Chapter 5

5

S?ren Gyldenkrone stood still as a statue, ignoring both the bustle of the train depot and his brother’s infernal pacing. Rage in his blood wasn’t a hot and pulsing thing—it was a slow, steady, ice-cold thrum that sharpened his focus and pushed peripheral things into neat alignment, to be looked at only when they could be useful.

He’d spent the last week with this same icy focus, slicing through each and every one of his brother’s excuses. Trying—and failing—to tamp down the gossip, working relentlessly to fix what Emil, in his idiocy, had broken.

As usual.

Thrum. Thrum. Thrum.

He could hear the cold fury coursing through him, feel its chill in his limbs. This time, when his brother paced in front of him, he snapped, “Do stop.”

He spoke in Danish, which he only did when he and Emil were alone. It was rude, otherwise, and he was never rude. When in England, one spoke English. When in France, one spoke French. To deliberately confuse the people around him or keep them in the dark as to his meaning was absolutely inappropriate.

Emil forgot that half the time, too, and constantly instigated conversations in their native tongue instead of that of the nation they were visiting. It made him a tiresome traveling companion, truth be told.

But he was his brother. His only brother. They two were the only Gyldenkrones left in the world, their noble family name in danger of extinction if they didn’t soon select wives and set about producing the next generation.

S?ren had been ready to marry a year ago. Ingrid would have been a perfect wife in many ways. But when the king asked one to choose an English bride instead, one obeyed one’s monarch and cousin. When the Crown Prince promised that a match would be made between one of his own children and whatever child one produced with said English bride, one bowed one’s head in honor and thanked him for deeming one worthy.

Politics had been the milk on which he’d been raised. He understood it, relished it, took his strength from it. He knew well why this favor was asked—tensions between England and Germany grew colder with each passing year, and Denmark’s ties to Germany were solid. Dangerously solid. She needed equally strong ties to England if she intended to maintain the neutrality on which she prided herself. But the Crown Prince had long ago married Alexandrine in Canne, and future royals would choose other royals from Europe’s ruling families to wed. The chance to form an alliance directly with England simply hadn’t worked out, generationally speaking.

But cousins were glorious things. As one of the most influential families in Denmark, S?ren could do for his king what the prince himself couldn’t. He could choose a wife from an equally prominent family in England. A family that was not of the crown itself but that was respected by the king. Beloved.

The perfect match.

His fingers tightened on the silver head of his cane, carried solely for fashion and not any other use. He rubbed his thumb over the familiar engraving—the Danish lion that adorned their national coat of arms, borrowed from the crest of their most famous king, Christian V.

Emil had paused his pacing, at least, but now he stood before S?ren with his arms crossed over his chest, glowering. S?ren lifted one brow, solely because he knew his brother couldn’t mimic him, much as he’d tried to teach himself the gesture. His facial muscles never cooperated.

Emil dropped his arms and gusted out a breath. “I want to come with you.”

“No.” S?ren lifted one hand from the head of his cane, fished inside his pocket, and pulled out his watch. Three minutes until his private train car ought to be ready. Ten until the train would leave the station, on its way to Derbyshire. “You were not invited.”

“Neither were you!”

S?ren flinched at the very insinuation that he had done something so base. “Of course I was. Lord Castleton was quite clear that I was welcome to pay him a visit absolutely any time—and he also made a point of telling me how charming his home is at Christmastide.”

Emil fumed like a steam vent. “It isn’t fair. I’m the one that prat Lightbourne embarrassed. I deserve the chance to—”

“You deserve?” He speared his brother with a hard glance. “What you deserve is to be left to restore your own tarnished honor. If it wouldn’t be a blot on our entire family, I would do just that. You ought to be thanking me for cleaning up after your mess, yet again.”

“Thanking you,” Emil muttered, spinning to pace again. “It’s your fault I found myself in the situation to begin with.”

“My fault?” S?ren laughed, though there was no amusement in it, and even his hardheaded brother couldn’t mistake it for that. “Oh yes. I am the one who makes you constantly run off at the mouth. I am the one constantly urging you to resort to fists instead of diplomacy. I am the one—”

“You were the one actually considering marriage to that scheming little poppet!” Emil stopped again before him, lifting a hand so he could poke a finger into S?ren’s shoulder.

