Kathryn Smith

London
July 1817

“Y
ou are going.”

Devlin Ryland looked up from packing his valise long enough to acknowledge his oldest brother’s presence.

“Yes.” He took one more shirt from the pile on the bed and placed it in the worn leather bag. His evening clothes were packed as well as extra trousers, cravats, shirts, and one extra coat. The extra coat was his one concession to fashion. There were going to be people at Brixleigh Park who made a point of never wearing the same thing twice. He should at least have a little variety.

Darkly handsome, his features much more chiseled and rugged than Devlin’s own, Brahm limped into the inner sanctum of the room. Devlin could tell from the heavy thumps of his cane against the thickly varnished floorboards that his brother’s leg was bothering him.

“I thought you were apprehensive about seeing Carnover again.”

Buckling the straps on his valise, Devlin shrugged. “We all have our demons we must face. You told me that.” And Lord knew that Brahm had his share of demons.

Both hands on the carved, burnished silver head of his cane, Brahm leaned slightly forward. “But Carny is supposed to be your friend. Not a demon.”

“He is both.” He didn’t have to explain. No doubt Brahm understood better than he should.

A kind smile curved Brahm’s mouth—a sight that had been all too rare these few months since their father’s death. “What are you going to do?”

Another shrug. He was packed and ready to go, yet he wasn’t ready to leave just yet. “I do not know. Perhaps seeing him will be easier this time.”

“You mean perhaps the dreams will not come back.”

Straightening his shoulders, Devlin met Brahm’s concerned gaze evenly. “Yes.”

“What if they do?” Obviously Brahm wasn’t done with him yet. Was this simple brotherly concern, or was he worried that Devlin might do something to embarrass the family in Devon? He’d have to come up with something fairly outrageous to top anything Brahm himself had done. Pissing in a punch bowl was hard competition.

And somehow, he couldn’t imagine Brahm giving a rat’s ass about the family’s social standing. His brother was worried about him, plain and simple.

“I’ll be all right.”

Another rare smile. “I do not doubt it.”

Silence followed as Devlin turned and picked up the Baker rifle leaning against a chair near the window. He’d been up till three in the morning cleaning and oiling it, polishing the scarred wood until it gleamed, scrubbing the barrel inside and out until the cloth came away without a hint of black. He slipped it into its case and placed it on the cream velvet bedspread beside his valise.

“What are you taking that for?” Brahm asked. “Are you planning to do some shooting in Devon?”

This time Devlin shrugged just one shoulder. “I might.”

“You cannot bear to leave it behind, can you?” What bothered him more, the insight or the compassion in Brahm’s tone? It probably seemed foolish to Brahm that his younger brother was so dependent on something as inanimate as a gun, but he wouldn’t judge him for it. Brahm never judged. Either because it wasn’t in his nature, or because he knew he had no right.

“It’s part of me.” That rifle had been his constant companion for years. It had been there with him when he saw friends and fellow soldiers shot to bits on the battlefield. He had slept with it, eaten with it beside him. Hell, the whole time he had been in the army he didn’t even take a piss without the Baker with him. How could he just “leave it behind” now that the fighting was over? He couldn’t.

The Baker never turned its back on him, never let him down, and, like Brahm, never judged him.

“You have to forgive yourself for what happened, brother. Forgive and accept.”

There it was. As the oldest, Brahm couldn’t help but take responsibility for his younger brothers. This included trying to solve all their problems, even when he had more than enough of his own. He always seemed to know what they “had” to do. Unfortunately, he never seemed to know
how
to achieve it.

“Have
you
forgiven yourself?” Devlin asked, slipping the strap of the rifle case over his head so that the Baker rested at an angle across his back. Its weight was welcome and familiar.

Brahm shifted his weight, still resting against his cane. No doubt his leg was aching like the devil. “Not quite. But I’m trying. You have yet to attempt even that.”

“How can I forgive what I did?” Picking up his valise, Devlin stepped around the foot of the bed toward the door. Brahm blocked his path.

“It was war.”

He snorted. “Was that what it was?” How easy it was for someone who wasn’t there to think he knew what it had been like. One had to be there to know, and sometimes Devlin wished to God that he had been sensible enough to stay the hell home.

