Page 34 of A Love to Remember
Chapter 10
If the man guarding the door to Foster’s den of iniquity didn’t stand aside, Philip knew precisely where his first blow would land.
This was the third night he’d had to rescue his brother. Maxwell was drunk again but still gambling too deeply, being played for a fool.
When the boy sobered up in the morning they were going to have a talk. This behavior had to stop. It was so unlike Maxwell. Something had to be wrong. He’d take the young fool back to Devon for Christmas if he had to tie him to his horse behind his carriage.
In the meantime, Philip’s fist itched to pummel something or someone. The guard at the gambling hell would be an excellent place to start. But to his disappointment the man stepped back and allowed him to enter.
Once inside, he made his way through the corridor, hazed with smoke, to the gaming room. As he entered, a young girl—naked underneath her sheer negligee—handed him a brimming glass of what was probably considered whisky and purred, “Are you here to play cards? Or to play with me?”
She was a pretty thing, and his gut twisted at the sight of bruising on her arms. For many, the world was not a kind or lucky place. Pity for her—and anger against the world in which she was trapped—hit him hard in his chest. Gently, Philip put her aside and made his way farther into the room.
He saw his brother—and the cause of Maxwell’s plight. Farquhar.
Farquhar stood over Maxwell, whispering in his ear and fingering the boy’s coin on the table. Maxwell slumped in his chair, the cards around him, dejection in every line of his body. It didn’t take a genius to see that, once again, Maxwell’s luck had run out.
This time, however, Philip had had enough. Three strides and he was at the table.
Farquhar looked up. “Cumberland?”
It was all the bastard had time to say before Philip’s fist crashed into his jaw. The power of the blow sang up Philip’s arm as Farquhar staggered back into the table. Cards and glasses flew everywhere as the table collapsed under the man’s weight. Farquhar landed on the floor on top of splintered wood and shattered glass. He didn’t get up.
No one said a word. Not as Philip helped Maxwell to his feet. Not as he draped his brother’s arm around his neck. Not as he half carried and half dragged the young fool out and poured him into his carriage.
At thirty, Philip could barely remember what he’d done at one-and-twenty, and he understood that Maxwell wanted—needed—to sow his wild oats. This wasn’t a harmless sowing. This was squandering and devastation.
When they arrived at his London residence Philip ordered his footmen to take Maxwell upstairs, draw him a bath, and fetch him some coffee. He wanted his brother sober, not as drunk as a wheelbarrow, before they left for Devon at first light to join his mother and Douglas.
As for Philip, without Rose, London no longer satisfied him. Maxwell needed a repairing lease, and to cut ties with Farquhar. He needed to cut ties with Rose. God. He missed her. He missed her beyond words.
But Rose was no longer his problem. Maxwell was. As head of the family it was Philip’s responsibility to ferret out what was going on with the young fat-wit and deal with it before the demons driving him led him down a road he’d regret for the rest of his life.
For an instant, as Philip ascended the stairs behind the footmen and Maxwell, a glimmer of light flickered in his mind. No. The idea that Philip was the right person to lead this family was laughable. Thomas was not much younger than he and was nothing like Maxwell—he was a replica of Robert.
The glimmer flicked brighter. Buthe’dbeen young, too, had he not? He’d needed a few years and Robert’s guidance to mature. Would he make the mistakes now that he’d made three years ago? The ones that caused him to enlist. The ones that got Robert killed?
“Phil—Philip—I almost won tonight. I swear.”
At Maxwell’s slurred speech, the glimmer flickered. Died. Maxwell, unlike Philip at that age, was only hurting himself.
When they reached the bedroom the footmen carried Maxwell to the bathing chamber. Then Philip dismissed the men and began to undress his brother.
Lost in a drunken stupor, Maxwell didn’t resist. Finally, with the bath drawn and his brother naked, Philip hauled him up and dropped him bodily into the tub. Max came up sputtering but Philip was ruthless. He dunked Maxwell’s head under the water five more times, and soon he was as wet as his brother, because Maxwell fought back, arms flailing furiously while he cursed like a sailor.
When Merton arrived with coffee Philip poured it down Maxwell’s throat. Soon Maxwell was—if not completely sober—at least able to string a sentence together.
“Put on a nightshirt and robe,” Philip instructed him. “Merton will bring fresh coffee and some toast. You need more than brandy in your stomach. I’ll be back in a minute.”
Philip went to his room, changed into dry clothes, and returned to his brother’s room to find him sitting by the fire sipping what smelled like coffee.
He looked up when Philip came in, his face a mask of sorrow. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re my brother.” Philip dropped into the chair next to him. “Never feel you cannot come to me and tell me if you are in trouble, or if something is bothering you. If I had done that with Robert I might never have made the mistakes that got him killed.”
Maxwell hung his head and Philip pretended not to notice tears trickling down his face.
“I owe Foster a lot of money,” Maxwell said, gruff and ashamed. “I keep trying to win it back but just when I’ve had a few wins, my damned luck changes and I lose everything—and more.”
