Radcliffe ended the soliloquy in tones of such portentous doom that Hinsley let out a shout of laughter.
‘After his virtue, is she? Lucky boy. And are you to ride to his rescue?’
‘That does seem to be what is expected,’ Radcliffe said wryly, finishing the letter. ‘Although I can only imagine bursting in on my little brother’s clandestine tryst might be a trifle awkward.’
‘Awful thing to do to a family member,’ Hinsley agreed promptly. He then paused, considering the matter. ‘You think there’s anything to it? Archie stands to inherit a pretty penny ’pon his majority – stands to reason that she might be after it.’
Radcliffe looked up from the page incredulously. ‘Et tu, Harry? Have a little faith, my dear man. Archie is only a boy, and this is nothing more than his usual calf love. I receive these letters each year. If he ever formed a serious attachment, I’d be hearing it from Archie himself, rather than our mother.’
He waved the letter at Hinsley, remonstrative, but his friend just grinned slyly. ‘You think the boy still worships you, then? Even though you’ve been hiding down in the country these past two years? Barely set eyes on him, I would think, the way you’ve been avoiding them.’
‘I haven’t been avoiding them,’ Radcliffe said coolly. ‘My mother is more than capable of running the family. She doesn’t need my help.’
It sounded weak, spoken aloud, and he frowned to hear it.
‘Asking for it now, though, isn’t she?’ Hinsley looked at him evenly – uncharacteristically serious. ‘You know you’re going to have to start being a proper lord someday, James. You can’t hide down here for ever.’
Radcliffe pretended he had not heard this. He knew Hinsley meant well – knew that, having fought together on the Continent, Harry might even understand the reason he was so reluctant to don a mantle his father should still be wearing. They had seen the same horrors, after all, though Hinsley, who had served in Wellington’s army for far longer than Radcliffe, seemed to find it much easier to brush them off. And though he and the rest of the country might think the wars were over, it didn’t feel that way to Radcliffe. Here, at Radcliffe Hall, it was easier – managing the estate, speaking to tenants, learning his duty. He could accept that. But returning to the city as an Earl, taking his father’s seat in the Lords, chaperoning his family around London into gaudy ballrooms as if nothing had ever happened – no. He couldn’t do it. And he didn’t need to.
‘I thank you for your concern, my dear friend,’ he said after a pause, keeping his voice mild and even. ‘But as I said, were Archie truly attached, he would have written.’
There was a cough from his butler. ‘I believe there is a letter from Mr Archibald in that pile, my lord,’ Beaverton said politely.
Hinsley laughed. ‘Oh no!’ he crowed. ‘Written to confess he’s in love, has he?’
Radcliffe frowned, flipping through the stack of letters until he found the one with his brother’s writing upon it.
‘Yes,’ he said, eyes moving much faster across the page. ‘It appears he is. And that he thinks he should like to marry the girl.’
‘By George!’ Hinsley stood, moving to peer over Radcliffe’s shoulder to read the letter for himself. Radcliffe twitched it away in irritation. Shoving it back into the envelope, he drained his coffee cup and stood from the breakfast table.
‘How can that be, in only a few weeks?’ Hinsley wondered, helping himself to more coffee.
‘How indeed,’ James said grimly. ‘I’m afraid we’re going to have to cut your stay short, Harry. It appears I’m needed in London after all.’
Lord Radcliffe felt a certain degree of trepidation when he walked into the de Lacy family residence upon Grosvenor Square to find it shrouded in near darkness and funereal silence, the curtains at each window drawn against the bright sunshine. He was greeted, as was usual, by Pattson, who had run the house for as long as Radcliffe could remember and had been as much a fixture in his childhood as his parents. Radcliffe gripped his arm in firm welcome. There was an expression of distinct relief on the man’s face.
‘What is it this time, Pattson?’ he asked apprehensively.
‘A migraine, I believe is what it is called, my lord,’ Pattson responded, so quietly he barely moved his lips.
‘Oh Lord, French, is it? Where did she hear of it?’ An international malady was always worse.