life-threatening,” he added softly.
Relief rolled over him at his brother’s words. “Well, thank God for that. I have no interest in stepping into your boots at any point—and certainly not now.” He strode over to the cluster of decanters on the glass table beside the fireplace. “These are empty,” he said, lifting one decanter and then another.
“Daley must have been interrupted before he could refill them. Take a fresh bottle from the cabinet,” Wyndham said, sanding his letter.
Simon took out a bottle of brandy. “Do you want one?” he asked, pouring three fingers into one of the cut crystal glasses.
Wyndham hesitated, and then pulled a face. “No, I’d better not. The doctor recommends a bland diet that does not include alcohol. Besides, he just cupped me so enthusiastically I’d probably swoon from even one sip.” He sanded his letter and then took off his signet ring.
“Ah, probably wise,” Simon agreed, lifting his glass and drinking enough for both of them. “So,” he said, watching as his brother melted wax and sealed the letter he’d just written, “what did you want to talk to me about?”
Wyndham removed his spectacles and set them aside before tossing the letter onto the salver, along with several others. “I’m going to have a house party in two weeks.”
All the good will Simon had been feeling toward his brother began to dissipate.
“Tell me this isn’t going to be the sort of house party that is peopled with eighteen-year-old chits, Wyndham.”
“I am inviting several eligible females, along with their parents,” Wyndham continued, as if Simon had never spoken.
“Unless you’re inviting them for you, Wynd, you might as well not bother.” Simon slammed his unfinished drink down on the end table, stood, and strode toward the door, yanking it open.
“I understand you went riding with Miss Keyes.”
Simon spun around on his heel. “What of it?”
“She is not to be toyed with, Simon.”
“I’m not toying with her, Wyndham.”
Oh, you lying villain, Simon’s conscience chided.
Simon grimaced, infuriated that the bloody voice was right this time.
“Don’t worry,” he snapped, before his brother could call him out on his shameless lie. “I’m going to Lindthorpe with Raymond in the morning. That should stop me from ravishing your portrait painter if that’s what is concerning you.”
“She is an employee in my house, Simon, it is up to me to protect her. If you are looking for a suitable woman to shower with your attention you shall shortly have several appropriate candidates to choose from.”
Simon felt as if a rope were tightening around his neck; would the man never stop?
“Sod off, Wyndham. Just bloody sod off. After I’m finished at Lindthorpe I shan’t be returning to Whitcomb. It’s past time I got the hell away from this place. I can’t bear one more day of your pompous meddling without resorting to violence.” Simon flung open the door hard enough that it cracked against the wall, and then strode out into the corridor, only to slam into Raymond.
“Good God, Raymond. What the devil are you doing lurking about?” he snapped, his cousin’s wide-eyed gawking only infuriating him more. “I’ll be ready to leave at seven o’clock in the morning. You can pick me up at The George, where I shall be staying the night,” he added, loud enough for his brother to hear.
***
After Honey had changed her clothing, cooled off—both mentally and physically—and eaten a light lunch, she went to meet her second subject.
She’d just reached the landing that led to the family wing when she heard a familiar voice shouting somewhere to the left of the staircase.
“—after I’m finished at Lindthorpe I shan’t be returning to Whitcomb. It’s past time I got the hell away from this place and you. I can’t bear one more day of your pompous meddling without resorting to violence.” The sound of a door slamming followed, and then some garbled voices.
Honey turned right and scurried down the hallway that led to the duchess’s chambers—which were thankfully in the opposite direction.
She hesitated in front of the duchess’s door, giving her heart a moment to stop pounding.
Simon’s furious words and not-so-thinly veiled threat replayed inside her head.
Just what had that argument been about?
What happened to your resolution of a mere half-hour ago—in which you swore to avoid both thinking of or talking to Simon Fairchild ever again?
Honey gritted her teeth; yes, that was true. She had planned to avoid him. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t be curious. Did it?
Oh, Honey.
Honey thrust everything but her work from her mind and knocked