“Oh dear,” Catriona said. “We better make this worth it.”
* * *
The sun had set by the time Annabelle climbed the creaking stairs to her room in Lady Margaret Hall. There were only eight other students in her class, one of whom, namely Hattie, resided in the Randolph, so they were all easily accommodated in a modest brick house at the outskirts of town. Nothing at all like the Randolph. Still, a warm emotion filled her to the brim as she stood in the doorway to her chamber. The low light of the gas lamp cast everything in a golden glow, the narrow bed on the left, the wardrobe on the right, and, straight ahead, the rickety desk before the window. Her desk. Where she could sink into the myths of Greek antiquity and solve Latin puzzles. Her bed. Where she could sleep alone, without being kicked by a sleepy child’s foot or having the blanket stolen by one of Gilbert’s girls. All it took was a note on the outside of the door saying she was engaged, and the world remained outside and left her undisturbed.
She hugged her arms around herself tightly. What a gift this was, a room of her own.
She’d make the very best of it; she’d be the most diligent, appreciative student she could be.
But first . . . she groaned. First she had to help a group of suffragists infiltrate the home of the most powerful duke in England.
Chapter 5
November
Sebastian skewered Peregrin with a stare over the top of the letter that had accompanied his unexpected arrival at Claremont.
“You are failing your classes.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You have not paid this term’s tuition fee.”
Peregrin raked a nervous hand through his hair, leaving it hopelessly disheveled.
“I have not.”
So his attempt to train a feckless brother in financial responsibility by handing him his own account had failed.
“And this morning, Weatherly climbed up a freshly gilded rain pipe at St. John’s because you were chasing him with a sword?”
“It was a foil,” Peregrin muttered, “and Weatherly deserved it.”
Sebastian lowered the letter onto his desk, which was already covered in neat stacks of paperwork, all of them both urgent and important. He had not time for this. Peregrin was not stupid, and he was not a young boy; there was therefore no reason for him to act like a stupid young boy, but for a year now he had been acting exactly like that, creating problems that should by any logic not even exist.
“Were you drunk?”
Peregrin shifted in his chair. “No. A Scotch, perhaps two.”
If he admitted to two, one could safely double that. Drinking before noon. Well, they did say that blood will out.
“I’m disappointed.” He sounded cold to his own ears.
A flush spread over Peregrin’s nose and cheekbones, making him look oddly boyish. But at nearly nineteen, he was a man. Sebastian had taken over a dukedom at that age. Then again, he probably had never been as young as Peregrin.
His gaze slid past his brother to the wall. Six estate paintings to the right of the door, the one depicting Montgomery Castle still to the left. Sixteen years ago, he had ordered all paintings to be hung on the left side, the daily reminder of what his father had lost, sold, or ruined during his short reign. Granted, the foundation of the dukedom had been crumbling for decades, and his grandfather had broken most of the entails. But his father had had a choice: to fix the spreading financial rot eating away at their estates, or to surrender. He had chosen to surrender and he had done it like a Montgomery did all things—with brutal effectiveness. The recovery process had been distasteful, an endless procession of arms twisted, of favors asked and granted and traditions flouted. Sebastian almost understood why his mother had moved to France; it was easier to ignore there what he had become—a duke with a merchant’s mind. Anything to get the castle back. It wasn’t even that he felt a great attachment to the place. It was dark and drafty and the plumbing was terrible, and having it back would be another deadweight in his purse. But what was his was his. Duty was duty. Come March, Castle Montgomery would finally be on the right side of the door. Yes, it was a bloody inopportune time for his heir apparent to play the village idiot.
He gave Peregrin a hard look. “You spent the tuition on entertaining friends, I presume.”
“Yes, sir.”
He waited.
“And I . . . I played some cards.”
Sebastian’s jaw tensed. “Any women?”
Peregrin’s flush turned splotchy. “You can hardly expect me to own it,” he stammered.
Privately, Sebastian agreed; the doings of his brother behind closed doors were none of his business. But few things could trip up a wealthy, idiotic young lord more than a cunning social climber.
“You know how it is,” he said. “Unless I know her parents, she is out to fleece you.”
“There’s no one,” Peregrin said, petulant enough to indicate that there was someone.
Sebastian made a mental note to have his man comb through the demimonde and have Madam, whoever she was, informed to take her ambitions elsewhere.
He tapped his finger on the letter. “I will take compensation for the rain pipe out of your allowance.”
“Understood.”
“You are not coming to France with me; you will stay here and study.”
A moment’s hesitation, a sullen nod.
“And you will go to Penderyn for the duration of the New Year’s house party.”
Peregrin paled. “But—”
A glance was enough to make his brother choke his protest back down, but the tendons in Peregrin’s neck were straining. Incomprehensibly, Peregrin enjoyed house parties and fireworks; in fact, the more turbulence engulfed him, the more cheerful he seemed to become, and he had been jubilant to hear about the reinstatement of the New Year’s Eve party. Nothing ever happened at the estate in Wales.
“May I take a caning instead, please?” Peregrin asked.
Sebastian frowned. “At your age? No. Besides. You need more time to reflect on your idiocy than a few minutes.”
Peregrin lowered his gaze to the floor.
Still, he had seen it: the flash of emotion in his brother’s eyes. Had he not known better, he would have said it was hatred.
Oddly, it stung.
He leaned back in his chair. Somewhere during the sixteen years he had parented Peregrin, he must have failed him, as he was obviously not growing into the man he was meant to be. Or perhaps . . . Peregrin was growing exactly into what he was. Someone like their father.