His Heart's Delight (14 page)

The brothers settled into the carriage and it
began its slow progress to the next place on James’s list. “We
noticed,” James said.

“Beginner’s luck,” Morgan cautioned. “Jolly
Jack’s is an entirely different kind of place.”

James nodded. “Run by a former naval officer
who used his prize money to fund the place. Have you been to Jack’s
before, Morgan?”

“Once or twice,” Morgan admitted. “Given its
location, it attracts as many wealthy cits as members of the
ton.”

“And,” James added, “given the owner’s
background, tends to be filled with whatever members of His
Majesty’s Navy as can make their way to Town with money still in
their pockets.”

Rhys nodded, apparently considering their
words as a source of information rather than an urge to
caution.

Given the popularity of the place, Morgan was
not at all surprised when young Wilton hailed them shortly after
they passed their hats and capes to the porter.

“Braedon, I say, Braedon!” he called as he
approached them. He grabbed Rhys by the hand and shook it with
enthusiasm. “Well met. I was hoping to see you again before you
left Town.”

Pleasantries were exchanged as the foursome
made their way into the first room. Here quiet prevailed. The card
tables were set up for whist and at least twenty men were
concentrating on their cards. Morgan paused to scan the faces,
looking for acquaintances, and then stopped short.

He did not know the man, who was deeply
engrossed in play, but felt as though he should. Rather than stare,
he moved on, thinking he had found the reason for this evening’s
quest.

The next room was much noisier and they
paused there as Peter turned to look again at James. “Have you a
relative in the navy, my lord?”

At James’s disclaimer, Wilton looked puzzled.
“The thing is, there is a gentleman playing whist who could be your
brother—the same hair though much bleached by the sun, the same
eyes, and a deeply tanned face, which is what leads me to assume he
is a navy man on leave or one who recently left the service.”

James shrugged, but he did glance back at the
whist room, his eyes narrowing as they found the Braedon
look-alike. The cards still had the man’s whole attention and he
was so engrossed in play that he never once looked up. James
shrugged and turned away. Morgan understood exactly what that
meant. None of them would want an introduction to a man who was
most likely an illegitimate connection of some sort.

Wilton accepted the snub with aplomb and then
turned to Morgan. “I had a letter from Richard today. I have just
taken it to Christiana as Richard suggested.”

Morgan’s polite smile froze in place. With a
sidelong glance, he noted, with relief, that James was paying no
attention to the conversation.

Wilton noticed it, too, and as Morgan
struggled to name a god on whom he could call for help, Peter drew
James’s attention, explaining, “Richard is my older brother off
fighting in Portugal.”

James smiled politely. “With Wellesley
returned to Spain, they should be ready to give Boney’s troops a
fight.”

“You should hear what he has to say! I was
not at all certain that it was something Christiana should see, but
if she has hopes of marrying a soldier she will not be shielded for
long.”

Morgan swore mentally. Every creative curse
he had learned from childhood on echoed through his brain while he
tried to find a way to undo the mess Peter Wilton was creating.

“Indeed that is so,” James murmured, looking
directly at Morgan. “Miss Christiana Lambert, you say? I do believe
I met her today.”

Peter nodded. “We are neighbors from home.
Known each other forever.”

A particularly loud cheer from the roulette
table drew Wilton’s attention to the play at hand. “I say, my lord,
will you excuse me? I should like to try my luck.” Wilton looked at
Rhys and the two were off to see if they could stir up some cheers
on their own behalf.

Morgan had faced worse situations, he was
sure of it. There was the time he had been accused of cheating by
that fool Gordon and once he had been challenged to a duel for an
imagined insult. On both those occasions he had honesty on his side
for he had been guilty of neither. This time the truth was ever so
slightly shaded. All right, he should at least be honest with
himself; the truth was under the heaviest of clouds. Still there
had to be a way to make it sound right.

James remained silent. He simply watched
Morgan with a question in his eyes.

