Red Roses Mean Love

taking their toll, marring his handsome face, and the alcohol-induced bleariness never completely left his eyes anymore. His high color announced his inebriated state. If Gregory weren't such an immoral bastard, Stephen would feel sorry for him.

'What did you hear?' Victoria asked.

'There's talk that a woman has been writing a series of stories appearing in Gentleman's Weekly magazine.'

Stephen froze. 'What?'

Gregory gulped his wine, spilling burgundy drops on his white cravat. 'Do you read A Sea Captain's Adventures by H. Tripp in the Gentleman's Weekly?'

'Indeed I do,' said Justin from the head of the table. 'You read them as well, Stephen.'

'Yes. Continue, Gregory.'

Clearly confident that he held his audience spellbound, Gregory said, 'Of all the stories serialized in the magazine, H. Tripp is the only author who has never been seen in person. Why is he not a member of any writing society? Why does he not attend any social functions? There is speculation that the reason is because he's a woman.'

'Perhaps he's merely shy, or infirm, or lives too far away,' suggested Melissa in a quiet voice.

Gregory fixed his wife with a watery, baleful stare. 'Why, what a brilliant suggestion,' he taunted, his words thick with sarcasm. 'I cannot imagine how we'd carry on without your sparkling insights.'

Twin slashes of red humiliation colored Melissa's thin cheeks and her gaze dropped to her lap.

Schooling his features into an impassive mask, Stephen said, 'Melissa's suggestions explain very logically why no one has ever met H. Tripp.'

'Then explain why Mr. Timothy, publisher of Gentleman's Weekly, becomes visibly distraught when H. Tripp's name comes up in conversation,' Gregory challenged. 'The color drains from his face and sweat breaks out on his brow.'

A humorless smile curved Stephen's lips. 'Perhaps the alcohol fumes on your breath do him in.'

Crimson mottled Gregory's face. He made a move to rise from his chair, but Melissa laid a restraining hand on his arm. 'Gregory, please don't make a scene.'

Gregory's attention turned to his wife and he pinned her with a venomous stare. 'Get your hand off me. Now.'

Melissa's pinched face reddened to crimson. She snatched her hand away, and for just one instant, before she lowered her gaze once again to her lap, Stephen thought he saw hatred flash in her eyes.

Gregory brushed at his sleeve where her palm had rested. 'Your touch makes me ill. Just sit there and keep your stupid mouth shut.'

Stephen's fingers tightened around his wineglass. 'That's enough, Gregory. As for your theory regarding H. Tripp, I hope you didn't wager more than you can afford to lose.'

'Indeed? Why is that?'

'Because I am personally acquainted with H. Tripp, and I assure you the author is the breeches-wearing sort.'

Stephen could tell by the dismay that flashed on Gregory's face that his brother had indeed overextended himself in White's betting book.

Belligerence quickly replaced dismay, however, and Gregory narrowed his eyes. 'Where did you meet him?'

'I am not at liberty to say.'

'How do I know you're telling the truth?'

'Are you questioning my integrity, Gregory?' Stephen asked in a deceptively quiet, icy tone.

Gregory's watery eyes shifted nervously. 'Do you give your word as a gentleman?'

'Absolutely,' Stephen said without hesitation. 'In fact, I'll make it a point to visit White's at my earliest convenience and put an end to this nonsense.'

With a nonchalance he was far from feeling, he turned to Victoria and asked her about the party she was planning, knowing she would rhapsodize on the arrangements for at least a quarter hour.

He'd make sure he visited White's on his way home this very evening and squelch that damn rumor. No one would dare question the Marquess of Glenfield's word of honor.

He realized this might be the first time in his whole life he was grateful for his title.

* * *

'Delightful dinner party, Justin,' Stephen remarked several hours later when he and his friend retreated to the library. The Duke and Duchess had departed, no doubt anxious to meet up with their latest lovers, and Gregory had staggered out, berating Melissa, who'd followed meekly behind. Victoria had retired to her bedchamber claiming the headache, and Stephen could not blame her. His own temples pounded from the tension-filled atmosphere.

Pouring himself a hefty brandy, Stephen tossed the drink back in one gulp. The liquor burned through him, relaxing his tense muscles. He promptly poured another, bringing it and the decanter to a wing chair next to the fire. He set the decanter down on the small mahogany table next to him.

Justin poured himself a finger of brandy and sat in the chair opposite Stephen. Both men remained silent for several long minutes, staring at the dancing flames.

Justin cleared this throat. 'If you continue drinking at that pace, you'll end up in worse condition than Gregory.' He eyed the brandy snifter in Stephen's hand. 'Perhaps you already are.'

'Not yet, but that is my ultimate goal,' Stephen replied. He tossed back his drink and poured another.

'I see. Then, before you pass out, do you want to hear my observations of the evening?'

'By all means, although I'm certain they're the same as mine.'

'Which are?'

'My brother is a greedy, abusive, debt-ridden drunk who I'm certain wished me dead at least a dozen times during dinner.' He swallowed more brandy, praying for numbness. 'Do you have anything to add to that?'

Justin shook his head. 'No.' After several minutes of uncomfortable silence, he asked, 'Do you want to talk about what's really bothering you?'

The lump that formed in Stephen's throat nearly choked him. 'No.' Taking a long pull of his drink, he stared into the flames. Why the hell didn't the liquor dull the pain? How much brandy did he need to drink to make it go away?

'I don't mean to criticize, Stephen, but is drinking yourself into oblivion really the best course of action for you to take?' Justin asked quietly. 'Whoever tried to kill you is still out there, waiting for another chance. You can hardly defend yourself if you're foxed.'

Stephen leaned his head back against the chair and closed his eyes. The potent alcohol seeped through him, and he felt the onset of the blankness he strove for. Perhaps the liquor didn't make him feel good, but it kept him from feeling quite so bad. In fact, with any luck and a few more drinks, he would cease to remember anything painful at all.

'You care for her.' Justin's soft statement hit Stephen like a bucket of cold water in his face. 'That's why you're so miserable.'

Stephen opened his eyes and immediately realized his folly. Three Justins swam before him. He snapped his eyes shut again. 'I don't know what you're talking about,' he said in a brandy-thickened voice.

'Yes, you do,' Justin said, his tone quiet but implacable. 'You haven't been the same since you arrived back in London. You're moody, angry, and hostile, and you snap at anyone who comes near you. Not that you would have won any awards for congeniality before your visit to Halstead, but now you're damned near impossible.'

'Such flowery flattery will surely swell my head.'

'If you care so much for the woman, why not go back and see her? Tell her who you really are. Be honest with her. If she cared for you when she believed you were a lowly tutor, she's bound to love it when she finds out you're a marquess and the heir to a bloody dukedom.'

'She'd loathe me for lying to her,' Stephen said in a hollow, flat tone. He took a deep swallow of brandy. 'Hayley respects honesty above all else. Believe me, Justin. She is better off without me.'

'In your current condition, that is no doubt true. It's abundantly clear, however, that you are not better off