were in sight. The quiet scurrying of footfalls, however, suggested they were not far.
Tom could not blame him. He was making puddles all over the polished marble. Probably because it had already been raining when he had left his townhome without an umbrella or top hat to blunt the sting of the rains. But Brandon need not know that.
“Towels would be welcome,” Tom said. “And mayhap some whisky.”
Brandon sniffed the air and raised a brow. “More whisky, old chum?”
Curse it. When was Brandon the sober one of the two of them? The sensible one?
Since Hyacinth left you, whispered an insidious voice. Yes, he had given in to his own sorrows at last, but attempting to drown them had not worked any better this time than they had the last.
“Shut up,” he said, swaying on his feet. He attempted to right himself and slipped on the marble.
“Bloody hell, man.” Brandon caught him in a staying grasp before he toppled to his arse. “Are you well?”
Decidedly not.
“Yes,” Tom lied brightly.
Towels appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. Someone threw them about his shoulders as if they were a mantle.
“Thank you,” Brandon was saying to his servants. “That will be all.”
The sound of footsteps fading away was reassuring. Tom used the towel to dry his dripping hair. He probably did look like a drowned puppy in this state. Or worse, a lunatic. Indeed, he rather felt like one.
The last fortnight had been sheer torture.
“I owe you a debt of gratitude for giving me shelter from the storm,” he said wryly.
“And I owe you a sound trouncing for gadding about Town in the midst of a thunderstorm with nary an umbrella,” Brandon countered. “What the devil are you thinking, Sidmouth? And if you prattle on about that taking a walk nonsense, I will smite you.”
“I was going for a tidy little walk,” Tom countered. “It merely turned into a longer walk than I had supposed it would be. One involving lightning and profuse amounts of thunderclouds.”
Brandon shook his head. “To the study with you, sir. I despair. I cannot whip your arse in billiards when you are in such a state. Is this because of the lovely widow? Lady Southwick?”
Tom clenched his jaw so hard it made his head ache. “Of course not. I was in need of diversion. That is all.”
A blatant lie. But since when had bloody Brandon become his conscience? Or gained one, for that matter?
“Sid,” Brandon said, taking on a tone Tom had not heard in as long as he could recall.
It meant Brandon was serious. And that was a rarity indeed.
Tom finished drying his hair and glanced at the marble, which had been spread with towels all about him. “Am I that much of a ruin, old chum?”
Brandon was spared from answering by the sound of footsteps once more approaching in the cavernous marble entry hall.
“Another carriage has arrived, Your Grace.” It was the cool voice of Brandon’s butler.
“In this deluge?” Brandon frowned. “Is the carriage marked?”
“A footman ventured out,” the butler said, “and it would appear Lady Grenfell is within. She wished to be assured of her welcome before she braved the storm. Her ladyship wished to impart that her visit is of the utmost importance.”
Brandon’s frown turned into a scowl. “Curse you, Sid. This has your mark upon it.”
Tom searched the dank recesses of his memory. But it was true that he had been soothing his misery with whisky before his impromptu walk. And it was also true that his mind was currently as clear as London when it was beset by fog.
“Do I know Lady Grenfell?” he asked, genuinely puzzled.
There was only one lady who occupied his thoughts, waking and sleeping, as it happened. Hyacinth. Lady Southwick. He could think of no one else.
“Your Grace?” the butler prompted. “Shall I send the carriage on its way?”
“No.” Brandon heaved an irritated sigh. “See her inside, Shilling. The emerald salon, I suppose. To the devil with my study. And see that tea is brought round, if you please. This afternoon is turning into quite the unexpected social gathering.”
Tom wondered if he ought to apologize for importuning his friend. He waited for the butler’s footfalls to fade. That was the thing about Brandon’s townhome—it was so damned immense that the entry hall was large enough that men could disappear within it. Lined with marbles and imposing, gilt-framed portraits of all the Dukes of Brandon who had come before.
He cleared his throat. “Have you another engagement this afternoon, Brandon? I admit, I