“I look that bad, do I?” Robert gestured for the footman to pour coffee in a cup near one of the place settings, then began filling a plate.
Michael set down the cup. “Not as bad as when I picked you up outside court.”
Robert, who had been attempting to rescue a kidnapped boy, had been caught up in a raid by the Bow Street Runners. He had been badly beaten, then left in Newgate Prison overnight. By the time he had been released the next day, a deep infection had set up in a cut on his face. His left eye socket had been cracked. Michael had met Robert after his release and escorted him home. The doctors had done what they could, but Robert’s face would be permanently scarred and the left side somewhat malformed.
“No doubt. Even now the mirrors tell me I appear to have been stitched together by Mrs. Shelley’s misbegotten doctor.”
Michael gave a quick shrug. “Not quite that bad, although I suspect you’ll terrify the dogs.”
“Your encouragement knows no bounds.”
“And if I gave you any less, you would think you were dying.”
Robert slathered butter on a piece of toast. “True.” He took a bite, then gestured at his brother with it. “I hear you had quite the adventure last night. Coming to the rescue and all that.”
“I—” Michael’s eyes narrowed, an odd bit of suspicion stirring in his gut. “How and what did you hear?”
Robert grinned, a crooked affair that made his wound tighten. “My valet is apparently not as averse to gossip as yours. And I fully intend to quiz Beth about it, so do feel free to state your account of events first.”
Michael stared down at his plate. “Do not be hard on Beth.”
Robert stilled for a second, then put down the toast and sipped his coffee. “So he did it last night, the bastard?”
“Yes.”
“Hm. That explains why there is a message for Father on the foyer salver this morning.”
Michael peered at his brother. “Do you know everyone’s business in this house?”
A shrug. Another bite of toast. “Usually. As would you if you spent time outside those stables and away from the horses.”
“I am fond of the horses.”
“I would not state that too openly, brother. It could be easily misconstrued.”
“And I could easily make the right side of your face match the left.”
“Ah, yes, but then you would have to put up with me even longer than expected.”
Michael resumed his breakfast. “So this is a temporary reprieve?”
“It is. I am still officially disinherited due to an ongoing scandal, no longer a son of the Kennet duke.” Robert also continued eating. “As soon as I am able, I will return to my rented rooms and the fine establishment of Campion’s Gentlemen’s Emporium. Then it’s off to Kent.” Bill Campion’s establishment—a gambling hell and brothel Robert had recently inherited—was the source of his current scandal and recent disinheritance from the Ashton family.
Michael’s brows furrowed. This was news. “Why Kent?”
Robert gestured to the footman for more coffee. “Part of what I inherited from Bill was an estate in Maidstone and a boy’s school. It has been suggested”—Robert paused to clear his throat as the coffee was poured—“by a friend that the two could be combined. I’m going to make a survey of the estate and see what needs to be done.”
Michael leaned back in his chair and studied his brother for a moment. Robert was not normally so reticent. “What’s her name?”
Robert looked placid, sipping his coffee almost as if he had not heard Michael, who merely waited. “Who?”
“Your, um, ‘friend.’ Is this the woman I saw outside the court? The one who told me to remind you that you are never alone? That, um, ‘friend’?” Michael speared a piece of gammon on his fork and lifted it, studying the sliver of meat as if it were the most interesting piece of gammon ever fried. “Because I know that my brother who prefers gambling hells to stables is not about to turn into a country gentleman without a little feminine encouragement.”
Robert’s face did not change. “Funny that you should mention stables—”
“Oh, please do not tell me you are already talking horses at the crack of dawn.” Beth sauntered into the breakfast room and dropped into a chair next to Robert. While her dress and hair were impeccable—Beth had one of the finest lady’s maids in London—her face remained sallow and drawn, her eyes red-rimmed, and Michael’s heart hurt as he watched her fiddle with the silverware next to Robert’s plate. As the footman stepped forward with the coffee, she waved him off. “Is there tea?” she asked, her voice both kind and weak.
“Of course, my lady.” The footman set the coffee on the sideboard and disappeared through a servant’s door at the back of the room.