One would have thought he’d have been broken of that habit ages ago, given the many times S?ren had done exactly what he did now—knock his hand away with one swift, snapping motion of his cane.

As always, Emil cursed and shook out his smarting finger. And yet no doubt he’d do the same thing next month.

S?ren set his cane back on the pavement with a satisfying click. “Lady Pearl can scheme all she likes. It was her family I was considering, not her childish antics. If I were to decide she suited my needs, she would have to agree to my stipulations. Nothing forces a girl to grow up faster than taking on the responsibilities of a foreign household.”

“And you call me the idiot. She’d never be faithful to you. The very fact that she was toying with that blighter—and that she didn’t reject me—should have told you that.”

It had indeed been disturbing to learn that the lady hadn’t pushed away his brother’s advances. He could admit that. It was part of the ice in his veins. Infidelity was even more shameful than Emil’s constant pursuit of diversions above responsibility.

But she was young. And Emil was charming, when he tried to be. And he and Pearl hadn’t even been engaged yet, much less married. Kissing another man wasn’t to her credit, but it wasn’t unfaithfulness, exactly.

He would have made it clear that if they wed, any other flirtations must stop immediately. It ought to go without saying, but he wasn’t na?ve. He knew it didn’t always.

When he’d calmly confronted her about it, she hadn’t been repentant, though. More put out that he dared to be upset with her instead of his brother.

He hadn’t bothered explaining that he was always upset with his brother. It was the baseline of life and had been since they were boys. He’d come to grips long ago with the fact that his brother was a selfish creature, but that some of his most reckless acts were, in his way of thinking, done for the benefit of others.

This was a perfect example. Every single time S?ren had considered courting a woman, Emil took it upon himself to see if her heart was true. If she could be lured away by Emil’s charms, then she wasn’t suited to becoming S?ren’s wife.

Ingrid had resisted. Pearl had not.

Part of him appreciated the test, even as the greater part wanted to lock his brother in a tower somewhere until he’d outgrown his childishness. He’d always wanted whatever S?ren had. Had always tried to snatch it away. Horses, toys, friends, and now ladies. It was just Emil, much as he wished it weren’t.

Right on time, the steward opened the door to the private car he’d rented and bowed to him. “All is ready to your specifications, my lord.”

“Thank you.” English emerged from his lips as easily as the Danish had moments before. He started forward.

Emil jumped into his way. “At least tell me your intentions.” He still spoke in Danish, despite the steward now within hearing.

As if telling his brother his intentions didn’t guarantee that he’d find a way to interfere and ruin everything. Again. “To buff out the tarnish you’ve given our family’s honor. That’s all you need to know.” English still, though low enough that the steward probably couldn’t hear them. He was polite, not stupid.

“S?ren.”

“Try to stay out of trouble while I’m gone, Emil.” He once again lifted his cane, this time using it like an arm to urge his brother aside. Gently but firmly. “In fact, you really ought to go ahead home. Enjoy the holiday with your friends. I’ll follow in the new year, and I’ll have my bride-to-be with me.”

Emil’s face screwed into a pout in the exact way he’d done since he was a toddler. “At least tell me it’s not Pearl. I don’t think I could tolerate her as a sister-in-law.”

As if that was a deciding factor. But he could grant his brother that much. “There are other families just as esteemed by King Edward—and whose daughters are less conniving.”

Lady Mariah Lyons had always been one of his top contenders, and the fact that a visit to her family now would also give him the opportunity to put Cyril Lightbourne in his place might as well have been a finger from heaven pointing the way to satisfaction.

“Good.” It was the relief in his tone that did it—that always did it. That made S?ren love him, despite not liking him half the time. “She’s not good enough for you.”

And that too. Huffing out an exasperated breath, S?ren clapped a hand to his brother’s shoulder. “Go home, brother. Enjoy some racine and risalamande for me.”

Emil smiled, the petulance replaced by genuine cheer. “I think I will, at that. As long as you promise to tell me about your revenge on the blighter.” He lifted a hand to touch the abrasions on his face.

Suddenly glad that his brother still hadn’t reverted to English, S?ren nodded. “In the new year.”

“In the new year.”

