Chapter 7

"Sidney? Sidney!" Mama's voice echoed through the door of the drawing room. It was muffled by the thickness of the wood, and Sidney could, in all fairness, have claimed he did not hear her. He turned his back and continued focusing on the canvas that stood before him.

A storm-tossed gray sky reflected in a leaden sea was painted in thick lines of oil-paint on the canvas. In the foreground, a lone figure stood on the shore, his black mourning-clothes the only truly black shape in a world of shifting, silvered gray. Sidney reached for his brush and dipped it in the deep blue, adding some highlights to the shadowy figure.

His mind had been in turmoil since the ball at Almack's the previous evening, tormented with thoughts of Lady Anastasia and confused by the horrid conversation he had overheard. He had told nobody about either thing, and the only outlet for his bewildered and painful thoughts was his canvas.

"Sidney!" His mother called, and this time she was bursting through the door and into the room. Sidney blinked, fixing her with a distant gaze.

"You know what I asked about being disturbed when I paint," he said reproachfully.

"Sorry, son," his mother said gently. "But I had to warn you. Aunt Harriet is on her way up and I thought you'd like a moment to get ready before she arrives."

"Oh." Sidney blinked again, this time in surprise. He could not be angry with his mother for his aunt's visit—it was hardly her fault. "Thank you," he added. He reached for the canvas, carrying it on its easel to a place around the corner of the dressing-table, out of the way. Nobody would see it there, which was how he wished it to be. He struggled to show his art to anyone when it was completed—there was not even the thought in his head of allowing someone to see it uncompleted.

"I told the butler to delay her in the entrance-way," Mama said swiftly. "He can only hold her at bay for so long, though, before she starts to wonder what is happening up here." His mother looked up at him with wide eyes.

"What should be happening?" Sidney asked mildly. "Is the wicked Duke of Willowick harming people up here?"

"Oh, Sidney," his mother said sadly. "Nobody thinks you're evil. You know that. You just..."

"Look evil?" Sidney demanded, still light as though he was teasing.

"No! No. You look a little different. That's all. Still handsome. But different," his mother said insistently.

Sidney grinned. While he hated the fact that society now whispered tales about his distorted, terrible features the way they had once whispered about his beauty, he also took a sort of perverse pleasure in it. He had to find it funny, because he would go mad if he didn't.

"Is she on her way up?" Sidney asked, checking that the easel could not be seen from the low table by the fire where they would take their tea.

"I think so," Mama murmured. "I didn't add that Giles is with her."

"Oh. Cousin Giles." Sidney raised a brow. "How does he fare?" He had been vaguely worried about Giles all day, ever since the ball the previous evening. At least, it seemed, he had returned home without mishap.

"I don't know," Mama answered.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway, followed by the appearance of Mr. Moreton, the butler, and by Aunt Harriet, Papa's sister, and Cousin Giles.

"Your Graces," the butler greeted them formally; almost apologetically. "Lady Camberwell is here, and her son, Lord Giles." He inclined his head politely.

Sidney gazed at the new guests.

His gaze hastily took in Giles, who was still drunk, swaying a little on his feet, his stare focused as if walking was difficult. Sidney's eyes moved to Aunt Harriet, who stood beside him.

Aunt Harriet was Papa's sister, and the resemblance was certainly there—like Papa, she had a strong bone-structure. Her hair, however, was black, streaked here and there with gray, and curling. Her eyes were likewise very dark. Her small chin had dimples and her big dark eyes were fringed with thick, dark lashes. She was pretty, and tense, like a dormouse blinking in the uncertain light of day. She smiled up at Sidney nervously.

"Nephew! I'm glad to see you." She, like Sidney, was still dressed in black, despite it having been a year since Father's passing. Beside Sidney, his own mother was dressed in the dark gray of half-mourning, which she had donned just yesterday following her black clothing. Sidney and his aunt were likewise free to change out of their mourning clothes, but clearly neither of them wished to. Not yet.

"I am pleased to see you, Aunt," Sidney greeted her. It was not entirely untrue—he had always been fond of Aunt Harriet. She and Mama were good friends.

He glanced sideways at Mama. In her gray gown, her long, fine-boned face looked even more delicate. Her eyes were blue-green and catlike, her brows dark. Her hair was chocolate brown, streaked with gray, and her skin was like porcelain despite her age. She had been a famous society beauty in her youth; but then, Harriet had also been considered a beauty by the ton , despite how different they both looked.

We're a good-looking family, Sidney thought distractedly as he went to sit down at the tea-table with the guests. His younger sister Amy was also beautiful, with Mama's chocolate-brown hair and their father's grayish-blue eyes. She was not with the family, of course, residing now outside the town at Barrydale. He smiled at the thought—it was one of the few things that could bring a smile to his face in spite of his sadness, but he was not yet accustomed to it.

"I say, old chap!" Giles greeted him, a grin lifting one side of his mouth. "You look weary. Have you been in your study, poring over your books again?"

Sidney raised a brow. Giles Markham was Papa's only living relative and the second heir to Willowick. He was also funny, loud, intransigent and vibrant and he had at one time been Sidney's best friend. Now, with the slightly glazed look in his hazel eyes that had become perpetual, Giles was much changed. It was because of the brandy.

He glanced at Aunt Harriet, who was gazing at Giles. She was worried.

"No, I haven't, as it happens," Sidney said mildly. "I have been otherwise involved."

"What, eh? A woman?" Giles grinned.

"Giles, please," Aunt Harriet hissed. Mama, sitting next to Giles, looked at him with a mix of concern and compassion.

"Have you been into Bond Street today?" she asked Aunt Harriet, changing the subject.

