Page 100 of Heartbreaker of the Ton
Shit.
That meant only one thing.
Robert…
Andrew’s gut twisted with horror, and he drew in a deep breath to swallow the ball of nausea sticking in his throat. “I—I…”
The lawyer tightened his grip, then steered Andrew toward a chair. “I deemed it appropriate to tell you in person, your lordship,” the lawyer said. “Forgive the manner of my intrusion. I came as swiftly as I could. Your father asks that you return with me posthaste.”
“I-is my father well?”
“As well as can be expected under the circumstances. But the earl, naturally, is in need of you, given that you are now his—”
“Yes, yes,” Andrew interrupted. He had no wish for the man to voice it.
Hisheir.
“I quite understand, your lordship.”
Andrew winced. Must the man address him so?
“You don’t look at all well, your lordship,” Mr. Turnbull said. “A brandy might be in order, if you have any?”
Andrew shook his head. More liquor was the last thing he needed right now. No, what he needed was now irrevocably beyond his reach.
His freedom.
“What happened?” he asked.
“Your brother was involved in a riding accident.”
“In the country?” Andrew asked. “I cannot believe that. Robert always detested the country.”
“It happened in London,” the lawyer said. “Hyde Park. He was racing his carriage and it overturned.”
“Sweet Lord!” Andrew whispered.
“I have it on good authority that he didn’t suffer,” Mr. Turnbull continued. “Broke his neck, apparently. Killed instantly.”
Andrew drew in a sharp breath and lifted his hand to his mouth as the nausea threatened to spill over. “When?”
“Two days ago. Just before dawn.”
“Was he alone?”
Mr. Turnbull’s cheeks reddened. “Your brother’s—ahem—companionwas in the carriage with him. She survived only a few hours after the accident. The gentleman he was racing came to his aid, but it was too late.”
Companion. Mistress, more like, given the expression in the lawyer’s eyes.
“The gentleman he was racing?” Andrew asked.
“His Grace, the Duke of Sawbridge.”
Definitely a mistress, then—or, more likely, a whore.
Sawbridge—a man whose reputation as the most profligate womanizer alive had reached even Andrew’s ears. Sawbridge and Robert had been at Eton and Oxford together. He had a reputation for spending a veritable fortune on women, liquor, and wild parties, and he was the man whom Robert had always aspired to be—the epitome of the soulless, amoral rake.
“When he has recovered, His Grace will be writing to you to offer his condolences,” Mr. Turnbull said.
