seen for more than half a decade, but he had no desire whatsoever to step into Benedict’s shoes as head of the family. He was more than content with his carefree bachelor existence, and although he didn’t consider himself to be in the least light-minded, he recoiled at the mere thought of having to accept responsibility for the running of the family’s vast estate in Hampshire, not to mention the other sizeable properties dotted about the land.
Extracting the key from his pocket, he let himself inside the house. As he was never very sure of precisely when he would be returning home, he never encouraged his worthy factotum to wait up for him, and was faintly surprised to discover his butler-cum-valet dozing in the comfortable leather-bound chair in the hall.
“What’s all this, Figgins? Why aren’t you abed, man?” he demanded, as the servant awoke with a start at the closing of the door.
Having been in service most of his life, Figgins was quite accustomed to the ways of the nobility, and was not in the least offended by his young master’s rather impatient tone.
Although he had always considered himself to be a very superior valet, he had not been averse, after his previous master had passed away, to accepting a position as general factotum in this small but fashionable household. He had worked for Lord Nicholas for the past two years, and could say with a clear conscience that not once had he ever committed the least solecism—never until tonight.
Rising to his feet, he cast a faintly concerned look in the direction of the parlour. “I felt it my duty, sir, in the—er—circumstances, to await your return in order to apprise you.”
“Apprise me of what, may I ask?” Nicholas prompted when his very correct manservant cast a further glance in the direction of the parlour’s closed door.
“Of the fact, sir, that there is someone else awaiting your return.”
Nicholas, having by this time divested himself of his outdoor garments, gave his servant his full attention. It was by no means unusual for him to return home in the early hours to discover one of his many friends sound asleep on the couch in the parlour, so he was at a loss to understand why Figgins should be making such an issue of the fact.
“Well, who is it? Harry Harmond?”
“No, sir. It is someone I’ve certainly never seen before.” Figgins, who rarely displayed the least emotion, permitted himself a thin smile of satisfaction. “I have always prided myself on being an excellent judge of character, able to pinpoint very accurately a person’s station in life. And I certainly know an encroaching individual when I see one.” His smile disappeared. “But I am forced to admit that the person who called shortly after you had left the house, and who is now comfortably ensconced in the parlour, has me well and truly puzzled. His appearance leaves—er—much to be desired, as you might say, but his speech and manners are those of an undoubted gentleman. I have therefore formed the opinion, sir, although he stubbornly refused to give his name, that he must be an old acquaintance of yours who has, perhaps, fallen on hard times.”
For a few moments it was as much as Nicholas could do to gape in open-mouthed astonishment. “And you let him in? Good gad, man, you must be all about in your head!”
Nicholas was by no means a hard-hearted person, and would willingly come to the aid of a friend, should the need arise, but he refused to be taken advantage of by some rascally individual he barely knew. “What in the world prompted you to admit him? The rogue has probably taken himself off long since. And with all my best silver, if I know anything!”
“Oh no, sir. He hasn’t done that,” Figgins responded, completely unruffled. “And I can assure you, sir, that I would never have permitted him to set foot inside the house, let alone provide him with supper and a glass or two of wine, if it hadn’t been for the fact that he informed me that he had news concerning your brother.”
“Oh, he has, has he?” Nicholas was decidedly sceptical. “Well, his tidings had better be worth the food and drink he’s consumed already at my expense,” he ground out, throwing wide the parlour door, and striding purposefully into the room to discover the shabbily dressed individual sprawled at his ease in the most comfortable chair in the house. “Otherwise he’ll find himself helped on his way by the toe of my boot!”
A slow and lazy smile tugged at the corners of the visitor’s well-shaped mouth, but the eyes remained firmly closed as he said, “I shall take leave to inform you that I consider that a most impolite greeting to offer someone you haven’t seen for several years, dear brother.”
Nicholas stopped dead in his tracks, once again powerless to prevent his jaw from dropping perceptively when the lids of dazzling blue eyes finally opened and the visitor rose to his feet in one graceful movement. “Benedict?” he murmured, taking a hesitant step forward. Then, “Ben, by all that’s wonderful!…It is you!”
Figgins, hovering in the open doorway, experienced a sense of pride as he watched the two men clasp each other warmly. It was comforting to know that his instincts had not played him false and that the very welcome visitor, taller than his brother by an inch or two, and noticeably broader, had turned out to be what he had suspected from the start—a gentleman of quality.
He coughed delicately, thereby indicating his continued presence, and the brothers loosened their hold. “Do you wish me to fetch brandy, m’lord?”
“Yes. Yes, of course,” Nicholas answered, still somewhat bemused by his sibling’s unexpected arrival. “And make sure it’s the best brandy, Figgins. This calls for a celebration.”
After his servant had departed, Nicholas busied himself for a minute or two by going about the room lighting more candles, and then joined his brother by the hearth. He was quite unable to forbear a smile as he watched Benedict piling more logs on what was already a substantial fire. Evidently the British climate no longer agreed with him, which was hardly surprising after spending so many years abroad. This, however, was by no means the most obvious change in him.
No one viewing him now would ever have supposed for a moment that Benedict had once been considered a dandy, rivalling the famous Beau Brummell himself in dress. Nicholas recalled quite clearly watching his brother on numerous occasions, sitting before a dressing-table mirror, patiently tying intricate folds in a highly starched cravat until he had it just so. Yet here he sat, now, with a gaudy red kerchief tied about his throat, his long legs encased in a pair of rough homespun trousers, and a slightly soiled and heavily creased shirt encasing that broad expanse of chest. Why, he looked little better than a vagrant with that mass of golden-brown hair almost touching his shoulders. And the weeks of growth on and around his chin did absolutely nothing to improve his appearance!
“By that disapproving look,” Benedict remarked, after raising his striking blue eyes in time to catch his brother’s frowning scrutiny, “I assume my appearance does not meet with your approval.”
“Good gad, Ben! You resemble nothing so much as a rascally vagrant.”
“I am relieved the hard-working soul who gave me these clothes isn’t present,” Benedict responded, with more than a hint of wryness. “He would have been most offended. This shirt, I am assured, was his very best. Though it isn’t strictly true, I suppose, to say that he gave me these clothes,” he corrected. “We struck a bargain. I exchanged them for a suit of my own. And was heartily glad to do so! I was sick and tired of my own apparel after several weeks at sea.”
“Do you mean to say you exchanged all your clothes for those…those deplorable rags?” Nicholas did not believe a word of it. “You must take me for a half-wit if you think I’ll swallow that one.”
“True
