Page 35 of A Lady of Conscience

“Nothing at all.” Jack helped himself to another whole sausage. He had the appetite—and the dining habits—of a ravenous beast. “Thought the house would be empty, didn’t I?”

James sat down. “You arrived this morning?”

“At three-odd, and somewhat worse for wear. I was imbibing with friends at that tavern near Beasley, when it occurred to me I should speak with Charles Heywood. I hired a chaise to bring me here straightaway. By the time I arrived, the drink had caught up with me and I promptly went to bed. Only just woke up half an hour ago.”

“A charming tale,” James said.

Jack flushed. “Well, you did ask.”

“Why do you need to speak with Heywood?”

“He’s a military man. A naval man, at any rate. I want his advice about something.”

“Joining the Navy?” James suggested with no little sarcasm.

Jack’s fork stilled halfway to his mouth. “And if I did?”

James stared at him in disbelief. “Good God. You’re not serious?”

“Don’t act as though the idea were completely insane. Most younger sons have commissions bought for them. We can’t all be blessed with honorary titles, my lord Viscount St. Clare.”

James had no sympathy for his brother’s position. As far as James could see, it was he who had received the short end of the stick. The role of heir came with countless duties and obligations, many of them unpleasant. They weighed on a man. At times it could be difficult to bear. “Have you spoken to father about this?”

“No. I only just thought of it, as I said.”

“You can unthink of it, then. Our mother would never allow you to willingly put yourself in harm’s way.”

Jack’s fork clattered to his plate. Irresponsible as he was, he hated being treated like a baby. It never failed to rub him on the raw. “I’m of age. The decision is mine to make.”

“Not if you expect father to purchase you a commission it isn’t.”

Jack scowled. He pushed back from the table. “What are you doing here anyway? I thought you’d be in London paying court to that Marquess’s daughter of yours. What was her name? Lady Amelia? Lady Arabella? Lady⁠—”

“Lady Augusta,” James supplied stiffly. “And I’ve never paid court to her.”

“Let me guess,” Jack said. “You’ve decided she’s not good enough for you either.”

“She’s good enough,” James said. “But she’s not for me.”

His brother was briefly diverted. “Aha. Someone has supplanted her, I see. And someone in Bath, as well.” His face lit with sudden comprehension. “Not Hannah Heywood?”

James didn’t dignify him with an answer.

Jack burst out laughing. “Oh, this is splendid! Does Ivo know? He must be crowing with glee. He said as how you’d fallen hard for her, but⁠—”

“Are you quite finished?” James asked. He was beginning to grow irritated.

Jack stood from the table, still grinning. “What? Can’t bear a little teasing on the subject? Too sensitive?”

James rose from his chair to face his brother. “I can bear a good deal from you and Ivo, but the moment I discover your juvenile japes have reached Miss Heywood’s ears, you will find me strikingly absent humor.”

Jack’s smile faded.

It had been a long while since the Beresford brothers had lapsed into fisticuffs, but they had fought often as young boys—both in sport and in earnest. Their mother had constantly been called upon to nurse their black eyes, bloody noses, and split lips.

“You’ve too much Honeywell blood in you,” she’d tell them as she swabbed their wounds. “Try counting to ten, won’t you?”

“Or to one hundred,” their father had advised. “Beresford blood may be slower to boil than Honeywell blood, but it burns far longer. It will consume you if you let it.”