The school must have said very little, but someone had sent his father a letter.
It had been two weeks before his parents had even noticed that he was absent. That had been particularly brutal, but not surprising. They’d had far too many affairs on their minds to worry about one boy disappearing. Even if he was the heir. They must have ignored half a dozen messages from servants about his vacating the estate.
But why should they worry?
After all, they had been certain he was in the care of the staff and tutors.
Who knew if they even opened the mail about their son? He had never asked his mother.
But after fourteen days, they had finally realized where he was.
Because he had begun receiving letters from his mother. She’d poured out her love, her regret, and her hopes for a better future in those missives.
His father? His father had said nothing.
His mother’s lengthy letters, sometimes stained with tears, had broken his heart.
And now he was determined that he should never allow it to break again. Which was why he always listened to her.
So, he did not pursue Lady Jacqueline out onto the terrace, because he was not about to risk being caught with her out in the dark. In this, his mother was most likely correct.
Instead, he returned to the ballroom, contemplating matches for his dearest friend, the friend that had rescued him during hellish summers spent at the ducal estate when Eton was not home to England’s most privileged.
Lord Blackbrook needed a bride.
Who the devil could it be?
He was not certain.
It might prove challenging to convince a lord to marry his daughter off to a young man who had no funds and a dubious background, because that was exactly what Blackbrook had at present. A dubious background.
Funds would have made that nothing. But there were no funds.
Blackbrook, like himself, had made quite an extensive reputation for himself as a rake at Oxford and after. But many a good man had. It was what young bucks did.
When it came time to tot up the accounts and decide who would make a good husband for their daughter, many lords would frown upon such a thing if the most important things were missing.
Luckily, Blackbrook still held a title.
Suddenly, he wondered if it might possibly be better that, rather than atonlady, they consider one of the city girls. Yes, one of those wealthy families hoping to join the aristocracy might do nicely.
Someone with a vast fortune and not a protest for what had happened with Blackbrook’s father. Someone who might even admire his father’s financial daring, even if he had failed.
Yes. It might be something to ponder, and he would.
Even so, as he stood on the edge of the ballroom, he couldn’t help feeling a bit off foot. It was damned tempting to find a towering fern or statue to hide behind. He was in no mood to make polite conversation.
“What the devil did you say to my sister?”
James nearly jumped. Luckily, he wasn’t easily startled. And at that voice, he did indeed wish he’d found a chunk of marble to linger behind.
“Nothing,” he assured his friend. “Absolutely nothing.” He tried the lie again, hoping he’d do better this time. “Your sister merely needed a bit of fresh air.”
“She’s gone out to the terrace by herself?” Blackbrook demanded, eyes wide with surprise.
“I have no idea.”
Her brother pulled at his waistcoat and said firmly, “She’s far too wise for that. She knows that idiot Lord Drexel was looking for her.”