Page 6 of A Lyon’s Lesson

Rick watched him stalk out of the room and heard the door to the apartment close quietly behind him. He left a profound silence in his wake, broken only by the thudding in Rick’s ears of his own heartbeat. A tight ball of anger and guilt sat in his gut.

Reynolds moved quietly into the room. For a big man, he moved with the stealth of a large cat. He produced a shirt, neckcloth, waistcoat, and jacket in silence.

Rick took the shirt with hands that shook. His throat felt tight. He swallowed hard.

“His Grace will realize what you were saying when he calms down.”

Rick pulled his head through the neck of the shirt and turned to look at his valet. “You don’t think I did it?”

“I know you didn’t,” responded Reynolds with a lopsided smile. “Your brother does, too. He is just confused by your bloody stupid behavior. The Layne pride is a curse.”

“I don’t have any Layne pride, that’s the problem. And Rob has way too much of it.”

“Bullshit, my lord. You’re as stuffed full of it as he is. You just express it differently.”

Rick shook his head and laughed. Pulling on the waistcoat and buttoning it up, he narrowed his eyes at Reynolds. “Thank you, my friend. I think.”

Reynolds shook his head and bent to examine Rick’s boots, buffing a spot on the toe.

“I suppose the timing is damnable with Ravenshaw in Newgate. I must drop in on Ava and see how she is faring. She must be very upset.”

As it transpired, he did not have the opportunity. Venturing out to his club, he found the consequences of last night were to be felt in the very air he breathed. Not that anyone had the temerity to say anything to him directly. That was the point—no one said anything to him at all. Conversation stopped when he got within earshot, and men who would normally greet him with a smile and cheerful salutation avoided his eyes, or even more pointedly, turned away. Even ones he counted as friends seemed elusive or distant, eager to get away rather than be tainted by the scandal hanging over him.

As a consequence, he ate his breakfast in solitary state, only disturbed at the last by his middle brother, Hereward, appearing and plonking himself down on the opposite side of the table. Hereward was a solidly built man just over six feet tall, with brown hair and brown eyes. He reminded Rick of a bull, in both build and temperament: powerfully muscular and strong, placid and slow to anger, but ferocious when roused, which wasn’t often. In age, he stood between himself and Robert, being just turned thirty. Like Rick, he was still a bachelor and held rooms in the same building in St James.

“What are you doing, Rick?” he said, leaning his large hands on the table.

“Eating breakfast,” said Rick obtusely. He poured Hereward a pot of porter from the jug and shoved it toward him. Hereward took it and sipped.

“You know what I mean,” he said placidly. His brown eyes observed Rick over the rim of the pewter mug and Rick shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“Did Robert send you?”

“No.” Hereward took another mouthful.

Rick put down his knife and fork with a sigh and reached for his own pot of porter. “Have you spoken to him?”

“No.” Hereward reached for a piece of crispy bacon on Rick’s plate and chewed.

“What do you think happened?”

“I think you panicked.”

Rick compressed his lips in a grim line. “What else do you think happened?”

“Not sure.” Hereward frowned. “I’d swear you’d not attack an innocent young lady.”

Rick swallowed and looked at the remnants of breakfast on his plate. “I didn’t,” he said roughly.

Hereward nodded. “Thought not.”

Rick sagged in relief. At least someone believed him.

“Thought you liked her, in fact.” added Hereward.

Rick started in surprise. “What do you mean?”

Hereward shrugged. “Just a notion I had.”