Page 63 of The Viscount of Shadows

“Fair enough. About Bryan.”

Oliver slapped his forehead. Good God, he hadn’t given his wayward brother a single thought these past days. Who knows what sort of chicanery Bryan has engaged in? “He completely slipped my mind. What day is it? I have lost all track.”

“Understandable. Today is Sunday, and it is half past ten. Bryan arrived Friday morning at the appointed time. I told him you were not feeling well even though I had no idea where you were. I also was a little more forward with him than you have been. I grabbed him by his collar and shook him a bit, maybe tossed him across the room—”

“Jesus, Rett!”

“He is a spoiled, miserable excuse of a man, and I told him so. I also said he was hurting this family with his reckless, selfish behavior. I reiterated that your father will be here in less than two weeks, and he had better clean up his act, or there will be hell to pay.”

“Well said. It is all true. I think there was a similar scene between our grandfathers back in the day. I take it Bryan did not take kindly to the roughhouse and the harsh words.”

Rett crossed his arms. “History doomed to repeat itself and all that? How ironic. And no, Bryan bloody well didn’t like the reprimand. I will not repeat what he said, but he angered me enough that I decided to follow him. He returned to his flat, so I took a page from The Galway Agency’s book and fashioned a disguise. I borrowed the gardener’s work clothes. Not that they fit all that well; the trouser legs only came to my shins, but it served the purpose. Early that evening, I returned to the flat to witness quite the scene.”

It was that moment Dalton, the butler, brought in a tray. “Your breakfast, my lord, and when I heard Mister Rett was in the room with you, I brought extra food and tea.”

Rett rubbed his hands together. “Well met, Dalton. I can take it from here.”

Once the butler placed the tray on Oliver’s lap, he bowed and quit the room, closing the door behind him.

Rett poured them tea. “Do you wish me to cut your ham for you?” he teased.

“No, just get on with the story.”

Rett swiped a piece of crispy bacon from the plate, popped it in his mouth, chewed, then swallowed. “A man showed up in a fancy carriage with two footmen. A tall, formidable man with gray at the temples. They basically kicked the door in. I moved as close to the place as I dared. There was a great deal of shouting, and from what I could tell, the Duke of Coldbridge arrived to extricate his son from the flat.”

After the afternoon tea at Watford’s, the Duchess of Coldbridge must have relayed the conversation about Shinwell and, knowing his son was staying with the viscount, took matters into his own hands. The duke was decent and would not want his son, Rome Linton, involved in multiple depraved acts with Viscount Shinwell and Bryan. Good for Coldbridge.

Oliver ate some of the ham and egg and washed it down with a gulp of tea. “And did he? Extricate him?”

Rett reached for more bacon, placing it and hunks of cheese on a plate. “Oh, yes. The duke literally dragged Linton out by the hair. I saw Bryan and that loudmouth miscreant, Shinwell. Shinwell staggered about, hurling insults at the duke, until one of the muscular footmen punched him in the midsection, bringing Shinwell to his knees.”

“Good. Shinwell is a lout and a despicable excuse for a human. Should we do the same? Kick the door in and drag Bryan out by the hair? Maybe we should have done that when I first learned of his debauched activities.”

Rett sipped his tea. “And then what? Keep him here, tied to a chair in the attic or cellar?”

Oliver took another forkful of scrambled eggs. “Perhaps we should. I will be recovering for a few days, as will Claudia. There is no one to watch him—unless you wish to continue.”

Rett scoffed. “I will not be his observer, though I enjoyed being in disguise. It is my opinion that Bryan should learn from his mistakes. On that, I agree with your father—to an extent. I have a better idea. We can enlist your friend, Detective Simpson, not in his official capacity as a detective but as an authoritative force. We gather together a few of the men from The Rakes, maybe muscular footmen of our own, and storm the place. Chellenham would assist, and Allenby. Watford and Wenlock, too, if needed.”

“I haven’t known Detective Simpson all that long. That is quite the favor I would be asking. The men in our group are one thing—”

“Then let’s make Simpson part of the club. He is Chellenham’s half-brother and, by all accounts, an honorable man. Having a member of the police within our membership is a prudent move.”

Rett smiled, satisfied with his suggestion, and bit into his toast with gusto.

Mitchell in their group? Why not, indeed?