“An ogre now, am I?” The baggage. He found her about as humorous as reports of all the Andalusian villages which had been decimated in the earthquake. “Callie, you had her hunting down a volume of poetry in my library, knowing full well she would never find that sort of drivel within.”
Callie gave him a withering look. “First, poetry is not drivel, Benny. And second, how should I know you have no poetry within your library? You do not allow anyone within. There was a volume of poetry by Lord Byron I have not been able to locate that I wanted to share with the Lady’s Suffrage Society members who dined here last night.”
Which reminded him.
He fixed his wayward sister with his most damning frown. “You can be thankful the Byron poetry is missing, but rest assured I am not responsible for its loss. His poetry is wretched. Further, I must insist you cease referring to me as Benny in mixed company and that you notify me before throwing balls for scandalous artists and dinner for agitators. To say nothing of inviting my female typewriter to join you as a guest and then inciting her to trespass in my private territory.”
There. He had been far too lenient with Callie because he loved her, and because for all her ebullience, she had been through more than any lady should have had to endure, and at a tender age. He knew better than anyone that her zeal hid a great deal of pain. But since her return from the Continent, she had been running his household. Whilst it was true he appreciated her iron rule of the staff since he was a bachelor and had no bloody wish to quibble over menus with the housekeeper, he also needed to remind her of her position.
But his words seemed to have the opposite of the intended effect, for her chin went up, and her shoulders went back, and fire blazed from her dark eyes. She had their mother’s Gallic beauty.
“When did you become such an arrogant oaf? Where is the brother I remember?”
Her soft, almost accusatory question hit him with a surprising amount of sting.
He drew himself up straighter in his seat. “The brother you remember has been pressed into duty. I am the Duke of Westmorland now, and though it should have been Alfred, I cannot change the past, nor can I undo what has already been done, no matter how great my wish is that I could. While you have been gallivanting about Paris with Aunt Fanchette, I have been here taking up the familial cudgels as I must and doing my damnedest to bring the Fenian menace to ground.”
If his voice rang with anger, there was a reason for it. After Alfred’s death a year ago, Callie had fled for France, leaving him behind. Alone. He had allowed her to go, because she had borne the pain of their older brother’s death the most.
“I miss him.” Callie’s quiet admission broke through the ugly silence that had descended in the wake of his outburst.
Alfred had been their heart. When the deaths of their parents had left them alone in the world, he had taken on the role of both mother and father in some ways, alternately protecting and scolding and looking after them in the way of a hen with her chicks.
“I miss him as well, Callie.” His voice was hoarse. Tears burned, threatening to fall. He forced them away. “He was too bloody young.”
“Yes, he was,” Callie agreed. “I am sorry I left for Paris when I did. I should have stayed.”
“You needed to go.” He swallowed a knot in his throat. The knot of grief which would never entirely dissolve, he knew, regardless of how much time passed. “You did not need to set tongues wagging in quite the fashion you did, however.”
They had not discussed in detail which rumors about her sojourn in Paris were true and which were fabrication. This weighed upon him as well, for he knew he must. It was a task he dreaded. He was not Alfred. Nor could he ever take his brother’s place.
“Are you going to reprimand me over breakfast, Benny?”
Bloody hell. He was too soft. All it took was one tear upon his sister’s cheek, and he was done. Abruptly, he stood.
“Not today, Callie.” He had work to attend to this morning. And Miss Hilgrove should be arriving forthwith. He bowed. “Enjoy your breakfast, my dear. We will talk more later. For the nonce, no more Benny and no more surprise balls.”
Callie gave him a tremulous smile. “You cannot hide from the truth forever, you know.”
Yes, he damn well could. He could bury himself in duty and obligation. It had been working quite admirably for him thus far.
“I bid you good morning, my dear,” he said before stalking from the room, leaving his partially eaten breakfast and the mostly unread Times behind.
He no longer had an appetite, neither for sustenance, nor for news.
Isabella arrived five minutes early just as she had the day before.
In an echo of the prior day, she was led to the cavernous grand library, up the staircase and at the end of the picture gallery. Also as on the prior day, the Duke of Westmorland was seated at an elaborately carved desk on one end of the room. Unlike yesterday, however, her table and typewriter were not positioned by the windows overlooking the gardens.
“Miss Hilgrove, Your Grace,” the butler announced.
The duke stood, perfectly polished and buttoned up, his neck cloth perfectly tied. Heat flared in her belly, a testament to his golden good looks. She had spent the early morning hours casting up her accounts thanks to all that dratted wine, and as a result had been reasonably certain she was incapable of feeling anything other than biliousness, regret, and headaches ever since.
She curtsied, belatedly remembering she had come here to perform a duty,
