Chapter 18

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“ I must say, old boy, you are much more pleasant to talk to the second time around,” Ambrose noted wryly from behind his desk.

The constable who’d dug up all this information regarding their fathers’ deaths smirked at him from his seat and raised his tumbler toward him. “Well, you were not as much of an arrogant prick to speak with this time,” he countered.

Ambrose chuckled, appreciating the man’s vulgar talk, especially at this moment. He was clinging to everything, anything that could drag his attention away from Barbara’s upcoming wedding. He had planned for their last night together to go so differently, but as he seemed to do with most things these days, he’d ruined it.

He missed the poised, strategic man he was once. It was the only solace he took in Barbara’s marriage—that he would become himself again. After all, it was the night he had caught her here, in his gambling hell, that he had begun to unravel thread by thread.

He had told Helena and Lydia that he had been needed in Larsen, but the truth was that he had been hiding in his gambling hell, barely sleeping or surviving in his office. Of course, he could never let Lydia go unsupervised, so when they all arrived back from the country two days ago, he had secretly been following his little sister, always keeping an eye on her but always out of sight, until she and Lydia were safely back inside his London estate.

His gut had churned horribly the one time he had spotted Barbara with them, but after that initial stroll in the park, he had not seen her again, even at the parties. She had, like him, disappeared.

“I do not know what it is you are trying to distract yourself from, but you need another hobby, Your Grace,” the constable stated, setting his glass gingerly down on Ambrose’s desk.

Ambrose raised an eyebrow and looked up at the man. “I am certain I do not know what you mean,” he replied, more with an edge than he intended.

The constable huffed, then smirked before he stood up. “All I am saying is that this was another dead end. Just as your friend the Duke of Baxter told you,” he explained. “I have worked for him for years, you know. I have seen him fall into the pit of madness. And you know, I was always aware it was you three who would pull him out of it. But you, Your Grace, you clung to this lead harder than he ever did.”

Ambrose rose to his feet, his mood darkening as the truth was laid bare. “I suggest you watch what you say next, sir. It would be a pity that we should end this new agreement between us.”

The constable only chuckled and raised his hands as if in surrender. “I am just saying you should step back from whatever it is you are holding on to, Your Grace. You are not going to find the solution to it following more dead ends.”

He then bowed his head, a rare sign of respect from him, and left Ambrose’s office without another word.

Ezra came sweeping through the door just as the man exited and raised an inquisitive eyebrow at Ambrose as he closed the door behind him. “Anything new?” he asked in his usual bored tone.

Ambrose shook his head, not meeting his friend’s eyes.

Ezra shrugged, his hands in his pockets, and strode toward Ambrose’s desk. With elegant grace, he took a seat, kicked his legs up onto the desk’s surface, and reclined.

“Shall we talk about business?” he asked.

“There is nothing to discuss,” Ambrose replied. “I was foolish for what I was thinking earlier, as you said. The books are great. All businesses running through this place are thriving. You have nothing to worry about.”

Ezra only nodded, as if the subject had not led them both to a horrific fight just a couple of weeks ago.

“Morgan and Duncan are worried about you,” he continued. “I had to talk them out of riding to Larsen to check on you thrice now.”

“I appreciate you covering for me,” was all Ambrose replied.

More silence stretched between them, but Ambrose had begrudgingly sat back down in his chair behind his desk. He was not angry with Ezra anymore. Though their fight had not completely quashed their feud, time had soothed their wounds, and they were once more brothers.

“You should know that your sister is going absolutely mad over Barbara’s wedding choices,” Ezra said, bored. “She is rather displeased that the marriage to a viscount is going to be held in a parlor.”

“What?” Ambrose blurted out, his fists clenching as he heard Barbara’s name.

He knew Ezra picked up on the sudden shift in his demeanor and was grateful when his normally dry-witted, ruthless friend chose not to point it out.

“Something about her not wanting a fuss,” Ezra explained, shrugging his shoulders. “She even has the guest list pretty tight. The viscount’s parents are both deceased, and the man’s closest cousins are in the Americas for the next serval months, so he will have no one on his side. And Barbara only wants to have her father, that vile uncle of hers, and Helena, Alice, and Lydia. Aside from the priest, that is it.”

Ambrose pondered this information, disliking the taste of it. While he was sure Barbara would have preferred a quiet wedding, either way, she deserved something a little grander than that.

Ezra rose from his chair as gracefully as he had lounged in it, signaling his resignation from the attempted conversation.

“Anyway, they will have the ceremony early, I hear. At ten-thirty in the morning, to be exact. Your sister did convince Barbara to hold a small, in-home reception in the garden afterward, but from what I understand, the happy bride and groom will be in a carriage on their way to Gerville by three.”

Ambrose huffed out a humorless laugh as Ezra strolled out of his office, leaving him alone.

Of course, Ezra knew what Ambrose was grappling with. Even if he himself had refused to grasp it fully yet. Now, though, with the details of Barbara’s wedding seared in his mind, the truth he had so willfully tried to deny slammed into his chest like a hammer.

He loved her. God, did he love her. How had he not noticed her all those years she had been Helena’s friend? How had he not recognized the strong, cunning, sultry woman who continued to surprise him over and over again?

Because he had ignored her. Teased her. Mocked her like he would a younger sister, pointing out all the things he knew would enrage her the most.

Go find your perfect duchess, she had said to him with such disdain. Such hurt. Like it could never be her. Because he had made her feel that way. Not just with the teasing back then, but the teasing presently.

Had he not laughed at her when she first said she would take a husband? Had he not even bet that she would fail? That was why he had given her a deadline at first. But Barbara was perfect. She was magnificent. Whether she was being far too brave and dressing as Asland, or painted and adorned like a princess of the finest court.

Sighing, and needing a break from the walls that seemed to be closing in on him, Ambrose got up a final time and made for the door. As usual, Colter waited for him and fell into step behind him as he strode toward the main rooms.

“Is all well, my lord?” Colter asked, his voice its usual low murmur. “Do we have an appointment I forgot to mark down?”

“Not at all,” Ambrose replied, stopping once they reached the street outside to turn to him. “I just need a moment to myself. Some air. I shall return soon. You know how I like things handled when I am gone.”

Colter only nodded, then disappeared back into the hell.

Once alone, Ambrose drew in a deep breath, gathered himself, letting Ezra’s words ring in his mind as he began to walk. Along the way, realization dawned on him, and he knew what he had to do.