even bigger one now that you’re sober.”

His brother simply grinned. It was an infectious expression that soon had Wynthrope’s lips curving despite his better judgment. This was the most time he had spent in Brahm’s presence for years, and he found his brother strangely comforting. It was probably because he would rather be with anyone than by himself, or maybe it was Moira’s influence. She was such a good person, always willing to try to understand someone before judging him. He never gave much thought to how he treated Brahm when they were younger, only that Brahm was the favorite. He had North to be his friend and companion, and sometimes Devlin. Who did Brahm have? Their father was at him constantly to be the best at everything, to learn how to be the next viscount—and in hindsight, the old man probably was the one who taught him to be a drunk as well, or at least drove him to it. Wynthrope should have been more of a friend to his brother. He should have been a better brother.

“I still don’t like you,” he muttered, fighting a smile.

Brahm laughed. “Ponce.”

“Arse.”

The situation between them was so comfortable that for a moment, Wynthrope thought maybe he could confide in his eldest brother in a way he couldn’t confide in the other two. Brahm didn’t know him as well as North and Devlin, and he certainly had no knowledge of his past as North did.

Bracing his forearms on the scarred surface of the table, Wynthrope leaned forward, his cigar temporarily forgotten in the dish. “Have you ever done something that keeps coming back to haunt you no matter how you try to change?”

Brahm regarded him with an expression of irony. “Well, not too many people know this about me, but I was a horrible drunkard at one time.”

Wynthrope might have chuckled at his sarcasm if Brahm hadn’t been just such a man once upon a time. Of course his brother would understand what it was like to not be able to escape his past, and Brahm had the disadvantage of having his mistakes being public knowledge.

Brahm puffed on his cigar. “Are you being haunted?”

Wynthrope nodded, his lips twisting with regret. “Yes. I thought I had buried it deep enough, but it is back. Do you think I should send for a priest?”

His brother didn’t smile at his attempt at humor. “I won’t ask you for details, because if you wanted me to know them you would have offered them already, but I will tell you this, your past is exactly that, your past. If you let it affect your present, however, it starts to affect your future, and that is what gets you into trouble.”

Sounded like horse shite to Wynthrope, but Brahm had begun to turn his life around, perhaps he knew something Wynthrope didn’t. “How do I keep it from affecting my present?”

“By confronting it head on. By refusing to allow it to control you.”

“But other people could be hurt.”

“There are always those who might be injured, it’s part of life. You keep basing your decisions on those people and you are not living your life, they are.”

His brother struck too close to the truth. “My God, you are positively enlightening.”

Brahm grimaced as he crushed out his cigar. “You know, your mockery does nothing more than tell me I’m right.”

Wynthrope glanced down at the table. A sudden feeling of contriteness had taken hold of him and refused to let go. “You are right. I wish you were not. I wish I could be the kind of man who does not make those kinds of decisions, but I am.”

“I never would have thought that of you.” Brahm’s voice was rife with surprise. “I always thought you did exactly what you wanted with no thought to anyone else.”

Wynthrope cast him a sideways glance. “That is how I wanted you to see me.”

Silence fell between them, and Wynthrope finished off his cigar and the remains of his coffee.

Brahm poured him a fresh cup. “Does this sudden quest for betterment have anything to do with Lady Aubourn?”

Was there any point in lying? “Everything.”

“Why so miserable about it?”

He ran a hand over his face. Damn, but he was tired. “Because I made a decision and she suffered for it.”

The gleam in Brahm’s dark eyes was knowing. “And now you are suffering for her.”

His brother was astute, he would give him that. “Something like that.”

“Can you not simply talk to her?”

Did he not realize he had already thought of that? “I tried. She refused to see me.”

Brahm shifted in his chair. “So keep trying.”

“That is easy for you to say.”

Turning the hand on the table palm up, Brahm shrugged. “It is just as easy for you to do.”

“And if she keeps refusing, what then?” Moira might be an understanding person and willing to give others a chance, but he had greatly wounded her, and she had her pride just like any other woman—pride that could make her very, very stubborn.

His brother leaned forward. There was maybe a foot between them and that was it. “Do you really want to try to make things right with her?”

Wynthrope’s voice was little more than a hoarse whisper. “Yes.” Before he lost her, he hadn’t quite realized how much she was coming to mean to him, but now the idea of living without her, of facing endless days without her in them, was like contemplating the deepest pit of hell.