Brahm’s russet gaze was shrewd, and saw far more than Devlin was comfortable with. “Would you rather Carny had been killed?”

“No.” But sometimes he wished it had happened differently.

“Of course not. He is damn grateful you did what you did.” A thump of Brahm’s cane punctuated his pronouncement. “So am I, for that matter. If you had not acted you might have been killed as well.”

“Perhaps that would have been for the best.” It was maudlin, but sometimes when the dreams got bad…

If his brother didn’t need his cane to remain upright, Devlin had no doubt Brahm would have hit him—God knew where—with the gleaming heavy oak. The look on Brahm’s face was enough to tell his younger brother what he thought of his self-pity.

Contrition swept through Devlin’s veins. It had been a stupid thing to say, especially to Brahm, King of Guilt. At least the blood on his hands belonged to a stranger. The blood on Brahm’s belonged to their father.

“Are you going to be all right while I’m gone?”

Now it was Brahm’s turn to shrug. “Being alone is a demon I must face. Do not worry about me. Live your own life.”

With that opening, perhaps now would be a good time to tell Brahm the whole truth about his trip to Devonshire. “Wynter has some property he wants me to look at while I’m there.” He’d made a tidy fortune during the war, and his father had left him a generous inheritance invested in the Exchange; why leave it sitting around when he could buy the beginnings of a new life with it?

Brahm smiled, and Devlin knew it was genuine. “I think that would be good. It is time you settled down.”

Frowning, Devlin shifted his valise to his other hand. “What about my older brothers? When are the three of you going to settle down?”

“It would take a very patient, very strong woman to live out the rest of her days with me.” Brahm chuckled as he pivoted on the heel of his good leg and moved stiffly toward the door. “One who hasn’t heard the gossip.”

Devlin walked beside him, shortening his strides to match. “That leaves out every woman in England.”

Ever good-natured, Brahm merely smiled and nodded at the remark. “And as for our brothers, North is married to his career and Wynthrope, well, he does not speak to me so I do not know why he remains a bachelor. That leaves you. The big hero. You should not have any trouble finding a woman willing to marry you. Women like men who punish themselves for things that are not their fault. It saves them the trouble.” He shot his younger brother a meaningful look over his shoulder as he preceded him out of the bedroom.

Devlin’s smile was cynical. “There’s incentive to marry.”

“I am serious, Dev.” They walked down the corridor toward the stairs. “I want you to think of yourself for a change. Find some happiness.”

As was habit, Devlin offered his brother his arm as they descended the stairs. “I’m not sure I know how.”

“You do not need to,” Brahm replied with a wince, leaning heavily on Devlin’s arm as they took the first stair. “If you look, happiness will find you.”

Brixleigh Park, Devonshire

It was he.

From Brixleigh’s gold drawing room, Lady Blythe Christian peered around a heavy velvet drape at the carriage
parked in the drive and watched as her brother greeted his guests—a man and a woman. A
little
woman, with short limbs and a short waist and a skinny little body to go with all her skinny little other parts. She was dressed like a perfect tiny doll in a gown of rose muslin and matching spencer. Her companion, who was even more perfect-looking than the woman, was dressed in the height of fashion in a dark blue coat and butter-colored breeches.

“Tell me again why Miles felt he
had
to invite him?” She directed her question toward the glass.

It had been over a year since the last time she saw Rowan Carmichael, Earl Carnover, but he was as handsome as ever—a golden Adonis in the summer sun.

The swine. Bounder.
Jackass.

“Because they are friends, dearest. Surely you did not expect your brother to ignore such an acquaintance?”

Dropping the curtain, Blythe turned away from the window and faced her sister-in-law. Varvara—Varya—Christian was one of those women who became more beautiful with age. Three years ago she had been striking, but motherhood and a happy marriage had given her a luminescence that made her—in Blythe’s opinion—one of the most beautiful women in all of England.

And Blythe loved her too dearly to hate her for it.

“Surely Miles does not expect me to countenance being under the same roof as Carny for so long, does he?” Lud, these house parties sometimes went on for weeks, months even!

