Sebastian shrugged, staring at the table as if he expected breakfast to appear. He yawned again and headed to the sideboard and the coffeepot.
“Where did you go?” Alexander asked.
“Concert at the Eagle Tavern. Their pianist canceled, so they asked me to fill in. Thought I’d sleep here so’s not to disturb Talia or the old bird.”
“You thought performing at the Eagle Tavern was a good idea?”
Sebastian groaned and took a swallow of coffee. “It’s a respectable enough place. Besides, no one cares, Alex.”
“I do.”
“You’re the only one, then.”
Frustration tightened Alexander’s chest. For all his efforts following their parents’ divorce, his siblings had failed to do a single thing to help restore the family’s reputation. Sebastian cared nothing for what others thought, and if Talia had the choice, she would seclude herself at their country estate and never visit London.
Alexander, on the other hand, lived within the thick of it—attending social events, clubs, and business meetings as if nothing had gone wrong, as if their mother had not left them in disgrace. As if their deep association with Russia were not an increasing burden.
“I sent word to Father yesterday that I wish to speak with him about the management of the Floreston estate,” he told Sebastian. “There’s been some discrepancy between income and expenditure, and I’ve several tenant issues with which to contend.”
“If you wish to speak with Lord Rushton, I suggest you call upon him.” Sebastian scrubbed a hand over his face. “He can be found at Forty-five King Street, Piccadilly, in the event you’ve forgotten. Likely he’s spending the morning in his greenhouse.”
“And Talia? What are her plans for the day?”
“I think she’s got a meeting with the Ragged School Union.” Sebastian eyed him over the rim of his cup. “Told me yesterday you were haranguing her about marriage again.”
“I was not haranguing her. She needs to understand that a good marriage will help not only her, but also the family. Both financially and socially.”
“She’d be more civil if you let her alone,” Sebastian said. “Moreover, you’ll do better to worry about your own state of matrimony rather than Talia’s.”
Alexander scowled. “You think I’ve got time to find a suitable wife?”
“All you need do is find yourself a sweet, empty-headed young chit, Alex. God knows there are plenty. Better still if the girl’s father has found himself with pockets to let. You needn’t do much except wed her and bed her.” Sebastian arched a mocking eyebrow. “Neither of which ought to take you much time.”
“Blackguard,” Alexander muttered. “It wouldn’t take much time because a young chit would faint with shock before I’d even got started.”
Sebastian grinned. “You needn’t pay a wife regular visits, so long as she produces a son. Then Mrs. Arnott will be happy to keep you entertained. Word is she favors you for more than just your money.”
Alexander sighed. His infrequent patronage of the brothel was due to the need for discretion and his lack of interest in the complications of an affair.
Not to mention his distaste for marriage to a “sweet, empty-headed young chit”—no matter how beneficial such a match would be to the earldom. The very idea brought back the ugliness of his experience with Lord Chilton and his daughter.
“Wed and bed, Alex. All you need to do.”
Alexander shook his head and left the dining room, somewhat gratified at restoring his brother’s good humor—if one could call it that.
Despite their different temperaments, of his three brothers, Alexander had always been closest to Sebastian. Partly because they couldn’t compete with the bond their twin brothers shared, but also because Alexander always secretly appreciated Sebastian’s relaxed, devil-may-care approach to life.
An approach Alexander had never been able to cultivate.
And as much as they’d sparred over Sebastian’s cavalier attitude about the scandal, Alexander couldn’t help the sting of envy he felt. Sebastian did what he pleased, everyone else be damned.
He wasn’t the one who had been forced to sacrifice all his plans. He wasn’t the one who’d had to return to London to contend with the detritus of their mother’s abandonment and the subsequent divorce. He wasn’t the one who’d borne the humiliation of a broken engagement to a society debutante.
None of his brothers were.
Alexander rubbed the back of his neck to ease the persistent tension caused by the weight of responsibility. After he had finished dressing, he had picked up Lydia Kellaway’s notebook from where he’d left it on a table.
She was no sweet, uninspiring daughter of a rustic peer. If her writings were