Chapter 4

Footmen, liveried in a dismal shade of puce, were still standing stiffly in the marble entry as Patrick walked down the stairs from the library. But the Dewland mansion was emptying. Patrick could hear the end of the ball in the ringing tones of his boots hitting marble. The walls sent the noise back to him now, whereas when he had climbed the stairs an hour or so ago the air had been plump and warm with the clatter of feet, voices, and stringed instruments.

He turned into the ballroom. Candles still burned brightly in sconces around the room. But the candles in the huge central candelabra were guttering and faltering, having been lit hours ago. The center of the huge ballroom had taken on a cavernous feel, long shadows fingering out toward the lighted walls. Here and there little groups of brightly gowned ladies and dimly grayish gentlemen still flocked, obstinate lovers of the dawn, those who counted the evening a failure if they arrived home before six in the morning.

She was gone, of course. Lady Sophie York would never find herself among the dregs of a party. It wouldn’t be fashionable. Better to leave before anyone yawns, better to leave before one’s beaux grow unbecomingly intoxicated. But Braddon … Braddon never knew when to leave, poor duffer.

Patrick found him easily. Braddon was plumped into a chair in the corner, talking to someone Patrick couldn’t see, his view blocked by Braddon’s waving hands. He was talking nineteen to the dozen. Discussing horses, Patrick thought with an unwilling pang of affection. Good old Braddon. It was a pity that life in England was so small that women had to be parceled out among men who’d known one another since they were six or seven, when they were thrown together in the cold hallways of Eton.

But his stride quickened as he realized to whom Braddon was talking. “Alex!” The word echoed leadenly in the growing emptiness of the room.

His twin looked up, a smile lighting his black eyes. “I’ve been waiting for you, quite a chore. Braddon’s in one of his starts.”

Patrick sat down next to his brother, feeling tension drain out of him.

Braddon leaned forward, his eyes shining, his wide chin trembling with excitement.

“Not a start, Patrick—this is the real thing! My life is settled, complete, bound up.” He smiled, lacing his hands together over his embroidered waistcoat.

“Congratulations,” Patrick said softly.

Braddon seemed not to have heard the controlled menace in Patrick’s tone and rushed on. “My God, she’s gorgeous. The most beautiful curved little bottom I’ve ever seen, and her breasts—they’re like—like …” Braddon’s imagination failed, not for the first time in his life. “Well, they’re big, beautiful, big for a small girl like herself.”

Ice crept down Patrick’s backbone and his hands trembled. He was going to have to hit the son of a bitch. The blood was pulsing in his head.