mild way of putting it. Glum didn’t begin to describe his frustration and annoyance.
‘There is nothing wrong with Emily.’ Except that he had no idea why he’d married her. In the past week, he’d spent little time at his town house, and Emily seemed to be avoiding him.
He set his fork down, absently rubbing the back of his neck. The prelude to a headache edged his temples. ‘Were you there, the night I—’ He almost said disappeared, but amended it. ‘Left? Or were you still at Thropshire?’
Quentin poured himself a cup of tea. ‘I was. Mother dragged me back to London for a few days. She seemed to think you were going to announce an engagement to Miss Hereford and demanded that I be there.’ His brother smirked. ‘You certainly destroyed Father’s plans for the next Chesterfield dynasty. When Mother mentioned your marriage at dinner last night, I thought he might need smelling salts.’
It didn’t seem to matter that Stephen had never once given any indication of interest in Miss Hereford. But both of their parents had wholeheartedly embraced the prospect of matchmaking. He pitied the poor woman for what she must have endured.
‘Tell me more about what happened at Lady Carstairs’s ball,’ he said, switching back to their earlier topic.
‘You speak as though you don’t remember it.’ Quentin’s gaze narrowed.
His brother was far too perceptive.
‘I don’t.’ Stephen poured a fresh cup of tea, adding cream. ‘It’s like a cloud blocking out the past few months. I know what happened in January, and I remember waking up at Falkirk a few weeks ago. Everything in between—February, March, April, even part of May—seems to be lost. I’m trying to find out what happened.’
Quentin rubbed his beard, nodding. ‘I’ll do what I can to help. What do you want to know?’
‘Anything.’ He needed a starting place, somewhere to begin filling in the past.
‘You were looking for your wife’s brother, Lord Hollingford.’ Quentin’s face turned serious. ‘When you couldn’t find him, you left. That was the last we heard. Father sent word to all the estates, but you were nowhere. Mother worried that something terrible had happened.’
As far as Stephen was concerned, something terrible had happened. The vicious scars upon his chest weren’t imaginary wounds. And yet he had no memory of the pain. Whether they were caused by common thieves or something more sinister, he couldn’t know.
‘Someone tried to kill me,’ he admitted. ‘And I don’t know why.’
A flash of concern crossed Quentin’s face before his brother mustered a teasing smile. ‘I’ll admit, I’ve wanted to murder you a time or two. It isn’t so difficult to imagine.’
‘I’m being serious.’
‘I could be the heir to all of Father’s fortunes,’ Quentin continued, gesturing grandly at the breakfast table.
‘You are welcome to them.’ Despite Quentin’s joking claim, Stephen knew his brother far preferred the freedom of being the youngest son. He himself had known the same independence until the tender age of nine.
‘But there’s something else.’ Glancing at the door, Stephen removed his coat and loosened his shirt. ‘Would you have a look at this?’ He revealed the tattoo beneath his collar.
At the sight of the symbol, Quentin’s face grew concerned. ‘What is it?’
‘I haven’t the faintest notion. Do I look like the sort to get a tattoo?’
Quentin laughed, but there was uncertainty in it. ‘Perhaps you lost a wager.’
Stephen righted his clothing. ‘Perhaps.’ But he didn’t think so.
‘It looks like an Oriental language. Possibly Sanskrit.’
Had he travelled to India? Or had his attackers done this to him? He intended to question several sources until he learned what it meant.
Stephen turned the conversation to a more neutral topic, and his brother filled him in on the details of a particular shipping investment.
‘The profits from the cargo were stolen,’ Quentin admitted. ‘We lost a great deal of money.’
Stephen fetched a pen and paper and began taking notes. ‘What was the name of the ship?’
‘The Lady Valiant.’
At the mention of its name, he’d hoped for a flash of memory. Something that would point toward answers. Instead, there was nothing. He recalled making the investment, but nothing struck him as different from any other ship.
He began jotting down names of the investors who might have been affected by the loss. The Viscount Carstairs was one. Himself.
And Hollingford. Emily’s brother had also invested in The Lady Valiant. Somehow, he was sure of it.
‘Not another of your lists,’ Quentin protested. ‘This is a conversation, not the time for record-keeping.’
‘I prefer keeping detailed records.’
‘And thank heaven you are the one to manage the estates and not me. If I had to keep the number of lists you did, I should run screaming from the room.’
‘You would simply pay the bills and not worry about where the money came from,’ Stephen said.
‘Precisely. As long as you and Father support me, that is all that matters.’ Quentin raised his cup of tea in a mocking toast.
Stephen frowned. In two lines he estimated profits and potential losses for each ship, the numbers flooding through him. Thank God for something familiar. Orderly and logical, just as he liked them.
He sobered, thinking of how Emily had taken his orderly life apart. He’d never expected to be responsible for a wife and children. Not so soon.
‘Does anyone else know I am married?’ he asked suddenly, looking up from his list.
‘Possibly,’ Quentin replied. ‘The servants do talk. But Father wants to keep silent about it.’
If the servants knew, then it was likely that half of London knew it by now. Stephen grimaced, just imagining the gossip.
‘We’ve been invited to attend Lord Yarrington’s musicale,’ Quentin continued. ‘And I’d best warn you—Miss Hereford will be there.’
Stephen held back a curse. If he attended the musicale, he couldn’t possibly avoid Miss Hereford, despite his desire to do so. She had somehow fallen into the belief that he cared for her, after he’d done little to encourage her. He blamed his parents for leading her astray.
If he arrived with Emily at his side, it would put matters to rest, however. He tried to envision his wife in a ball gown, her fair hair twined with pearls and diamonds.
Instead, it was easier to see her with hands covered in flour, an apron tied about her waist. Tight desire wound up inside him,
