“That must be the rug I ordered. It will fit here along the desk and reach the door.”
There was a beat of silence while Connor stared at the rolled rug. “Which of the footmen told ye I fell while ye were gone?”
Shooting him a glance, Ethan said, “Doesn’ matter which one told. You should have said something. Your leg doesn’ like the hardwood floors.”
“My leg likes them fine. It’s my wood peg tha’ has an issue with things.” Connor smirked.
“I don’ understand why you won’ get fitted for a wooden leg, Connor. Why use a peg like some kind of bloody pirate?”
Connor’s short huff of breath clued Ethan in to the fact that this conversation wouldn’t go well. The earlier humor had disappeared at the mention of a prosthetic limb. Each time he’d brought up the subject in the past, Connor had shut him down, and Ethan didn’t understand why.
“Pretendin’ I have two legs doesn’ make it true. A peg is good enough. It’s better than the crutch, aye? Ye don’ have tae cover the house in carpets. I’m no’ an invalid, milord.” He threw the title with as much force as a weapon.
Ethan shook his head. “This is your home. I don’ want you falling.”
Connor left the room without further comment.
Somehow, he’d bungled that spectacularly. Sighing, Ethan opened the letter from Cal.
Mac,
Lady Bartlesby is hosting a dinner this week. She insisted I encourage you to attend. Odd, considering your history with her husband. Perhaps he’s had a change of heart? I promised I would send a note.
Behold! My note.
Come to London. Have dinner with that arse Lord Bartlesby. Meet my new neighbor.
Regards etc.,
Calvin
Ethan rubbed at his eyes. They burned with exhaustion despite the early hour.
Speak of the Devil and he appeareth. Sort of.
When alive, the heir to the title, Ethan’s distant cousin Jerome, lived with his wife and son in London, surrounded by friends and accepted by society. Lord Bartlesby had been a particular friend. Understandably, the loss of not only Jerome but his son as well, only three months apart, had hit Lord Bartlesby hard. When Ethan met him in London, it hadn’t gone well. Chance encounters since had been frigid at best, especially after Jerome’s widow left London for the continent. What she was doing in Greece was anyone’s guess, but that was where her widow’s pension went. Since establishing the generous fund, he’d heard not a peep from her.
Maybe Cal had it right. Maybe Lord Bartlesby wanted to make amends. Enough time had passed; perhaps the man could move beyond his grief and accept that Ethan held the title instead of his beloved friend. One more ally in the ton certainly wouldn’t hurt, especially with this new business venture. Getting Woodrest’s ale into the finer houses of London would be a massive boon to sales when the brewery was ready.
If nothing else, Cal would be with him at this dinner, so the forked tongues in the room might behave. Cal’s combination of influence and good looks tended to bring out the best in their peers. And perhaps a change of scenery would help with these damned dreams. Crossing to the doorway, he called, “Connor.”
The Scotsman poked his head out of a room two doors down. “You bellowed?” The sarcasm, a sign that Connor’s earlier annoyance was either dealt with or forgotten, made Ethan grin.
“Calvin demands I come tae London for a mysterious dinner party at the Bartlesbys’.”
“Isn’ he the one who kicked ye out when ye went tae his house two years ago?”
“And then had me thrown from a club the next month. Yes, he’s a charming fellow. His wife sent an invitation.”
“Intriguing. Will ye be wanting a valet?” Connor refused to wear livery, but he kept his clothes in sharp condition, ready to stand for an inspection that never came. Like Calvin, Connor openly despaired over Ethan’s utter lack of concern with fashion.
“No’ this time. You’re in charge, as usual. Send a messenger should any issues arise. Have one of the lads saddle Ezra in an hour.”
“Consider it done.” Connor hollered for a footman to notify the stables of the master’s departure. “Oh, and while yer galivanting about the city, try tae find a brewmaster, would ye? Martin took another offer. I just got word.”
Damn and blast. Martin Peterson was the best brewmaster he’d found thus far. He finished his tea in one gulp and set the cup down with a clatter.
A few hours later, Ethan handed his hat to Cal’s butler, Higgins, then sauntered down the hall to Cal’s elegantly furnished library lined with books that hadn’t been opened in half a century.
“Don’ think you can summon me like your lackey. That said, here I am, as requested. Now what is this about?” Ethan leaned against the doorway, slapping a rhythm with his gloves on one thigh.
Cal looked up from the correspondence on his desk. “I’ll try not to make it a habit. Have a seat.” He gestured toward a leather chair.
“What is so special about this event that the Bartlesbys would open their doors tae me?”
“I don’t know, Mac. I was more a messenger boy in this scenario. I received an invitation—”
“Because London is short on decent company these days.”
“No, because I’m a handsome devil who is not only entertaining but highly decorative at any gathering.” Cal waved in a servant with a refreshment cart, then poured himself a cup of coffee. He was midsip before he nodded toward the teapot to tell Ethan to get his own.
Ethan snorted in amusement. Thanking the maid, he made himself a cup of tea.
After swallowing his coffee, Cal picked up the conversation once more. “Also, yes, company is quite thin during these months. I happened upon our hostess in the park, where she mentioned dinner, then quizzed me about your whereabouts. It was the strangest thing.”
Ethan settled deeper into his chair, stretching his legs out in front of him. “Why would she want
