Page 3 of The Lyon and the Lamb

“We should hear about the return on my investment very soon. All our problems will be over then,” Leo added.

Roland did a turn around the room, then came to a halt in front of the desk, staring pointedly at the decanter.

With a sigh, Leo poured another brandy and handed it to him. “You can’t tell me one minute you’re concerned that we’re short of money, and the next, demand to drink my brandy.”

The irrepressible Roland tossed his head back and laughed. “It is not so bad as all that, surely?”

Leo took a sip and swilled the liquor around his mouth, then swallowed, relishing its fiery transit down his throat. He was still completely out of sorts, as he had been since his encounter with that wretched widow at the Foundlings’ Hospital. It was unlike him to be rude to a woman, but he knew he had been. Unforgivably so, considering she’d just lost her husband. However, the truth remained that her proposal had sounded very much like a purchase, and that was not what he had in mind for the children that he, and Mama before him, had nurtured so carefully.

“I shouldn’t imagine paint is all that expensive. I could no doubt do the job myself if push came to shove.”

“An admirable attitude.” But Leo knew full well that Roland would make a mull of things. His charm, good looks, and an uncanny ability to lose at cards were what made him popular amongst the ton. He had no other skills whatsoever—he’d make an unreliable husband, a mutinous soldier, and a lazy curate. There seemed to be no place for Roland in the world but as a perpetual younger brother, supported by good will and the family money. Of which there was little available at present, world trade being what it was. If only the ships he’d invested in would return home with their cargo of cotton!

“Why don’t you let the Foundlings’ Hospital go? I’m sure Mama never expected you to put so much of the family money into it. The other trustees should put in more of the finances. Or you could set up a subscription scheme like I’ve seen mentioned in the papers. Your contribution would be your time since you’re so excellent at organizing things. The Chetwynd family coffers would no longer be under strain while we’re waiting for your cotton.”

Leo rose from behind his desk, stalked across to the fireplace, and pushed at the fender with his boot. They’d had this conversation too many times for his liking.

“I know you mean well, Roland. But you have to trust me on this.”

Roland pulled a face. “But how can I manage on the measly allowance you give me?”

“Don’t push me. Just because you’re my brother doesn’t mean I can’t throw you out on your ear. Regardless of the gossip that would cause.”

Something he might very well do if Roland kept coming home in the evenings with empty pockets that had previously been full. Ah, well—at least the man didn’t keep an expensive mistress or dangle after some opera singer who required valuable jewelry.

Roland joined him by the fire and clapped him on the back. “I love you too, brother. And I know exactly what you’re thinking—that I shouldn’t gamble. But I can’t see the difference between you and me. Your business venture into cotton importing is a far greater gamble and a much higher risk than anything I’ve done.”

Leo glanced away. His brother had a point, but Leo was too proud to admit it.

“Remember—it’s not just luck that commands the card table,” Roland continued. “There’s skill too, a skill that builds with experience. One night I shall come home with several sets of vowels in my pocket—for property, a horse perhaps, jewelry, or even a fortune in coin.”

Leo sighed. Normally, such a conversation would be little more than banter between the two brothers. Hurts, insults, or arguments would be easily brushed off with no harm done. But tonight, he was out of temper due to that encounter with Mrs. Bellamy.

Still, he made an effort. “Point taken,” he managed. “Can we please change the subject now?” He warmed his brandy in front of the fire. The flickering lights reflecting from the carved crystal soothed him. “Have you ever heard of a Mrs. Bellamy?”

Roland grinned. “A new squeeze of yours? An abandoned wife? A lonely widow? It’s high time you took up with the fair sex again. It would improve your temper no end.”

“Nothing like that.” The very idea! “She was thoroughly objectionable—the worst kind of woman. She wanted to buy a child.”

“Really?” Roland leaned closer, interested. “Did she say why?”

“No.” Leo hadn’t thought to ask her. Why should her business or her reasons mean anything to him? No sooner had he heard her request than he’d wanted her out of his office.

“Her proposition was, quite frankly, insulting.”

Roland tutted. “Have you no curiosity whatsoever, brother? What sort of woman was she? Hard-nosed and business-like? Foolish and naïve? Wicked and manipulative?”

Leo ran a finger around the rim of his glass, then placed it on the mantelpiece. He stroked the signet ring Elinora had given him. The so-called Mrs. Bellamy had been none of those things.

“I should say ‘desperate’ was more the word.” As well as extremely stubborn.

“And are you now feeling guilty at having refused a damsel in distress?”

“Quite the opposite. She lied to me—I’m absolutely certain the name she gave was false. She was dressed in mourning but in the costliest fabric, and her speech and deportment were highly refined.” In fact, she’d reeked of nobility. If only he could have seen beneath the veil . . .

“So—had you allowed her to make a donation and adopt a foundling, that child would, quite possibly, have enjoyed a life of luxury. You’ve now snatched that opportunity away. I understand—guilt makes you cross. It always has.”

“I do not feel guilty!” Leo threw back another mouthful of brandy. “I was quite within my rights to refuse someone who wouldn’t give me their true identity. One cannot trust a person who has something to hide. Let that be an end to it—I refuse to discuss it anymore.”