“I hope you have enough to cover the expense,” Clive said. “I’ll not share the blame if Father must pay for your generosity.”
“You worry too much. I had a windfall at the gaming tables my last night in London. Allow me to spread my ill-gotten gains however I see fit.” Julius shifted on the bench to face his brother and propped his arm on the table. “If you want to discourage the ladies and their mothers, you should treat them to one of your frightening glares. Why should I be the only one to enjoy them?”
“I don’t want to be impolite to our parents’ guests.”
“Perhaps you should be,” Julius said, “or at least correct their misconceptions about you being in the market for a wife.”
Gossips had dubbed last year’s house party ‘Lord and Lady Seabrook’s private marriage mart’, and as was the case with most rumors, it was stitched together with a thread of truth. A cultivated list of guests were invited to spend the holiday at Everly Manor last year to simplify the task of husband hunting for Julius’s twin sisters. The party resulted in a love match for Ammie, who was expecting her first child with her doting major. Now every young miss with stars in her eyes believed Everly Manor was a magical place where love blossomed. Clive, the heir to the marquessate, was the target of their affections.
“I’ve always found honesty to be the best course of action,” Julius said. “Ladies appreciate when a man is direct.”
His brother’s mouth pinched. “Your experience is limited to widows. I’d not expect an innocent to be as resilient when confronted with the truth.”
“Indeed. There could be tears.” Julius shuddered.
Clive smiled for the first time in days. “Speaking of being direct, when are you going to ask Father about using the land for your racecourse?”
“In due time. I hope to enlist another investor before approaching him. Unless I plan for every contingency, it would be a waste of time. Father doesn’t allot any more value to carriage races than he does gambling and drinking. It’s all the same to him, the acts of no-good rabble-rousers.”
“You have an eye for these types of opportunities. Not even Father can deny you have a gift.”
“He allows me to dabble,” Julius said. “Joining the Four Horse Club is not the same as building a track and organizing a carriage racing club.”
Julius had even designed a new carriage for the sport, but the fact that his ideas could save lives held no sway over his father. In Lord Seabrook’s way of thinking, gentlemen shouldn’t get up to such foolishness. Father forgot a drive to conquer flowed through a younger man’s veins.
The greener the man, the stronger the urge.
If one was prohibited from proving himself on the battlefield, he created his own tests of courage. No amount of lecturing stopped youthful folly, but a carriage impervious to tipping could see that more reckless men reached old age.
“Assuming you do not fall heels over arse for Miss Chambers-Wallace or one of the other hopeful young misses,” Julius said, “you should return to London with me after Twelfth Night. I’ve grown bored with the usual faces.”
“You would grow tired of mine soon enough.”
“This old mug?” Julius patted his brother’s cheek. “Who says I’m not already tired of it? After seven and twenty years, who wouldn’t be?”
Clive flashed a rude gesture in response, but he was finally laughing. Julius recognized and loved this version of his brother. With only fourteen months separating them, he and Clive were the best of friends. They’d squabbled at times as children, but always stuck together when faced with a foe.
“Let’s have another ale and forget our troubles.” Julius signaled for the barmaid and sat on the bench once more.
His brother lifted his palm. “I’ve had enough. It is time to return to Everly Manor. Mother is expecting us for supper, and she will wonder what is keeping us.”
The yule candle Clive and Julius had been sent to retrieve from the chandler lay on the table between them.
“You and your sense of duty.” Julius clicked his tongue and shook his head. “There are six days until Christmas and twelve more following. We won’t be missed for one meal.”
Clive braced his hands on the table and pushed to his feet. “You might not care if you earn Mother’s wrath, but I prefer to keep her happy.”
The barmaid plopped two tankards in front of Julius.
“Run along without me if you must. This ale will not drink itself, and you know how I feel about waste.” He cocked an eyebrow to reiterate his earlier argument about not wasting the young ladies’ time. “Be direct; be fair.”
His brother sighed as if weary from defending himself, but damnation—Julius was a good brother. He refused to look the other way while Miss Chambers-Wallace and her sister employed every trick possible to trap Clive in the parson’s noose. Had Julius not intervened earlier that afternoon when the young lady stumbled upon Clive reading alone in the library, his brother might be betrothed already.
He deserved the same love and devotion their sisters had found with their husbands, and what their own parents enjoyed with each other. If the young lady set Clive’s heart afire, he wouldn’t have jumped on the invitation to ride into the village with Julius. Miss Chambers-Wallace was like a powder puff on a lady’s dressing table. Soft and perfumed but on the inside, she lacked substance. Hopefully, Clive would rally the gumption to put her in her place before it was too late. Until death do you part was a hell of long sentence with the wrong woman.
Clive nodded toward the two tankards. “Any number of men would be happy to take those off your hands.”
“I said one more round only, and a man must keep to his word."
“Yes, he must.” Clive grabbed the yule candle and warned Julius not to be too late returning home.
Once alone, Julius sighed and lifted one of the tankards. The men returned to the table before he had a chance to grow lonely. Their jovial mood was infectious. Julius drained both drinks in rapid sequence between belting out a ghastly version of The Twelve Days of Christmas followed by We Wish You a Merry Christmas.
At some point, another tankard was placed in front of him. Or was it two? When the men sang every carol within their repertoire twice and started on folksongs, Julius was ready to go.
He surged to his feet; his head swam. As he left the tavern, the doorway shrank. He rammed into the doorjamb. Rubbing his shoulder, he stumbled into the night. Overindulging and missing supper left Julius good and foxed. His mother would have his head when he arrived home—unless he could slip into Everly Manor without anyone noticing. Congratulating himself on his cleverness, he set off with a wobbly gait to retrieve his horse.
“Gads!” The heels of his new boots were uneven. He’d pointed out the minor difference to the cordwainer in London to no avail. The man had been making boots for Julius’s father for years and was personally affronted by Julius’s observation. Not wanting to cause trouble for his father, he dropped the matter. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.
Diffuse light from lamps mounted to the weathered Tudor buildings illuminated the dirt lane as he made his way to the mews. Nightfall had come earlier than Julius expected. As he neared at the mews, a northerly gust whipped the tails of his greatcoat. He smashed his hat lower on his head to keep from losing it and greeted the stable master watching over the livestock.