Page 7

Peering at him closely, Brendan squinted, a flicker of recognition dawning. Frowning, he tapped the lad’s cheek, prompting him to stir and open bleary blue eyes.

“Ashby, is that you?”

“Sizzme.” The boy’s speech was slurred and muddled.

“Lad, you are not old enough to be here. How did you get in?”

The boy raised a limp arm to point at the group scribbling wagers in the betting book. “Mabruther.”

Brendan whipped his head around and, sure enough, spotted the elder Mr. Ashby howling with laughter a few feet away. Shaking his head, Brendan rose and approached him.

“Ashby, your brother needs to be taken home.”

“Bugger off. We are busy.”

Brendan clenched his jaw and his fists, but taking in the brother’s glassy eyes, he realized the elder Ashby was far too inebriated to know to whom he was speaking, or to do anything at all about his sibling lying on the floor. Or, indeed, to be of any use in any capacity.

Exhaling through his nose and growling in the back of his throat, Brendan turned back and crouched beside the younger Ashby, who was snoring softly against the polished wood floor. The boy looked no older than fourteen, if memory served, despite the recent growth spurt that had added inches to his broad frame. He had no business carousing in clubs with older men. Lord Ashby, it seemed, was too occupied with the coronation festivities to notice his youngest son had been taken out on the Town by his heir. The club staff must have overlooked the much younger boy tailing the university-aged bucks.

Shaking his head in disgust, Brendan reached down and hauled the lad into a sitting position. He could hardly leave a child passed out in public, sprawled beneath the betting book as though he were a discarded bootjack. If it had been his own family, he would want someone to step in. The elder Ashby was clearly in no condition to care for anyone.

Grunting, Brendan shifted and heaved the boy over his shoulder, the weight of him awkward and unyielding. He rose to his feet with effort, praying that young Ashby would not lose his supper unexpectedly after his excessive indulgence.

Ye Gods, the lad must weigh twelve stone at least.

If the Ashby brothers had not arrived in their own carriage, Brendan would have to forfeit his visit to Lady Slight, or at the very least delay it, so he could make a detour to the Ashby townhouse. With luck, there would be a brawny footman on duty to help settle the boy in bed, and Brendan could leave a firm but polite note for Lord Ashby, apprising him of the evening’s escapade.

Lily licked her fingertip to turn the page of her book. The encounter with Mama earlier that day had been a moment of poor preparation on her part, and she was fortunate that Aidan had intervened. The unsettling exchange had compelled her to return to her reading for clarity and reassurance.

Each time she studied L’Art de la Guerre by the general Sun Tzu, she gleaned fresh insights into its principles. The military strategies, though ancient and foreign, served her surprisingly well in managing both her mother’s ambitions and the more persistent of her suitors. It had become a habit, this practice of rereading the text, not only for knowledge but for calm.

Perhaps I ought to apply the philosophy of winning battles to the task of courtship, rather than the avoidance of such?

It was an intriguing notion.

She was ensconced in the window seat of the drawing room, her knees tucked beneath her as the last hues of daylight dwindled behind the lace curtains. Her parents were out until morning, attending one of the longer routs of the Season. After so many late nights herself, Lily knew she would not sleep until much later. The light from the window had sufficed until the horizon darkened, and she had scarcely noticed the passing time until a footman entered to light the oil lamps, his presence more ghostly than intrusive.

Stretching at last, Lily pressed her hand to the back of her neck, massaging the stiffness that had taken hold during her long reading spell. Outside, the lamplighters had already made their rounds. The street beyond the tall windows glowed in uneven pools of golden light, but the road itself lay empty and hushed.

The ormolu clock on the mantel chimed, each strike crisp and deliberate. Eleven o’clock. As the final chime faded, Lily became aware of the sound of carriage wheels striking the packed dirt beyond the window. Curious, she leaned closer and watched as a well-kept carriage entered the square. A coat of arms was painted on its side—familiar, yet not instantly placeable.

She frowned as it slowed to a halt before the Abbott townhouse.

Who could be calling upon them—upon her—at this hour and without a prior invitation?

A footman scrambled down from the front of the carriage and came around to open the door, lowering the steps with practiced precision. A polished Hessian boot emerged from the shadows within, followed by the impeccable line of buckskins drawn over muscled thighs. Lily blinked and shook her head in amazement.

Had she wished a gentleman into existence?

As she leaned forward, curiosity piqued, the soft glow of the streetlamps revealed the visitor’s face.

“It is Mr. Ridley,” she whispered to the empty drawing room, the sound barely louder than the rustle of the curtains behind her. He would have no reason to visit her, of course, however much she might secretly hope otherwise.

Mr. Ridley was tall. Not quite as tall as Aidan or Papa, but certainly more than a head above herself. In memory, his skin had a warm bronze hue, though tonight’s shadows gave no hint of it, and the sculpted face of a man born to noble rank. But it was his glorious chestnut curls, casually tousled yet never disordered, that had captured her fancy during the handful of times their paths had crossed.

He had always been kind. Tolerant of her chatter, even amused by it perhaps. But she could not be certain if that kindness stemmed from genuine interest or merely from courtesy. They shared a distant family connection. His sister was married to the Duke of Halmesbury, who was cousin to the Earl of Saunton, now wed to Lily’s own cousin, Sophia. Still, such associations meant little in the face of reality.

Mr. Ridley was not on the marriage market. Of that she was sure. He moved in the world of widows, elegant and experienced women with mystery in their smiles and no chaperons at their sides.