Glenraven muffled a groan.
“Chin up. The faster you choose a wife, the quicker this will all be over.”
They stepped out and into Barrington’s waiting carriage. As soon as they were settled for the short ride, Glenraven handed Barrington his father’s message.
“It appears my father agrees with my need for a bride post haste.” Glenraven leaned his elbow on the carriage ledge and gazed out the window. After a moment, he turned to his friend.
“How can I entertain a marriage, any marriage, when my father’s life hangs in the balance? Besides, marriage isn’t something to be taken lightly. I’ve friends who married and had expectations for the future. Months, not even years, but months later, they are disenchanted.”
“We’ve both witnessed marriages that were like a wedding cake, beautiful on the outside but lacking and tasteless on the inside. As I see it, if not love, there must be a mutual connection and respect for each other.” Barrington let out a deep breath. “That is how love starts for a woman. It is something to build on. You’re a shrewd judge of character. You’ll succeed.”
“Tonight, if I do not find my soul mate, I could attach myself to someone who can tolerate me and not just for my money and title.” Glenraven stared at the coach floor for several heartbeats, then raised his head. “If no one interests me this evening, there is the card room to keep me occupied and work on our project.”
The carriage rolled on, the rhythmic clatter of hooves droned in his ears.
“Does Duchess Berry insist on remaining in Paris?” Barrington asked.
Glenraven exhaled deeply, his breath carrying the burden of recent events. “The Duchess is managing, given the circumstances. She’s expecting the child in September. Her grief for the Duke is profound—a loss felt deeply and personally. She has others around her to keep her safe. I saw to that before I left.”
Barrington nodded, a touch of sympathy in his manner. “And the assassin? I am told you played a key role in his capture.”
A bittersweet smile touched Glenraven’s lips. “I was involved, yes, but the true hero was a waiter who, by sheer coincidence, subdued the assailant at the café. My part was to secure the villain until the Duke’s guards arrived.” He paused, his eyes clouding over. “The duchess has compensated the waiter generously. As for the assassin, he now awaits his day in court.”
Glenraven’s gaze shifted to the passing scenery. “Sometimes, in the quiet of the night, I replay the events, wondering if there was more I could have done. The dreams… they’re vivid. It’s a failure that haunts me, Barrington. I captured the assassin, yet the Duke… I was there to protect him, and I failed.”
Barrington remained quiet, allowing the gravity of Glenraven’s confession to settle. “You did what you could. No one bears the blame for the actions of a madman.”
Glenraven nodded the acknowledgment, a small comfort against his regrets. “Perhaps. But it’s a burden I carry. And I refuse to make the same mistake again, especially now, with so much at stake.”
As the carriage continued its journey, the conversation turned to matters at hand, but the shadow of Paris lingered.
Barrington leaned forward with his hands clasped. “Those in the government who need to know are well aware of your part in capturing the villain. You have your King’s gratitude.”
The king’s gratitude belongs to the young French waiter who risked his life, not his failed emissary.
“And now you’re back.” Barrington settled back in the coach. “You’re home.”
They drew up to the Gladstone home, one of the more notable houses on Berkeley Square. They stepped out of the carriage in front of an imposing entrance framed with tall,gleaming marble pillars. They went up the wide stairs to the open double doors as if the house itself extended a silent welcome. The foyer was grand but inviting, with a round table in the center. Upon it, a bowl overflowing with greenery and vibrant flowers broke the monotony of space. The artwork filling the walls, tucked between mirrored sconces, watched over the room with quiet approval.
“Good evening, Mr. Jackson,” Barrington greeted the butler with a nod, his voice carrying the unmistakable tone of authority. “Allow me to introduce Lord Glenraven.”
“Good evening, Lord Barrington, Lord Glenraven,” Mr. Jackson nodded. With practiced precision, he pivoted on his heel to address the hostess. “Your Grace, may I present Lord Barrington and Lord Glenraven.”
Lady Gladstone looked past her butler. “Lord Barrington, Lord Glenraven, what an honor to have you join us this evening.” Her gracious greeting was warm and genuine. “Welcome to our home.”
“Thank you for your kind invitation, Your Grace,” Glenraven offered. Lady Gladstone’s excitement had him grinning. “It is kind of you, especially on such short notice.”
“Nonsense, my lord. Your mother and I are good friends. While it pains me to see your father suffer and your mother so distraught, I am pleased that you can join us, especially since you recently returned from Paris. Do go inside and enjoy yourselves.”
They moved into the elegant ballroom. The wall in front of them was filled with doors leading to the terrace. An entrance to their right led to the dining room, and a doorway to the left conveniently led to the card room. The evening could easily serve two purposes—become reacquainted with thetonand subtly probe the shadows of high-stake card games.
“Barrington,” a gentleman called as he came through the crowd.
“Ashfield, it is good to see you.” Barrington gestured to Glenraven. “You remember Glenraven. He’s recently returned to us from Paris.”
Ashfield’s expression softened with concern. “Glenraven, it is good to see you again. I was sorry to hear about your father.”
“That is kind of you. He is improving.”