“Yes, yes, yes, I know about the soldier.
But, James, there is no engagement and as far I know this is mere
speculation on Wilton’s part. As he said, the Wiltons and Lamberts
have been friends since childhood, nothing more.”

James laughed. “And you hope to convince her
that some inveterate gamester is a more worthy match than a
soldier, one serving in the heart of the action no less.”

James made it sound as though she would be
choosing between a deuce of clubs and the ace of spades. And he was
not the ace.

“No, not a more worthy match. But perhaps a
more...” He stopped then. He was not about to justify his behavior
to his brother. “James, you only said that I must find a match by
the end of the year. As long as I fulfill your ridiculous demand,
what does it matter whom I choose or how I win her?”

James shrugged, “Very well, my brother, but
do not doubt for a moment that this one Season is all the time you
have to find someone eligible.”

It will be all the time I need,
he
thought, but he merely nodded his understanding of James’s
ultimatum. He gestured toward the vingt-et-un table. “Shall we try
our luck too? Or shall we rescue Rhys before he loses his quarter
allowance at faro?”

Rhys lost, but not more than was acceptable.
Despite that he was slumped with disappointment in the carriage as
they headed home, apparently still trying to figure out the
mysteries of faro. “I really thought I had the key to winning.”

James punched his arm with brotherly
superiority “And that may be true but unfortunately you wear your
prospects as well as Grimaldi does his clown’s mask. There can be
no doubt what you are up to. Give it up, Rhys. You will never make
your fortune at the gaming tables.”

His own success had cured Morgan’s temper but
he still wanted to confirm his earlier suspicion.

“James, I rarely find the kind of games you
prefer entertaining. Riddles and puzzles are best reserved for
children. But since I think I was able to solve at least the first
part of this one I must admit to some curiosity as to the rest.”
Morgan held his brother’s gaze and waited.

Apparently the prospect of a game he could
win improved Rhys’s humor. He volunteered his answer before Morgan
spoke again. “It was the naval officer at Jack’s, was it not? He
was what you were looking for this evening. And you wanted us
along.” Rhys stopped short and looked puzzled. “Why
did
you
want us along?”

“Moral support?” James offered.

“To see if we saw the resemblance?” Morgan
knew that was it.

James nodded. “I had no idea the resemblance
was so marked. I think a stranger would have mistaken us for
brothers.”

It was so rare to hear James sound unsettled
that Morgan thought support may indeed have been one of the reasons
he wanted them along.

“Do we have any idea how that navy officer is
connected to us?” Morgan asked, for he undoubtedly was.

“Only the obvious,” Rhys supplied.

James shook his head, but without any great
conviction. “What other explanation is there?”

Morgan could think of one or two. “He could
be the perfectly legitimate child of one of your mother’s
relations. We have had no contact with them for dozens of
years.”

“It could be and I have no idea why the
marquis was so set on me coming to Town to verify this man’s
existence. Now I can tell him I have. The hell of it is I suspect
he will have forgotten all about it by the time I return home.”

Morgan was out of the coach before he
realized that James was not coming. “Are you going back to Jolly
Jack’s?”

James shook his head.

Then where was he going? The answer followed
on the heels of the question. Morgan smiled and paused at the door
of the carriage. “Does she have a friend?”

“No.” James shook his head as if the one word
was not discouragement enough. “And she no more wants a
ménage a
trois
than you do.” He sat back and reached for his snuffbox.
“Besides, what would your provincial Miss Lambert think of such
lewd behavior?”

James reached over and pushed his brother off
the carriage step. By the time Morgan regained his balance, the
carriage was well down the street. When he turned around he found
that Rhys had hurried away to hall a hackney that was delivering
passengers nearby.

There were no stars to watch in London. What
exactly did an astronomer do when the night sky was obscured?

