Bragg snorted into his glass. “Quite a forward question of you, Your Grace. At this rate,youshall be the one visitingmyhome to apologize.”
“Well?”
“You know young ladies,” Bragg said, as if he were speaking of two strangers and not of two of the people dearest to Graham in all the world. “They were reluctant to be parted, although the condition of their station is to become wives. Bridget and Mary did not believe Liverpool was a suitable place for either of them; they said it’s too dark and rainy there.”
That seemed beside the point, and Graham wondered why on earth Bragg had even suggested that Mary might have considered going with Bridget to Liverpool. “But—”
“Enough of this talk,” Bragg said. “Speak to me more of your life in London. What does a young bachelor get up to in the West End, pray tell?”
Graham stared at the man with a puzzled expression. “I’m not sure I catch your meaning…”
“Gambling? Drinking?” Bragg wiggled his eyebrows. “Women?”
Graham huffed out a startled breath. “Such conversation is far from gentlemanly.”
“Good,” Bragg smirked. “For we are not in the company of ladies. Come, Your Grace, indulge a soon-to-be-married man with exciting tales of single life.”
Graham shook his head. He didn't know what Bragg was expecting, but he was certain the man would be unimpressed by his tails of poetry readings and library visits. Yes, he had enjoyed the company of a widow and, once, a disreputable lady in a gambling hell... but that was nothing to brag about, despite being the norm among his peers.
“I’m very sorry to disappoint you, but my life in London is far from exciting,” Graham said. “If anything, it is quite ordinary. For a man so recently returned from the Caribbean, I would argue my goings-on in the city would be rather droll.”
An uncomfortable silence fell over them, Bragg swirling his brandy in his glass. He cocked his head to one side, his eyes narrowed as if studying him. Graham felt a rising dread. He wondered if Bragg was about to insult him again, and how helacked the patience to deal with the man's rudeness once more.
But Bragg did not say anything. Instead, he discarded his empty glass on the table beside him, licking the residue from his lips. “I really must be going, Your Grace. It is getting late, and Lady Sarah will have set a place for me for dinner. And besides that, I have wedding arrangements to make with my dear Lady Bridget.”
Graham smarted at the mention of their wedding despite himself, rising to bid farewell to Bragg. He wanted to drown himself in brandy yet again, but exercised restraint and avoided going back to the liquor cabinet.
“When shall the wedding be?” Graham asked.
“Within a fortnight, if all goes according to plan,” Bragg said. “I have arranged everything down at the church, and once we are married, Bridget and I shall return to Liverpool and—with any luck—start a family of our own,” he chuckled merrily. “I do hope you’ll attend the wedding. It would mean so very much to Bridget.”
Graham smiled, even though it was the last thing he wanted to do. “Of course,” he said. “I would not miss her wedding; I have known the girl all her life.”
“And she shall be glad of it,” Bragg said. “Well, good night, Your Grace.”
With that, he left the sitting room, Warren guiding him to the front door. Graham heaved a heavy sigh and took a seat back in his armchair, swirling his drink in his hand.
He did not see any escape from it; the marriage license had been acquired, the church booked, and Bridget was probably already busy selecting her wedding gown. He was convinced she was not happy with Oliver Bragg, yet he knew he could not simply disrupt their engagement when he had no true notion of what was going on between them. Lord Bragg seemed absolutely monstrous.
Then, there was the question of him using Mary’s first name, and, of course, helping himself to the liquor cabinet. That, above all else, made him wonder.
For the cabinet’s purpose was not immediately obvious. It was on the far side of the room too, and he was sure Bragg had not been alone long enough to search all the cabinets. What this meant was that Bragg was familiar with Foxglove Hall’s sitting room.
But how could that be so? Had he truly spent so much time there with Mary and Bridget as to be perfectly familiar with its layout and contents? Was it normal for a young woman’s betrothed to pass time in her best friend’s sitting room?
Graham did not know. But he intended to find out.
CHAPTERTHIRTEEN
In the days since her best friend’s death, Bridget had sometimes wondered if she was becoming a ghost herself. She haunted the halls of Sedgwick Manor, moving through the corridors and up and down staircases like a wraith in the dead of night. Her dressing-gown was smudged with charcoal from fevered twilights spent drawing in the solarium, her fingertips blackened by it.
There was only one bright spot in the whole horrid affair, and after her afternoon spent at the willow tree with Graham, something stirred to life in her once again. Bridget was drawn to the solarium yet again, but it was her paints that called to her rather than the dark charcoal she had favored since Mary’s death. She found herself painting a vivid scene of a golden afternoon, candlelight flickering on the canvas as she took care with the individual willow leaves cascading down from a blue sky and onto a picnic blanket.
She pictured her friend beside her, sprawled out on the blanket, a blade of grass between her fingers. She'd been so determined to elicit a pleasant sound from the plain-looking blade of grass that Bridget had been highly amused. One of the footmen had shown her how to create a whistle by using a blade of grass and Mary had been determined to learn.
As she thought of it, she recalled her friend’s soft yet determined voice, declaring that she would certainly succeed one day. A sudden ache entered her heart then because she realized it would never come to pass. That, along with all Mary's other plans, would never be.
They'd never go on a grand tour together—not that it was usual for women to do so, but Mary had been determined to see the Colosseum in Rome, the River Seine in France, and the beauty of Southern France, now the war on the Continent was over. She never would, of course. Mary's life had been brutally cut short. It was so unfair and painful to bear.