He moved into his train car as his brother strode back toward their carriage, content that Emil wouldn’t follow him to Castleton. He didn’t really care if he returned to Copenhagen or stayed in London, so long as he didn’t come to Castleton to have a rematch with Cyril Lightbourne.

S?ren had witnessed the brawl, though he’d tried to remain out of sight. His brother didn’t stand a chance, even if he had the good sense to pick his next fight when he was fully sober. Whoever trained Lightbourne had done a better job than Emil’s instructor. Or, more likely, Lightbourne had been a better student.

Though he could handle himself and a weapon if necessary, S?ren had no intention of challenging “the blighter” as Emil would do. He would never endanger relations between their two countries by actually hurting a prominent citizen. And besides, exchanging fisticuffs—even besting him at them—wouldn’t set anything to rights.

No. Cyril Lightbourne had smudged the Gyldenkrone family honor, and he would pay for it in kind. He had done it for the sake of an undeserving woman, and perhaps that would play a part in S?ren’s recompense.

He didn’t know his exact plan yet. Only his tactic. The details would fall into place just as they always did as he gathered information and took in the lay of the land. All he knew right now was that he intended to ruin whatever Lightbourne esteemed most highly. Tarnish it just as he had so blithely tarnished the Gyldenkrone reputation.

And he’d accomplish that on the side, while he fulfilled his duty to his cousins and convinced Lady Mariah to marry him.

As the train chugged out of the station right on schedule, S?ren relaxed in his richly upholstered chair and drew his leatherbound journal from his inner coat pocket. He had better refresh himself now on their previous meetings. Families were always impressed when he could recall names and situations and ask them insightful questions.

When was it that he had met the noble side of the Lightbourne family? June. Mid-June. In the height of the Season, at ... yes, that was right. The Middletons’ ball. He flipped to the appropriate page in his journal and reread the notes he had taken down that evening, as he did at the close of every day.

He’d listed every new acquaintance to whom he’d been introduced, along with his impressions of them. Each young lady with whom he’d danced, and about what they had spoken. Each previous acquaintance with whom he’d had a conversation, and on what topic.

Halfway down the list he saw Lord Geoffrey Lightbourne, Earl of Castleton, and his wife, Lady Beatrice Lightbourne, formerly Lady Lyons. Her son, Lord Frederic Lyons, Viscount, and her youngest daughter, Lady Mariah Lyons. One elder daughter, widowed, not in attendance.

He read his physical descriptions of them all, his notes about their preferred names or nicknames—Castleton or Cass for the earl, and Lyons for the viscount, though his family called him Fred. And his impressions—that the earl and countess were pleasant and amiable and among the favorites of London society. That the earl was a regular companion of King Edward whenever they were both in town and even visited each other’s country homes at least once a year—that was crucial. He was not quite the intimate of the king that Lord Kingeland was, hence his stepdaughter’s rank as second on his list, but close enough.

That Lyons was a reasonable enough chap, his head firmly attached to his shoulders. And that the daughter, Lady Mariah, was her brother’s opposite. Her head was filled with fluff rather than reason, and though she didn’t speak often at the ball, when she did, it was utter rot. She was pretty enough, he’d noted, and seemed good-natured, which was important. Silly, not conniving.

That was something. Silliness could be corrected far more easily. And really, corrected wasn’t even the word for it. Silliness tended to fall by the wayside in the face of household responsibilities, children, and the pressures of court. What Lady Mariah was, was young. Too young, in some ways, but that too would correct itself in time.

A corner of his mouth twitched up a bit at that. She’d made his thirty-one years feel ancient, yes, as had Lady Pearl. But twelve years was no great thing between adults. His own father had been thirteen years his mother’s senior, and it had never caused any problems. Even Prince Christian and Princess Alexandrine were nine years apart, and their three years of marriage thus far had been happy enough.

He paused, checked another note, and let out a relieved breath. Yes, he had remembered to post a gift to the princess in plenty of time for it to arrive before her Christmas Eve birthday. He’d thought so, but it never hurt to double-check.

Thumbing back to his notes from the summer, including his two visits to the Lightbourne London home, he finished up those and then skipped ahead to September. The Lightbourne-Lyons family had departed—and only then, interestingly enough, did Mr. Cyril Lightbourne arrive in London.

