Therese nodded. “Thank you for the warning.”
Smiling wryly, Gregory stepped back and saluted them both. “What are older brothers for?”
Therese sniffed, but she and Gregory were both smiling as he resettled his hat, then with a last wave, walked away.
Devlin ordered Munns to drive on. As the carriage rocked into motion, he glanced at Therese and saw that she’d grown pensive. After a moment, he said, “All I know about your mysterious younger brother is what I heard at Christopher and Ellen’s wedding breakfast—that he’d vanished years ago and has only now turned up.” When she looked at him, he added, “Until then, I didn’t even know you had a younger brother.”
She grimaced lightly. “We all thought he must be dead.” She sighed and leaned back as the carriage slowed to ease through the gate. “Martin vanished in the summer of ’43. He was in his last year at Eton and was supposed to come home to Walkhurst Manor for the holidays. Only he never arrived. Of course, the family went looking, and we eventually learned that he’d been in the company of two close school friends, and all three had disappeared without trace.”
She paused, then went on, “Naturally, the family didn’t stop searching, but no one ever found any clue as to what had happened to the three. As far as we heard, none of them turned up again. As the years went by, we were forced to conclude that the worst had occurred and that Martin had somehow met his end.” She glanced at him. “That’s why you never heard him mentioned—we’d all assumed he’d died.”
“How old was he at the time?”
“Seventeen.”
The carriage rocked as it turned in to Park Lane. Therese continued, “You can imagine Mama and Papa’s shock when they attended a soirée in Chicago and discovered their lost lamb gracing the drawing room and being fêted as a highly successful and eligible gentleman!”
Devlin blinked. “That must have gone down well with your father. And your mother, come to that.”
“Indeed.” Therese shook her head. “You can imagine how it must have played out, but apparently, when Martin explained all to Mama and Papa, they understood and forgave him. And then the very next morning, they received word about Christopher’s wedding. After making Martin promise to follow as fast as he could, they had to rush to get home in time.”
Devlin frowned as Munns turned in to the Alverton House drive. “He—Martin—wasn’t at the wedding.”
Therese shook her head. “Papa said that Martin had interests to sell up and obligations to settle before he could leave, but he’d sworn to follow them as soon as possible.” She paused as the carriage rocked to a halt on the gravel before the steps leading up to their front door, then went on, “It appears he’s kept that promise, at least.” She glanced at Devlin as he reached past her to open the carriage door. “Given he couldn’t make it to the wedding, Mama and Papa decided not to announce his return until after the ceremony, but of course, they had to tell Christopher and Ellen before they—Mama and Papa—left. That was the first I—and you, too—heard about it.”
Devlin nodded. He descended from the carriage and turned to hand her down.
She placed her gloved fingers in his.
He caught her eye as she joined him on the gravel. “I can’t imagine you approve of his behavior—vanishing like that.”
“No, of course not.” Then she frowned. After a second of cogitation, she said, “But knowing him—at least the him as he then was—I can imagine how it might have come about. He was always quite…uncertain over how he fitted into the family—the fourth child, the third son. It seemed there wasn’t any role for him to fill, not like the rest of us, all of whom had”—she tipped her head—“I suppose you might say, some reason for being.” She paused, her gaze distant, then confessed, “It might seem strange, but I can, indeed, imagine that, at seventeen, Martin might have thought it a good idea to go out and make his own way, entirely separate from the family.”
Devlin knew that by “the family,” she was referring to the Cynster clan as a whole, not just her branch of it. He studied her expression as, taking her arm, he steadied her up the porch steps and concluded that, black sheep or not, she was keen to see her younger brother again. Of her three brothers, Martin was, it seemed, closest to her in age—just two years younger if Devlin’s calculation was correct.
Knowing her character as he now did, Devlin also suspected that, of her brothers, Therese would be most protective of Martin as well.
Portland opened the door, and Devlin released Therese’s arm and followed her over the threshold.
He just hoped her prodigal younger brother didn’t distract her or try to claim too much of her time.
Portland bowed them inside, then closed the door and came to take Devlin’s hat and cane. “You have a visitor, my lord, my lady.”
“Oh?” Therese had laid aside her bonnet and was busy undoing her pelisse. She fixed Portland with an inquiring look.
“A Mr. Martin Cynster, ma’am—not the older gentleman, but I assumed he was a relative.” Portland deftly gathered the greatcoat Devlin shrugged from his shoulders. “I’ve put him in the drawing room.”
He’s eager. Devlin saw anticipation leap in Therese’s eyes. He caught her gaze and arched a brow. “Shall we?”
At least Martin Cynster’s timing allowed Devlin to accompany Therese to the unexpected reunion, one he was keen to witness.
Therese hurriedly handed her pelisse to the senior footman, Morton, then shook out the skirts of her burgundy carriage gown. She cast a swift glance at the mirror on the wall, tucked a stray lock of hair into her chignon, then walked purposefully to the drawing room door, waited for Portland to open it, and head rising, walked through.
Devlin followed at her heels. Looking over her shoulder, he saw a long-legged, dark-haired gentleman hurriedly get to his feet. A faint memory stirred, but Devlin couldn’t imagine where he might have previously met the much younger man. He decided the sense of familiarity was simply due to Martin being so obviously a Cynster, with features that unequivocally proclaimed him one of that breed.
As Devlin watched, Martin straightened to his full, slightly lanky height, somewhere north of six feet. His gaze had fixed on Therese, a mixture of hope and uncertainty plain in his face.
Therese slowed and halted, five paces into the room.
Devlin halted beside her, the palm of one hand resting lightly, supportively, on her back.
Therese stared, then he sensed her drawing in a huge breath. He glanced at her and saw a smile of unabashed joy break across her face.
The same emotion rang in her voice as she exclaimed, “Martin! It truly is you!”
Then she flew across the intervening space and flung her arms around her brother.
Hugely relieved and also faintly bemused, Martin managed to free his arms and gently hugged her back. After a second, he raised his gaze and, with rather wise wariness, met Devlin’s gaze. “I didn’t know…”
“What? Whether I would berate you like a fishwife?” With her head still pressed to his chest, Therese shook him—or tried to—then sniffed and said, “Don’t worry—I fully intend to, but I need a moment to convince myself that you truly are here.”