Page 6 of The Viscount of Shadows

Though the Tensbridge country home had a lofty-sounding name, it was not that large or much of an estate, although his great-grandfather, Julian, had built a significant extension on it. Well-situated near a pristine lake and woods, it was Oliver’s childhood home, and returning there as the sole occupant would feel strange indeed. The family lived within a few miles of each other, so there were always Wollstonecrafts around. Not that Oliver minded. His childhood was nearly idyllic compared to the other members of the club he recently joined, The Rakes of St. Regent’s Park.

Oliver stood, then leaned down to kiss his grandmother on the cheek once again. “I shall do so soon.”

She stroked his cheek affectionately. “Make the home your own; decorate it any way you wish. There are numerous furnishings in storage; some are recent purchases.”

“Isn’t there an entire warehouse filled with decades worth of cast-offs?” There. A hint of a smile from his grandmother.

“Your great-great grandfather’s study furnishings are there. You might like your namesake’s desk as it is quite ornate.”

Oliver patted her hand. “A fine suggestion. Early next year, I will seek it out. I promise to make use of the furniture. See you at dinner.”

Oliver departed, exhaling as he entered the main hallway.

Rett stood, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. “So, when are we leaving?”

“I told Grams in two days. Bryan will be traveling with us.”

“But not staying with us. Grandmama tried to get me to agree to take him in. I said it was up to you.” Rett took Oliver’s arm and pulled him into the library, closing the door with his boot. Rett could easily steer him since he was broad of shoulder and close to three inches over Oliver’s six feet, one-inch height. Rett bore a resemblance to his late grandfather, except Rett’s hair was brown with threads of auburn rather than full-on red.

“No. I explained to Grams that our all staying together would not work out. Bryan shouldn’t be underfoot.”

Rett arched an eyebrow. “And discover your nocturnal activities as The Sentinel, you mean?”

“Keep your voice down,” Oliver hissed through clenched teeth. “I shouldn’t have told you.”

“I am glad you informed me about it since I am joining The Rakes of St. Regent’s Park. Are any of those men involved with your do-gooder watchman persona?” his cousin teased.

“No. And I do not wish for the members to know. It is my business.” Although, Oliver wondered if Damon Cranston, the Duke of Chellenham, and Althea Galway at least suspected since The Sentinel came to their rescue about seven weeks ago.

Rett sat in one of the chairs, waving Oliver to sit opposite. “This group, is it all charity work? While admirable, I am also interested in the original purpose of the assembly. Vice. More specifically, sex and where to get it. Discreetly and safely, of course.”

“Aspiring to be a rake in the truest sense?”

Rett smiled. “Well, here and there. Now and then.”

“There are unmarried members of the group who still like to indulge in various vices; you can commiserate with them.”

Rett arched an eyebrow. “And you?”

“I have gone to a few gambling dens with various associates, mostly with Asher Colborne, Baron Wenlock, but brothels? No. I do not like paying for sex as there are too many variable outcomes—like a sexual disease. And the women involved have a hard enough life without me increasing their toils.”

“Are you still a—you know,” Rett mumbled. “Never mind, none of my business.”

No, it was not anyone’s business. But technically, Oliver still was a virgin. It seems odd in this day and age, where sex is available everywhere you turn. At age twenty, Oliver allowed an older widow of a baronet to escort him to her home. They had indulged with plenty of sex play of the oral variety, but he balked when it came time to do the actual act. The reaction had surprised him and angered the widow. He had a few encounters since, with plenty of kissing and touching and nothing else.

Oliver could not say why he stayed away from sex. It wasn’t because of religious or spiritual reasons. Perhaps he was a man who wished not to share an intimate act with total strangers. He wanted to know and care for the person. Maybe even be in love, or the beginnings of it. It’s an eccentric notion for someone in the peerage, but there it is.

Also, it was as he said to Rett. Acting as The Sentinel meant he had seen enough of misery in the slums without adding to it. He had joined The Rakes more as a cover than any genuine interest in debauchery. It was often difficult to keep from rolling his eyes when some of the men bragged of their conquests. But Oliver ultimately decided not to stand in judgment of anyone—of any societal class. He was glad the group also took on charity endeavors these past months.

“I do not go out every night as The Sentinel. I refuse to become obsessed with rescuing all of humanity. There is no possible way for me to save everyone in dire straits. But what little I do gives me a sense of purpose,” Oliver said. At least, he tried not to become obsessed. Sometimes, what little he accomplished was not near enough.

“I can see that,” Rett murmured. “Our family’s foundation is good works to further benefit humanity. In our own way.”

“Exactly so. Perhaps you might like to give it a go. We can fashion an outfit to fit that huge frame of yours.”

“You are mocking me,” Rett replied dismissively.

“I am deadly serious. Think on it. Although, we will have to get you in better shape. I instructed the Tensbridge staff to turn the smaller library into a gymnasium. You can join me in vigorous exercise.”