Page 3 of The Storybook Hero
Chittenden cleared his throat after the cups were passed around, signaling that he was at last ready to discuss why he had gathered them together. “I believe you are all familiar enough with family history to know that my wife’s mother, your grandmother, had a younger sister,“ he began, fixing all three Leigh males with a pointed look. “This sister fell in love with a Russian count attached to their embassy here in London. They married, and when he was posted home, she naturally returned with him.”
“Yes, yes,” grumbled the marquess. “We have all heard stories of our great aunt and her adventures in that cursed land of ice and bears. Interesting perhaps, but I don’t see what it has to do?—”
“Perhaps if you allowed Uncle to finish we would find out.” Alex regarded his eldest brother through the amber contents of his brandy glass. He alone had chosen to remain standing, and as he leaned nonchalantly against the carved mantel, his eyes found the spot on the intricate acanthus molding where he had once carved away a scroll of leaf with a new jackknife. “But then you always think you know it all, don’t you William?”
The marquess opened his mouth to reply but was waved to silence by his uncle. “Might you try not to act as if you were six instead of thirty-six, William?”
The marquess clamped his jaw shut.
“And Alex, at twenty-eight you are no mere boy anymore either. I ask that you not try to intentionally provoke your brother.”
Alex lowered his eyes and took a long swallow of brandy.
“As I was saying, your great aunt went to live in Russia. Though she never returned for a visit, her son Nicholas spent a year at Oxford when Jack was there.”
“I remember him,” interjected Thomas. “Jack brought him down one weekend to visit. You were at Eton, Alex, so you didn’t meet him, and William, you were away shooting at a friend’s estate in Scotland. He was a nice chap.”
“Yes, a nice chap. He, too, married an English girl—Lord Brougham’s youngest daughter—before returning home.” He paused and let out a heavy sigh. “I received some bad news a week ago. Nicholas was killed in a skirmish near the Polish border some months ago.”
“A pity,” murmured Thomas.
“Aye,” agreed his uncle. “But that is not the worst of it.” He removed a letter from his coat pocket. “This arrived on its heels. It is a letter from Nicholas’s wife, and it contains some very disquieting news. It seems she mistrusted her husband’s relatives enough to fear for her young son’s safety. She appeals to us for help in removing the boy from Russia until he has reached his majority.”
The marquess’s brow furrowed. “Why does she not bring him here herself?” he asked. “Or appeal to her brother?”
“She was quite ill when she wrote this. Apparently, an epidemic of influenza swept through their estate. Your great aunt was among the first to succumb.” He stopped to take aswallow of brandy. “I met Brougham yesterday—the countess did not survive either.”
There was a rustle of silk as the two ladies shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. The marquess made a slight grimace as he took a swallow of port, while Thomas stared into the dregs in his coffee cup. Only Alex showed no change in expression, but his eyes remained locked on his uncle’s grim visage.
“So the sole survivor of that branch of the family is their only son, Nicholas’s namesake,” continued the earl. “A boy the age of twelve.”
“I am sure we all agree that it is a terrible pity,” remarked William. He tugged at a corner of his immaculate cravat. “But surely the concern is more Brougham’s than ours. After all, his father was her brother.”
“The new Lord Brougham will not bother to lift a finger. He is an indolent fool, caring only for cards, claret, and whatever willing female will tumble into his bed,”
snapped the earl.
Thomas darted an involuntary look at his younger brother.
“What is it you are suggesting, Uncle Ivor?” asked Alex softly. “That we should take responsibility for the boy?”
“His mother and grandmother were English, and Leigh blood runs in his veins. He belongs here, with his family, so that we may care for him and see to it he may live to take up his rightful inheritance.”
“It’s impossible,” said the marquess. “Why, even if we agreed that it was our duty to help, it can’t be done. Haven’t you seen the newspapers these last few days? Napoleon is cutting a swath through Austria and many here are sure he means to march on Russia as well. The country will be in chaos. By the time we could hire someone willing to brave the risks, it would be much too late. Besides, who would be mad enough to undertake such a dangerous undertaking, no matter how much money is offered?”
“Actually, I wasn’t going suggest we hire someone, William.”
The marquess was speechless for a moment. “You can’t mean, that … that you want us …” he sputtered.
Alex looked faintly amused.
“That’s precisely what I meant, though ‘us’ is rather broader than I had in mind.” Chittenden turned to his youngest nephew. “Actually, it is you I planned to ask, Alex.”
There were several murmurs of shock. Ignoring them, the earl went on. “You have always shown a gift for languages, and I happen to know that you picked up a working knowledge of Russian from the mathematics professor who spent a term at Oxford. Why, your tutor at Merton?—”
“Alex was sent down from Oxford,” barked the marquess. “In disgrace. In case you had forgotten?”
“You certainly haven’t,” countered Chittenden, and the marquess had the grace to color slightly. Turning back to Alex, his uncle continued, “Your tutor felt you were one of the brightest students he had ever taught.”