Morgan stood in the street, his eyes
adjusting to the night and a moon that was older than it was new.
He had no need of some friend of his brother. His mistress awaited
his pleasure not very many blocks away.

Instead he walked up the steps of Braedon
House and bid a surprised Brixton good evening. Settling in the
library with a bottle of brandy, Morgan considered his future.

He certainly did not consider “his Miss
Lambert” as provincial as James thought, but he was not at all
certain how she would react to the knowledge of a town house he
paid for occupied by a woman that he knew in the most intimate
sense.

With a deep sigh and a taste of the brandy,
Morgan decided it was time to give
chere
Celine her
congé.
He could accept a few weeks of celibacy in exchange
for a lifetime of independence. He was almost sure he could.

Morgan grimaced as a more practical thought
occurred to him. It was another way to save money, which was the
main thing he hoped to gain from this farce.

Morgan moved closer to the fire, put down his
glass, loosened his cravat, and wondered why he was the lone
Braedon sitting at home with a bottle of brandy for company.
Oh,
my dear Sprite, I hope you had a more enjoyable evening than I
have.

“O
h, how
can
Richard find pleasure in such danger!” Christiana tossed the letter
aside for the fifth time and took a deep breath, trying to control
the tears of anger that threatened.

Joanna rescued the much-read letter from the
floor. “I think it was wrong of Peter to bring it to you even if
his father did give him permission.” She folded it with care. “I
think it would be best if we sent it back to Sir Howard with our
thanks for sharing it.”

“No!” Christiana reached for the paper,
walked to her bed, and tucked it under the pillow. “I want to keep
it awhile longer. Richard wrote those words and folded the paper.
It is as close to him as I can be for much too long.”

Christiana wished that she had a miniature of
Richard, for she found that she had difficulty remembering the
exact color of his eyes. Were they as clear and blue as Lord
Morgan’s and was his smile as playful? No, it was not, she knew
that, but she was hard-pressed sometimes to recall it at all these
days. Surely that was because their trip to London had brought with
it so very many new people.

“Tell me, Joanna, how is it that he can talk
so manfully of the poor food and miserable tents? He makes that
sound worse than the skirmishes they have encountered.” She already
had the most troubling parts memorized.

“To speak the truth, Christy, I think it
would be more manly of him not to complain about the food and
weather. It will make nothing but worry for those who love
him.”

Christiana was barely listening. Why had he
not mentioned her name once in the entire letter? He had suggested
that his family share it with “friends.” Is that how he thought of
her now that they were separated by a great distance and an endless
war?

“As if we are not worried enough already,”
she said in frustration. “How can he treat it as though he were
playing with toy soldiers? How can he say that the enemy is worse
off than they are? How does he know that? They could have more
guns, or better transport, and perhaps they are lying in wait for
them.”

Christiana began to pace the room.

“Oh, this is awful, Joanna. My nerves are
making me so restless. If only it were still light, then we could
go for a a walk in the park. I need some distraction, some way to
forget that he is in danger and loving every moment while I am here
with nothing but fear for company.”

“You have me.”

“Oh, dearest, I am very bad, am I not?” She
rushed over and knelt by Joanna. “Complaining about my trials when
I should be praising all the wonderful opportunities I have while
we are in Town.”

“That would be everything that is admirable
and entirely too noble. It is beyond human to think only of the
good and not of the fearsome.” Joanna reached for the dull-tipped
page knife and began cutting the pages in the novel they had
purchased that afternoon.

Christiana jumped up and began pacing again,
not quite wringing her hands. “Why is it that on an evening when
there are no entertainments, men may go out and find their own
while we must stay home and content ourselves with cards or reading
or needlework?” She made a face at the last as it was her least
favorite activity.

“You could ride,” Joanna suggested. “In the
morning,” she added hastily.

“Of course.” Christiana stopped her restless
pacing as she considered the suggestion. “That is perfect. We will
be to bed early this evening and I will wake up at first light as I
always do when the milkmaids call.”