Incomparable Lord Meath Novella: A Rebellious Sons prequel (Rebellious Sons .5)(4)
While Evan apologetically helped the drunk up and patted his shoulder, the heavy purse made its way into his pocket. “So sorry old chap, old war wound, y’know,” he said in his best posh accent.
Once Harrow was on his feet again, Evan stiffened his spine with fury and formed a fist. “Damn if I know your excuse for tripping a horse though.” With all the rage he’d bottled up behind his pleasantness, Evan plowed his rock hard fist into Harrow’s soft whiskey-filled belly.
While the Englishman spewed up his accounts, Evan ambled on to his gig. Pulling himself painfully into the seat, he spun a coin to the lad minding Wexford’s most excellent animals, and drove into the village.
Wexford Heath was a small town. Evan had heard of the wealthy English party occupying the absentee duke’s manor. English dukes representing Irishmen in Parliament irritated, but Evan had better things to do than change the world. Friends and family came first.
The earl of Wexford had been more than a father to him. Evan refused to let him go to prison because a privileged sot threw a stone. The earl’s young family had deserved a happy holiday for a change, and Harrow had deprived them of it.
Evan met Dr. Callahan in the manor’s drive. The physician lifted his hat in greeting but hurried inside while Evan dragged his tired limb from the gig and followed at a slower pace.
He admired the holly wreaths one of the servants had hung on the massive doors, but inside, the shabby salon was simply decorated in the gilding of a century ago. He wondered if they would even bother putting a candle in the window for Christmas. The duke didn’t waste coin on his Irish estate—or on his tenants or the local townspeople. Evan had come to terms with the facts of life long ago and didn’t waste resentment now. He preferred action to anger.
Cramming his cap in his coat pocket when the supercilious servant looked upon it in distaste, Evan scanned the chamber for familiar faces. Most of the gentlemen still wore the casual frock coats they’d worn to the races. The few ladies in their winter velvets and woolens perched elegantly around the fire, sipping tea—except for Miss Hoyt, of course.
He’d never quite forgotten the bluntness of the little wallflower that season. She had looked so innocent, while bluntly informing him of the prospects of every available miss in town. Her caustic commentary on the foibles of others had lured him into accepting that no one was perfect, including himself, a blessing at the time. He might have sunk into despair without her pragmatic charm to encourage him in better directions. He’d truly expected her to have married by now.
Wearing a serviceable soft wool in rich brown, her reddish-brown hair neatly coiled at her nape, Miss Hoyt hastened toward him with a smile that warmed his heart. He recognized the determination in her big brown eyes from days of old and grinned at the memory. “You do not intend to tip any ratafia over these ladies, do you?” he asked when she reached him.
“They have insulted no one, my lord,” she said. “And I was very young then. You should not remind me.”
“I saw you toss Harrow’s dashing chapeau into the mud and stomp on it. Do not tell me you have changed so drastically. Most people may believe you innocuous, but I know better. You are quite dangerous to cross.”
“As if you aren’t,” she said scornfully. “Don’t think I haven’t heard about the Irishman who dared lay Harrow flat only a little while ago. The gentlemen are still chortling. And I daresay the only reason you haven’t broken your neck racing is because you broke your leg first.”
“Let’s not put a cozy on it, shall we?” he said dryly. Her honesty was probably why he’d enjoyed talking with her all those years ago. Or complaining—he had probably done a lot of that.
She dismissed his mild protest for what it was—irrelevant. “I’ll take you to Wexford, shall I?” she asked. Gesturing at the supercilious servant who’d scorned him a moment ago, she commanded, “Fetch Lord Meath a hot toddy and serve it in the upstairs parlor. Have a maid stir the fire in there so he may warm himself.”
The woman was uncanny, reading his mind and his character all too well. Not that his racing accident was a secret, but the part about his recklessness was damned near prescient. And while the day wasn’t all that cold, the perennial damp had seeped into his knee. How did she know that?
He limped after her up the stairs. “Has Bell regained consciousness yet?”
“Not yet,” she said worriedly, lifting her long skirts enough for him to catch a glimpse of neat ankles. “But she is so very thin, she could have just passed out from hunger.”
“She feeds her younger sisters first. Wexford is a victim of a string of bad luck and bad decisions. Only the fact that his land is entailed to his title keeps them from the poor house. Winning that race would have paid his debts and given them breathing room. I don’t know what they’ll do now.”
She stopped outside a set of double doors and turned those too-perceptive brown eyes on him. “You are married then?”
Evan thought his eyebrows might meet his hairline at her directness and implication. “Have you finally located a woman of wealth and intelligence willing to marry a lame Irish viscount who possesses little more than rocky pastures, a crumbling castle, and promises? And if you’re hinting that I should marry the lass, you’re all about in your head. Bell is like a baby sister to me, and she would go into convulsions at the notion.”