He’d wondered then why the heir apparent had seemingly avoided his benefactor, and he wondered it again now. Something to be discovered, yes. To be exploited? Perhaps.

As fate would have it, he’d crossed paths with “the blighter” only days after he reached Town—when he’d somehow finagled his way into Lady Pearl’s graces. Oh, he’d heard the story about the heroism, but that couldn’t actually be what caught the lady’s eye. She was too dedicated to her scheming for that. No, more likely was that she’d realized he stood to inherit the Castleton estate, which she would know was beyond compare. That was what would have caught her attention.

S?ren hadn’t been worried. A relative so distant could always be displaced by a miraculous child, or even a closer cousin coming out of the woodwork. And besides, his own holdings in Denmark compared favorably, and his title was the equivalent. More, he had that promise of Prince Christian that had spurred him here. And what ambitious young lady wouldn’t prize the idea of her child becoming a prince or princess? Perhaps even the Crown Princess, if births worked out appropriately?

He’d known that Lightbourne was no real threat to his court.

Emil, on the other hand...

And that was where things spiraled. Emil thought it his duty to sound out Pearl’s fidelity. She had failed the test—disappointing, but not especially surprising. She was, above all, a conceited creature. She would have looked lovely on his arm in the Danish court, yes, but he hadn’t been entirely convinced she had a personality compatible with Princess Alexandrine’s, and that was crucial. Otherwise, he would have proposed months ago.

But her indiscretion could have remained private, had Emil not gotten drunk at the Marlborough a week ago and bragged about his conquest. And had Lightbourne not been there with a friend of his and heard it. And had he not taken it upon himself to defend Lady Pearl’s besmirched honor.

Even then, it wouldn’t have been so bad had he not trounced Emil so handily, and had every single aristocrat left in London not been there that night for a holiday party. And had his brother then had the sense to stay down, it would have been little more than one in a long line of minor humiliations. Most of the gentlemen there had lost a brawl when they’d overindulged, he’d wager.

But no. Emil had staggered up. Said something about Pearl deserving no better than the likes of Lightbourne. And Lightbourne had done the unforgivable. He’d insulted the entire Gyldenkrone line by saying that no real gentleman would ever act as Emil had.

“Perhaps such disrespect is common in Denmark,” he’d said, “but it isn’t to be borne in England.”

Utter rot, of course—gentlemen behaved in that exact way all the time, in England as often as anywhere else in Europe. But to insinuate that his brother was baseborn—and then, worse, to call the moral fiber of Denmark into question?

No. That was intolerable. He could never forgive himself if he let that slight to his king and country go unanswered.

He’d said nothing that night. He’d slipped away, unnoticed by most of the crowd. But he’d known then that he would have to do something to discredit the idealistic young buck. Something to make everyone either chuckle and write him off or turn away in disgust. Even better if he could make sure it stung him to the core, as his words had done to S?ren. He would have to be careful, however—if he meant to claim Lady Mariah as his bride, he couldn’t besmirch her stepfather’s name, only that distant cousin’s.

But S?ren was nothing if not careful.

He closed his journal after that, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes. It would be best if he arrived at Plumford Manor well-rested and mentally sharp, all his observational skills at the ready.

Morning had turned to afternoon by the time the train chugged into his stop, and he disembarked. As promised, the Castleton carriage awaited him, and he climbed in with a nod to the footman holding the door open for him. They passed quickly through the small village of Hope, where the railway station was, drove what couldn’t be more than a mile or two to Castleton and through it, along the road into the countryside, and soon were through the gates of Plumford Manor.

He could appreciate what he saw—the beautiful countryside, the cleverly braided hedgerows, and the stately manor. He did indeed hope he’d have a chance to explore a bit of the High Peaks while he was here. He knew Christian would appreciate any descriptions he brought home.

What made him smile the moment he set his feet to the frosty ground, however, was the fact that Lady Mariah came laughing around the corner of the house even then ... arm in arm with Mr. Cyril Lightbourne himself. Lightbourne, who smiled down at the lady with rapt attention and unmistakable adoration.

Oh, this was going to be almost too easy. Two birds ... one lightly lobbed stone. And he’d have his revenge and his bride in one fell swoop.