"No. No, I will go in tomorrow, Viola," Aunt Harriet informed Mama. Sidney tried to think of something to say.

"Your tea, Your Graces. My lady, my Lord." The butler announced, saving him the need to think anymore, and everyone was silent as the butler unloaded the tea-things and poured their tea. Sidney accepted a cup of tea with a nod of thanks and added sugar, stirring absently. He sipped it, barely aware of how it tasted. His attention was elsewhere.

"Nephew, may I speak to you in confidence?" Aunt Harriet whispered from Sidney's left.

"Of course, Aunt," Sidney agreed at once, seeing the frown of consternation on her brow.

"Very well. I shall only be a moment, my dear Viola," Aunt Harriet said, addressing Mama.

"Of course," Mama agreed.

Sidney followed Aunt Harriet to the door, standing back to hold it open for her. She hurried with him into the hallway and then to the small antechamber next to the drawing room.

"Sidney, I fear for Giles," Aunt Harriet confided at once.

"You fear for him?" Sidney asked carefully.

"His drinking. It is...not good," Aunt Harriet said, staring at the wall as she spoke. Her expression was tense and drawn. "It's his health I fear for. But I worry for us all," she added, those dark eyes pools of concern and care.

"For all of us?" Sidney asked.

"Yes. He is rather scandalous in his behaviour," his aunt said softly. "And I worry about the way he spends, too. Not just on brandy, but at the card-table. He will ruin Camberwell if he is not careful. And Willowick too. I am afraid for what will happen if...when..." she wet her lips and gazed up at him, her eyes fearful.

"You mean you are scared that Giles will inherit?" Sidney asked carefully.

"Yes. I worry that...well..."

"Have no fear," Sidney said firmly. "I will make sure that does not happen."

"You will?" His aunt sounded genuinely relieved. Sidney felt compassion and gratitude—many women would have been so intent on having a duke for a son that they wouldn't have cared if he would ruin himself and the duchy that he inherited. But his aunt was not like that. He could see she cared both for Giles and for Willowick too.

"Yes. Thank you, Aunt," he murmured. "I will do what I can."

Aunt Harriet smiled at him. "You're good, Sidney. You're a good man."

"So is my cousin," Sidney said firmly. "We just need to lead him back to himself."

"If only that were easy," Aunt Harriet murmured.

"We shall try," Sidney promised.

His aunt gazed up at him and his heart twisted. She trusted him to keep his promises. He had to.

He inclined his head respectfully and they went back out to the drawing room.

"In Town, eh?" Giles was slurring as they arrived. He was evidently more in his cups than anyone realized. "Town's good. Come into Town, Sidney. We can go to the Westford Club. We'll find some ladies of ill repute, and..."

"How was the weather in Warrenbridge?" Sidney interrupted swiftly, addressing Harriet, whose home was in Warrenbridge, four miles from London.

"Good. It was good, thank you," Aunt Harriet replied swiftly. She had gone pale.

"Would you like some sugar?" Mama asked.

"Town's not boring," Giles informed Sidney loudly, clearly unaware of how uncomfortable the rest of the tea-gathering was by now. "Full of things to do. You have to get out and about. Out and about," he repeated, nodding solemnly.

"I need to go into town for a modiste's appointment," Aunt Harriet announced, perhaps trying to distract from Giles.

"Town is where everything happens!" Giles informed them all authoritatively. "It's the epicenter of the world. The epicenter," he reiterated, nodding as though he approved of how it sounded.

"You must have a look at the new roses," Mama informed Aunt Harriet, evidently trying to steer her onto another subject. "They are flowering exceptionally well since our gardener chose to plant them in a new place."

Sidney listened distractedly to the conversation. Giles had stopped declaiming and was eating instead. That was good, for several reasons. One of the reasons was that Giles looked as though he hadn't been eating very much. His face was weary, and his body seemed to have shrunk, his white linen shirt hanging on his form. He carried around an air of neglect. Perhaps he never went home, just went from club to inn to public house in London.

"We should take our leave," Aunt Harriet said after an hour. Sidney glanced at Giles. His dark-haired head was bent over his plate of pound cake, and he was tucking into the third slice he had eaten since arriving. He looked up, his hazel eyes—identical to Uncle's and Father's--gazing directly into Sidney's.

"You need to enjoy yourself."

Sidney inclined his head. "Perhaps," he said lightly.

"Enjoyment is...is the key to long life," Giles stammered. He drew a breath and Aunt Harriet turned to him.

"We should get going, dear," she said tightly.

" ‘ Need to hold my tongue, do I?" Giles inquired. He did not sound irate, yet his mother tensed. "Holding my tongue."

***

Sidney winced. Giles was miserable—he knew that much. His vibrant, funny cousin had never drunk like this before.

After Giles and Harriet went to the coach, Mama remained behind in the drawing room.

"Harriet is so worried," she murmured to Sidney.

"I know," Sidney agreed. "She's worried for us, too," he added. "The duchy and all. Should I not...not..." he could barely say the words. A year ago, before the accident, he would have had no worries in the world. Finding a duchess would not have been hard-all he would need to do was go to Almack's and the ladies would vie to get him on their dance-card.

He swallowed hard. He was in London and Almack's Assembly would be opening soon for another ball, as it did with a regular tempo during the Season. He had to go. If he did not—if he did not quickly produce an heir for Willowick—Giles would be the next to inherit the title. And love his cousin as well as he might, he could not bear to see that rakish dissolute sit in the seat his father had sat in. He had to do something. He had to do it fast. His promise to Papa made his heart twist painfully. He had to keep it—that was the least he could do.