The Complete Regency Surrender Collection. Louise Allen
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been pleasant and polite, but they didn’t know the real her—her mother had abandoned her; neither her father, before his death, nor Aunt Phyllis seemed to notice her unless it was to criticise; James had completely withdrawn from her; and, as for Donald and any other would-be suitors, they were only ever interested in her fortune.
‘Have you heard from Hugo?’ she asked, in an attempt to distract her thoughts from her own shortcomings.
‘I sent one of the footmen to his lodgings. Evidently he is out of town and no one knows when he is likely to return,’ Aunt Lucy replied. ‘Really, it is too bad of him...’
Aunt Lucy happily grumbled about her younger son all the way to their front door, distracting Eleanor from her newly resurrected worries about the ball that evening.
* * *
Knowing Stephen was in town was one thing, tracking him down quite another. No good revealing himself in a public place—who knew how his brother might react? Matthew pulled the collar of his greatcoat around his ears and settled down to wait outside the house in Jermyn Street, where Stephen had bachelor rooms.
He had called at the house several times since he had seen his brother on South Audley Street, only to be informed Mr Damerel was not home. A coin pressed into the porter’s palm had elicited the information that Stephen was expected to return home before going out again that evening.
It was two days since he had first seen Stephen. Two days in which he had not spoken to Eleanor, although he had watched over her from a discreet distance, alert to anyone behaving suspiciously.
He had already decided to revert to his family name even if Stephen rejected him. He had nothing to be ashamed of, but he did not want to reveal his true identity to Eleanor until he knew Stephen’s reaction. He wanted to be prepared. If Eleanor rejected him...if she believed he would ruin her efforts to be accepted by the ton...then he must continue to protect her from afar, as best he could. He was more determined than ever to roust out whoever had put her in such danger, cousin or not.
The wind gusted, battering his hat and fingering his coat, looking for gaps.
Splat.
Hell, that’s all I need.
Splat, splat. Huge raindrops burst on to the pavement, scattering the dust and tapping on the brim of his beaver hat.
Why am I skulking outside in the rain instead of waiting in Stephen’s rooms?
He knew why, though. If Stephen had the same valet—Pring—he would recognise Matthew in a flash. He would forewarn Stephen and the news he was back in the country would wing its way to Rushock, the family’s estate, and to his father and that he most definitely did not want. When he faced his father again, it would be on his terms.
The clip-clop of hooves on the cobbles grabbed his attention. A curricle drew up outside the house opposite. The gentleman driver leapt down and hurried to the front door whilst his tiger scurried round to climb into the vehicle and drive the horses away.
‘Nine o’clock on the nose, Col.’
Stephen’s voice. No mistaking it, even after all these years.
‘Nine of the clock it is, guv.’ The voice floated back as the curricle and pair clattered away.
Stomach on a mission to climb into his throat, Matthew strode across the road.
‘Stephen.’
His brother froze on the threshold. He turned. Older, of course, but otherwise unchanged. Tall, rangy build, hawk-like nose—he got that from Father—keen grey eyes.
Ignoring the now-persistent rain, Matthew removed his hat. His brother’s only reaction was a blink and the firming of his lips.
‘You’d better come in,’ he said and opened the door. ‘First floor.’
Matthew led the way upstairs, thrusting down the nervous questions crowding his mind. Stephen would do what he would do. The die was now cast. On the landing, Stephen indicated a door.
‘Sitting room,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell Pring to bring some wine.’
Matthew shrugged out of his greatcoat and, after a second’s hesitation, draped it over a ladderback chair set before a writing desk. The room was masculine—to be expected in this popular area for bachelor lodgings—all dark-green damask, polished wood panelling and leather seats. The fire was lit, as were the candles, dispersing the gloom of the murky late afternoon and Matthew used the poker to stir the coals. At the sound of the door closing, he turned.
Stephen’s eyes narrowed. ‘Defence or attack, little brother?’
‘I doubt I would need a weapon in either case.’ Matthew placed the poker back on the hearth.
‘That I can believe. You have the look of a man who knows how to handle himself. How long have you been back in England?’
‘A month or so.’
‘And I owe the pleasure of this visit to...?’
‘Courtesy call only.’
‘It is usual to leave a card.’
‘I have forgotten the niceties. You will have to forgive me.’
Like a pair of dogs, hackles raised, walking stiff-legged around each other.
The door opened and Stephen—who had not yet moved away from it—turned. There was a murmured exchange. When Stephen toed the door shut, he had a tray with a bottle and two glasses in his hands.
‘You’d better sit down.’ He put the tray on a table by the window and poured two glasses of rich red wine.
Matthew took a chair by the fire. Stephen remained standing.
Never mind—allow him the upper hand for now. My decision to come here; my responsibility to come to the point.
‘I intend to make my home in England,’ Matthew said. ‘I had no intention of making contact with anyone from my past—’
‘Not even your family?’
‘My family—’ Matthew placed his glass on a nearby table ‘—have made it abundantly clear they want nothing more to do with me.’
Stephen frowned. ‘Where have you been?’
‘Since I returned?’
‘Since you left!’ Stephen strode to the window and stared through the glass. His tailored coat clung to the contours of his shoulders and back, revealing every breath he took. They were many and deep. ‘We did not know if you were alive or dead.’ A crack of emotion in his voice.
‘But...Stephen...Father knew. And Claverley. They sent me to India. To Great-Uncle Percy.’
Stephen turned, frowning. ‘You’d better tell me all of it.’
Matthew told Stephen about that night. As he talked, Stephen sat down opposite, his attention never wavering from Matthew’s face. When he had finished, Stephen leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled.
‘So, Father sent you off to India. Why did you not write?’
The past had begun to reform into a coherent picture. Father and Claverley had not told the rest of the family where he had gone. He had been bundled on board ship and dismissed from their minds. Disowned.
‘I wrote. Many times. No one—none of you—replied.’
Stephen’s grey eyes searched Matthew’s face.
‘They never arrived,’ he growled. ‘Father must have made sure of it.’
‘He was too ashamed to acknowledge I even existed after he disowned me.’ Matthew could hear the sharp bitterness in his own voice. ‘I did not do those things—cheat, or attack Henson.’
‘He