Love caused agony. He had loved his mother. But it had not been enough. And she had run away for love.
He knew those were a child’s simple views of what happened. But he’d seen it again and again. People throwing their lives and duties and happiness away for a moment of love.
It was why he had chosen action, dedication, stoicism. Why he would always choose a steady life over a passionate one.
He studied his brother, his own heart lacerated with his inability to stop Kit’s suffering. He’d failed him.
Now, he had to right things. He would always protect Kit. It was his lifelong role. And he wasn’t going to allow him to be abandoned, not for anything and not for anyone.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The loud singing would have woken up people as far away as China.
Beatrice was convinced of it.
She rushed down the stairs, her sapphire silk dressing gown wrapped about her. A single candelabra filled the foyer with a golden glow, awaiting the duke’s return.
And return he had, for she could not mistake that rich baritone.
Forbes stumbled to the door, ready to open it.
“You should go to bed now, Forbes,” she said. “I shall take care of everything.”
“But, madam, what if they need…” As the door opened, her husband and Kit stumbled through, barely able to stand.
They were singing at their loudest.
She couldn’t identify the individual words, but she was fairly certain that the song had to do with the horrific nature of the betrayal of women.
It sounded like an Irish shanty. She’d heard it before on one of her visits to the East End. Something about pistols being misloaded and his handsome Jenny turning him over to the British army.
It struck her as odd that her husband should know an Irish shanty, but he was a man of many parts.
Forbes lingered by the door, clearly certain he would need to serve.
He was likely right. Forbes was probably almost always right.
There was no better butler, except perhaps Heaton.
“There’s my wife,” William declared, grinning at her, confident. “She will assure us that all will be well.”
Oh, how she wished she could.
From their state, she felt certain that Kit had told Will some part of what had occurred today.
“Kit knows the truth about your uncle,” Will proclaimed magnanimously as he took a surprisingly strong step toward Beatrice. “And that this is all a vast misunderstanding. And now, of course, Margaret will marry him.”
Any reply she had died on her lips.
She said nothing, because she couldn’t tell him what he wished to hear. He was not nearly as far gone as Kit in the sea of drink, but likely he had flung himself three sheets to the wind, too.
And poor Kit looked like a drowned rat. Sunken in sorrows.
Men really were baffling. If he was so bloody upset, it might have been better for him to come and talk to Maggie.
But no one seemed to be using their reason.
“We shall sort it all out in the morning,” she assured, because she wasn’t about to start a long discourse with two brandy-soaked brothers. “Come now, let us get you settled and into beds. Forbes, will you assist me?”