Varya smiled patiently as she lounged on a chaise of rich amber brocade, her dark purple gown a stunning contrast. “I believe he probably does, yes.”

No doubt he did, at that. Blythe’s older brother was forever telling her that she should forgive Carny for his betrayal. After all, it had been two years since it happened.

Two very
short
years.

But what did Miles know? He had never had his every
hope dashed by someone he planned to spend the rest of his life with. Blythe had, and she would decide when—
if
—she forgave Carny.

As if she ever could forgive him. She was not a vindictive person by nature, but Carny would have to suffer long and hard before she condescended to forgive his crimes against her.

But at the moment she’d settle for getting out of the house without his noticing her. He would want to say hello, make small talk, or something equally as stupid. He always tried to talk to her as though nothing had ever happened. As though they were still friends. As though he actually thought something of her. She already knew what he thought of her. It hadn’t been enough two years ago, and it was too late for it now.

“Who else is coming?” she asked, leaving the window and dropping into a large armchair. She hooked her right leg over the arm and swung her booted foot like a big lazy pendulum.

A slight frown wrinkled the otherwise smooth skin of Varya’s pale brow, but it wasn’t directed at her. It was Miles who frowned at her behavior and her clothing. Varya merely accepted it, dear sister that she was. “A lot of people. Devlin Ryland for one.”

The great war hero and friend of Miles. Blythe rolled her eyes. “Wonderful. Just what we need, another ex-soldier to bore us senseless with stories about how he single-handedly won the war.”

Varya took a sip of tea from a dainty china cup with pink roses painted on it. “He did save Carny’s life.”

“Well, do not expect me to thank him for that!”

The other woman choked on her tea, but managed to get a serviette to her mouth in time.

“Stop doing that!” she cried when she had stopped coughing. “You always make me spit out my tea!”

Blythe grinned, her foot still swinging. “Sorry.”

Setting her cup and saucer on the tray before her, Varya dabbed at her mouth and chin with her napkin. Her expression was one of mock irritation. “You are not. You laugh every time.”

That was true. The first time Blythe had made Varya choke on her tea had been only shortly after Miles met his wife-to-be. All of London assumed Varya was Miles’s mistress, but Blythe had liked her, so when Varya came to call at Wynter Lane one day, Blythe offered her tea. A casual, but impertinent remark had caused Varya to spit her tea all over herself and the table before her. It had been hilarious, even though Blythe had had the good sense not to laugh. After Varya and Miles married, Blythe never refused the chance to shock her sister-in-law into such unladylike behavior.

“Most of our guests will arrive tomorrow, but we expect some of them today, as you have already seen for yourself.” Varya spoke as though their arrival was a matter of grave importance. Blythe stared at her dumbly.

Varya sighed, obviously realizing this was not the time for subtlety. “Do you not think you should perhaps change?”

Blythe replied in a manner befitting her name, “Do you not think you should be outside greeting your guests?”

Her cheeks blossoming with crimson, Varya straightened the skirts of her morning gown. “I was concerned about you. Besides, unlike my husband, I have not quite forgiven Lord Carnover myself for what he did to you.”

“Of course Miles has forgiven him.” Blythe smiled without bitterness. “They are men. They always forgive each other. It is we women they have trouble with.”

“Yes,” Varya agreed, frowning once again. “And do not you agree that is exactly why you should run up to your room and change into something a little more…forgivable?”

Blythe studied her fingernails. They needed to be trimmed. “I am going out.”

And there was nothing wrong with what she was wearing.
True, Miles wouldn’t like his guests to see her dressed this way, but she could hardly go visit the tenants and help with repairs in a gown, could she? She was wearing what she always wore when there was work to be done—trousers, shirt, and jacket made for her by the town seamstress. Her boots had been made especially for her as well.

Varya raised a hand to her forehead and rubbed. “Oh, Blythe. Why do you bait his temper this way?”

What did it matter if Miles was angry? It seemed lately he spent most of his time angry with her. He was angry because she didn’t want to return to London. Angry because she wouldn’t forgive Carny. Angry because she had no interest in finding a husband. It was so very tempting to tell him just where he could stick his anger.