Page 24 of Second Chances
The Treasure Hunt
“I think I’ll go down to Brighton for the summer,” the Honorable Sidney Hayes said with studied casualness. He was standing at the window in the library of his brother’s house on Hanover Square, staring idly out. He swirled the remaining contents of his glass of brandy. “London grows dull—and empty of good society.”
Jonathan Hayes, Viscount Whitley, looked up from his task of sorting through the mail on his desk. “To Brighton, Sid?” he said. “I thought you were coming to Esdale.”
Sidney shrugged. “Everyone is going to Brighton,” he said. “It is the fashionable thing to do.”
“I suppose so.” The viscount returned his attention to the papers strewn on his desk. “Well, if that is what you want to do. You are one-and-twenty years old and no longer in leading strings. I will be disappointed not to have you with me, though, Sid, it being the first time I will have been home in four years. What the deuce is Weston about, sending me a bill when I settled my account with him just last week?” He frowned down at the paper in his hand.
Sidney cleared his throat. “You might let Connie know that I’ll not be home this year,” he said. “You could tell her that I have had a personal invitation from Prinny or something like that."
The viscount looked up, the frown still on his face. “Constance Manning?” he said. “Why should I lie, Sid? Why not just tell her you are not coming home? And who has given you leave to call the Regent Prinny?”
Sidney did not reply. He found the contents of his glass suddenly more interesting than the activities going on beyond the window.
“She is expecting you?” his brother asked quietly.
“You know women.” Sidney laughed lightly. “Always getting romantical notions. Connie is nineteen—twenty this summer—and her thoughts have turned toward matrimony.”
“With you?” the viscount asked. “The two of you have always been close friends. You were inseparable until you went away to school. I understood that she was one of the main reasons why you have always gone to Esdale for the summer.”
“Yes. Well.” Sidney tipped his head back to drain his glass and turned to face the room in order to set it down. “Things changed last year, Jon. She has grown devilish pretty, I would have you know, and all last summer there was scarce a drop of rain or a cloud in the sky and her father was not too strict about chaperones and all that, Connie and I having been friends all our lives. And, well . . .”
“You did not touch her?” Lord Whitley’s tone was sharp and he got to his feet.
“You mean bedded?” Sidney looked at his brother in some surprise. “Good Lord, no. What do you take me for? Just some kisses Jon, and a whole lot of other foolishness.”
“Like a declaration of undying love and a proposal of marriage, I suppose.” One of the viscount’s hands was playing with a paperweight on his desk while he looked keenly at his younger brother.
Sidney scratched the back of his neck. “The thing was,” he said, “that it seemed a good idea at the time, Jon. And we have been writing to each other all winter and spring—we always have done so, you know, and I don’t suppose it has occurred to Sir Howard that it is not quite proper now that Connie has passed girlhood. And. Well.”
“You are not particularly articulate this morning, are you, Sid?” the viscount said dryly. “So she is expecting you to go home and make the proposal official and enter into a formal betrothal.”
“On her birthday,” Sidney said, wincing. Viscount Whitley picked up the paperweight and slammed it back down on the desk top. “And so you are doing the cowardly thing and staying away altogether,” he said. “And sending me as messenger boy. It is shabby behavior, Sid. Are you sure you are not honor bound to marry her?”
His brother smiled weakly. “I would make the devil of a husband,” he said. “Connie deserves better. But I can’t for the life of me break the news to her myself, Jon. The pen freezes in my hand when I try. And I know what will happen if I go home and try to tell her. It will be parson’s mousetrap, that’s what. But no one knows of our promises except Connie. We agreed to keep it a secret between the two of us.”
“I should smash your nose—and your teeth for good measure,” his brother said, his tone showing quite clearly that he was in no way joking.
Sidney flashed his nervous smile again. “She deserves better, Jon,” he said. “You used to be fond of her yourself. She does deserve better, does she not? I don’t know anyone I like better than Connie.” He paused and looked imploringly at his brother. “You will tell her about Prinny and his invitation?”
The viscount swore with satisfying vehemence. “You’ll tell her,” Sidney said, relief in his voice. “Let her down gently, Jon, will you? Connie is the last person on this earth I would want to hurt. I mean it. I’m deuced fond of her. Let her feel that somehow it is best for her to find someone else.”
“It should not be difficult at least to convince myself that that is true,” the viscount said.
“Yes. Well.” Sidney’s smile was a little broader. “You’re a brick, Jon. I always could count on you. I was supposed to meet the fellows five minutes ago. We are going to watch the mill. Are you going? Should be a good one. I have a wager on that it will go twelve rounds at the very least. I leave for Brighton on Thursday. Will I see you before then?”
“Probably not,” Lord Whitley said. “You will doubtless be too busy.”
His brother flashed his grin again and was gone. The viscount stood where he was, staring at the closed door. A brick! You used to be fond of her yourself. He swore with marvelous fluency and at far greater length than he had in his brother’s hearing.
Constance Manning was sitting on the window seat in the parlor, her legs drawn up before her, her arms clasping them. It was raining outside. It had seemed to do nothing but rain all summer. It was July already.
Lady Manning, her mother, was seated beside the low fire, busy mending some household linen. Constance had laid her own embroidery aside several minutes before.
“Papa should be back soon,” Lady Manning said. “I do hope Lord Whitley has accepted our invitation to dinner. It is dull always to see just the same faces, though I should not complain. We have amiable neighbors. But it will be good to see someone new. His lordship has not been home for several years.”
Four, Constance thought. “And Sidney,” she said. “I can hardly wait to see him, Mama. It seems like forever since he was home.”
