A single tear escaped, blending with the dried silt on her cheek. After releasing that tear, another followed. She was still unprepared to face her crying, sinking onto the floor with her wet clothes wrapped around her like a reminder: Quinten girls would never be truly welcome in society.
The strange man’s coat, despite its usage, was the warmest thing she could hold onto at that moment. He did not have to know that it gave her comfort during one of the worst moments of her life.
Chapter 4
“Get up, Malcolm. The sun has been up for hours, and you are dripping spirits onto my Persian rug.”
Kenneth Spruce, the Duke of Huntington, stood in the doorway of his private study, his jaw clenched as he regarded the sorry state of his younger brother, who was sprawled across the floor like a discarded coat.
The collapse had begun when Malcolm’s wife left him two years ago, and it showed no signs of stopping. If anything, it was getting worse.
Kenneth nudged him with the toe of his boot. The latter let out a loud groan.
“What the hell, Kenneth?” he rasped, rolling to his side with agonizing slowness. He squinted his eyes open. Even with barely any whites showing, Kenneth could tell that Malcolm’s eyes were bloodshot. His cravat was missing, possibly strewn on the stairs, even before he reached the study. “Do you need to speak with me at such volume early in the morning? My bloody skull feels like it is being drilled into by blunt objects, but with absolute force.”
“Of course it feels that way. It shows you that you have managed to misplace your common sense elsewhere,” Kenneth snapped, even as he tried to maintain a leveled voice.
Anyone who saw the two brothers at this very moment would see the opposites they were.
“You know I have no opposition about where you choose to sleep, but why, precisely, must you use my study? You have your room and even an entire wing you can use for your debaucheries. This place is not for drying one of London’s disreputable inebriates.”
“I... it was the closest,” Malcolm admitted, as he raised himself into a sitting position. He looked like an infant learning to sit with the coordination of a shaking foal. His eyes scanned the room as if it were his first time there—it was not, to Kenneth’s consternation. “Everything felt stable here, too, until you came to stomp on the floor and yell at me with your loud voice.”
“You know that you are a complete disgrace, Malcolm,” the Duke chided his younger brother. “I would have long left you to rot in one of London’s smelliest gutters. However, I always tell the footmen to assist you whenever you are in this state, unless you fight back; then it would best suit them to avoid any altercation. But do I need to remind you that you are a father? Emily and Alexander are wandering the halls with no guidance, and do not follow instructions to stay where they should be. Do you know that I found them lost in the park?”
“Ugh. The little terrors,” Malcolm groaned, half-fondly. A smile ghosted his lips. He took a shuddering breath and rubbed his temples. “They are fine, Kenneth. They have the Spruce fire.”
The Spruce fire?
Kenneth’s and Malcolm’s ideas of fire differed from each other. Kenneth liked being in control. Malcolm liked wallowing in despair.
“Fire? Your children have no guidance or discipline,” Kenneth retorted. “They have a father who aimlessly ventures into my study as if it were an extension of vice. What example do you think you are giving them? Now, stand up and clean yourself before they find you. If you are not afraid to show yourself like this to your children, the stable boys will hose you down.”
“Mercy, I am in no mood for a lecture this early in the day, Kenneth.”
“And I am in no mood to see your ugly bare feet on my carpet either, but you just had to invade my private space.”
Malcolm groaned once more, but Kenneth could hear the bits of theatrics there. His younger brother was suffering, but he also liked showing everyone just how much. Finally, Malcolm reached for his discarded boots.
“Huh? I cannot recall removing my shoes last night,” he ruefully admitted. “Fine, give me a moment. I will put them on now.”
So, he grabbed his right boot. His movements were more coordinated, but not by much. It took him a lot of effort to shove his foot in, and his face was scrunched in agony, as if he was stabbing his toes instead of simply putting on a boot.
Squelch.
Kenneth’s eyebrows raised at the wet, viscous sound. Something was in that boot. Malcolm’s eyes widened, showing their reddish hue. He froze, hesitating to push his foot fully into the shoe.
“What in the name of...” he exclaimed, his nose scrunched in disgust.
He pulled his foot back out, and again both brothers heard a wet, sucking sound. His sock was no longer white, but more yellow, with heavy slime dripping on the rug he had just been warned not to destroy earlier. He reached out and tipped the shoe upside down to see what was going on. Two yolks slid out onto the rug, looking completely preserved.
“Eggs?” Malcolm muttered, his voice rising a little. He was sobering up, and Kenneth knew that it was not the way he wanted to wake up. “In my best leather boots?”
High-pitched titters erupted from behind the velvet curtains. Kenneth immediately knew who was responsible for this sabotage. He himself had not noticed that the curtains were bulkier than usual. He was too focused on his drunken brother.
“Show yourselves. Yes, you two, Emily and Alexander,” Kenneth commanded, conveying authority without even raising his voice.
The curtains parted. There was a little hesitation before two familiar figures emerged. Emily, aged ten, and Alexander, eight, emerged from their hiding place. They were shaking. However, they were not shaking from fear, but from hilarity. They were trying to repress their laughter, and the boy was failing considerably.
