Page 8 of The Viscount of Shadows

Chapter 3

“I don’t understand why we are taking one of the family carriages when we could be in London in less than an hour by train,” Bryan groused, slumping lazily in his seat.

“Because we want to talk to you privately,” Oliver replied, losing patience already, and they were barely out of Kent. “And we want to use the carriage while in the city. The family does not have one in London at the moment, not until Father returns next month.”

“You should try and convince Father to buy one of those automobile contraptions. Easier than keeping a stable of horses within the city.”

Bryan made a valid point for once. “I will discuss it with Father next I see him.”

“Or why have a carriage at all? There are hansom cabs aplenty to hire,” Bryan continued.

“True. But what if we wish to travel farther afield? And those automobile contraptions, as you call them, are small. There is not enough room for more than one or two people. At least the current models.”

“How do you know anything about it?” Bryan asked.

“I recently entered into an investment scheme within my club. I own shares in The Daimler Motor Company,” Oliver replied.

“Automobiles. They might be useful in the short term, but over the long run? You will lose money in your investment,” Bryan stated with a wave of his arm.

“I don’t agree,” Oliver retorted. “I have made a study of—”

“Oh, who bloody well cares?” Bryan groaned, his bored expression back in place. “What I want to know is how long do we have to wear this?” he whined, pointing to the black armband on his left arm.

Rett rolled his eyes. “Up to six months is the general society rule. But in our family, it is three months. And stop your bloody whinging. We are in mourning. Show the proper respect.” Rett met Oliver’s gaze. “I want to smack him one.”

Oliver understood and agreed with the sentiment. “Grandfather and Uncle deserve your esteem. I agree with Rett. Stop acting the mealy-mouthed brat.”

His brother sniffed. “Grandfather always preferred you, being the heir and all that nonsense.”

“Bryan, where are you staying? Surely the location is not classified?” Oliver asked, deciding to change the subject before his growing annoyance spilled over.

Bryan shrugged. “I suppose not. I am staying with Shinwell and Linton at Shinwell’s town house in Notting Hill.”

Viscount Shinwell and Lord Romeo Linton? Troy Beckingham, the viscount, and Rome Linton, the second son of the Duke of Coldbridge, were part of The Rakes of St. Regent’s Park, although they had not attended that many meetings since joining some months ago about the same time as Oliver.

He never cared for Shinwell at the first meeting. Oliver found there was something—off—about the man. His arrogance and indifference? Shinwell made it more than plain that he had joined the group for debaucheries, not charity. And Rome? The man recently became Christian Bamford, the Duke of Allenby’s stepbrother, when Rome’s duke widower father married Allenby’s widowed duchess mother. But Rome had made no effort to get to know Christian better, even though Christian had made overtures. To Oliver’s mind, that showed a decided lack of character.

“Who are you, the mascot?” Rett snorted.

“How droll, Cousin,” Bryan retorted. “Yes, I am younger, but they have befriended me and shown me an interesting side of London.”

“Notting Hill is a little out of the way for a peer to have his town residence,” Oliver murmured. “I thought the area was more upper-middle class and a draw for artists and the like.”

“You really are a snob, aren’t you, Brother?” Bryan sneered. “It suits us, and there are nearby entertainments.”

Oliver frowned. Nearby was Notting Dale, a slum enclave within Notting Hill. About forty-odd years ago, the author, Charles Dickens, said of the area, “a plague spot scarcely equaled for its insalubrity by any other in London.” In plain English, it had been an open sewer, attracting the worst of London, even to this day. A feeling of unease bloomed within Oliver. Perhaps his grandmother was correct in her assessment of Bryan. Young, impressionable, reckless, and yes, stupid. Oliver added the adjective for it fit.

Oliver settled back in his seat. “You will be keeping contact with us, little brother. You are to check in at the Tensbridge residence every Friday. In person. At ten o’clock sharp—in the morning.”

Bryan sputtered. “Be damned If I will!”

“I am afraid Grams insisted on it. Do you wish your allowance to be cut off? One word from me to Father and Grams, and you will be forcibly returned to Wollstonecraft Hall secured to the carriage’s roof, trussed like a Christmas turkey. Tread carefully and stay out of mischief.”

Bryan crossed his arms, sulking. “You are a miserable bastard.”

Oliver turned to gaze out the window. As the oldest and now heir apparent, he had to be.

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