Page 7 of The Seduction of an English Scoundrel

“No,” Grayson said quietly, torn between family loyalty and the odd sense of responsibility he felt for the whole unhappy affair. If Belshire’s daughter had thrown a tantrum or wept piteously, he might not have been so touched by her abandonment. But her composed acceptance challenged him to defend her. Why? He wasn’t sure. Perhaps because no one else appeared likely to assume that role.

He added, “If the rascal has decamped on us and is not lying dead in a gutter, it is and shall remain a family affair.”

“Yes,” Heath murmured. “And so we keep it quiet. Well, as quiet as possible considering the fact that half of London already knows by now what he did.”

Grayson’s eyes narrowed. He’d never had any patience with the small-mindedness of society. It brought out a beastly urge in him to act on his most shocking impulses just to show he did not care. The trouble was, he was no longer the prodigal son who could behave however he pleased.

He said, “Gossip is best dealt with by being ignored. His parents are utterly crushed, to say nothing of the bride. I suppose it’s up to me to smooth things down for the family.”

“You, Gray, a peacemaker? Now there’s a lightning bolt from the heavens. I do believe I like it.”

None of the six remaining siblings had accustomed themselves to the drastic shift the past year had wrought in the Boscastle hierarchy. Their father had appeared in excellent health until two months before his death. Everyone had expected the old tyrant to go on for decades. And when their youngest brother, Brandon, had been killed while protecting British interests in Nepal, it seemed impossible such a hale young man would not return.

The family had still not recovered from the shock. The reins of responsibility had been tossed into Grayson’s lap before he realized quite what had happened. In fact, he had been on his way to China when the news of his father’s untimely demise was delivered.

Almost overnight he had been forced to abandon his private pursuits and settle his abundant energy on the management of his vast estates. Boxing, drinking, steeplechasing, traveling to exotic lands in the name of business would have to wait. His time was taken up with finances, family affairs, the pension for his ailing aunts, and the countless charities his parents had supported.

Not to mention the Boscastle clan—three hell-raising brothers; one sister who would dearly love to follow in their path; another in Scotland who had virtually disowned the family; and numerous cousins, including the missing Nigel, most of whom did not appear to have a sensible bone in their collective body. To be a Boscastle meant to ignore boundaries.

Of course if anyone had told Grayson a year ago that he would have been viewing the world from his father’s eyes, and not from his usual moment-to-moment hedonism, he would have laughed himself silly.

If this family were to survive, it would clearly be up to him. And in recent weeks, from murky emotional depths he did not care to explore, came the realization that his wretched family meant rather a lot to him. The double loss of his brother and father had brought this startling truth home. Still, responsibility sent a hell of a shock through a rake’s system.

“What do we do then?” Heath asked, smiling fleetingly at an attractive young woman across the table.

Grayson sat back in amusement. “Can you tear yourself away from the females long enough to be of service?”

“Me? This from a man who had two past paramours waiting to pounce on him from their pews. But, yes.” Heath sobered, his dark blue eyes intent. “I shall help.”

Grayson gave a nod. Only a handful of people knew of Heath’s involvement with British Intelligence during the war. Grayson himself did not know the details; nor would he pressure his brother to reveal what he had done. The point was that beneath Heath’s quiet charm and winning manner lay a quick intellect and almost frightening disregard for danger. Privately he wished to be a little more like his younger brother, calculating his every move instead of acting rashly and regretting it latter.

“Find Nigel for me.”

Heath finished his glass of punch. “Consider it done. And then what happens?”

“Then we drag the repentant rat to the altar to finish this business. Take Devon with you if you like. It will keep him out of trouble.” Grayson cast a searching glance around the table; he’d just noticed that the two places reserved for his younger brothers were vacant. Drake had not returned after escorting the jilted bride home. “Where is Devon?”

Heath adjusted his cuffs. “Gone off with some old friends he met in Covent Garden last week. They’ve got him looking for pirate treasure off Penzance. A gypsy fortune-teller saw it in her crystal ball.”

“God bless us,” Grayson said. “This family is going to hell in a handbasket.”

“And you our exalted leader,” said the raven-haired Lady Chloe Boscastle, who had been sipping champagne the entire time from her nearby chair. “We only follow your example, dear brother.”

Grayson released a sigh. The family was doomed if they followed his example. Yet he could not ignore the fact of his influence. What was he to do? Repent? Sin in secret? How long could a man pretend his actions did not affect others?

Heaven help him, was he in serious danger of becoming a moral creature?

Grayson glanced over his shoulder at the footman standing against the wall. Suddenly it seemed easier to ponder the sins of others than contemplate his own. Distraction would help deflect him from considering his own murky character. “Has my carriage returned yet, Weed?”

“A few minutes ago, my lord.”

“And how did our abandoned bride appear?”

“Eager to be inside the house, I am told, and begging to be left alone.”

“She held up remarkably well,” Heath said. “I do admire that.”

Grayson tried to picture nondescript Nigel with the winsome young woman whose trust he had betrayed. It was difficult to imagine them together, oddly unsettling, in fact.