But that was the heart of the problem.
She didn’t even know his real name.
When he arrived back at the Squalton Squire, he was greeted by his very large, very irate friend, Deckard, Duke of Warburton.
“There you are, you miscreant!” The deep scars webbing one side of his rugged face glowed purple in the afternoon sun. “You’re damned difficult to find. First, I went to Brighton and they said you’d come here, but no one in this blasted village knows anything about a Lord Dane Walker. There’s a Mr. Danny Smith rooming here, who sounds suspiciously like you. What the devil is going on here?”
“I’ll explain, lower your voice, please.”
“I’ll bellow if I want to. I’m on an urgent mission to bring you back to London, and it’s taking much longer than I anticipated.”
“Come inside and have a pint with me. I’ll explain everything.”
“We don’t have time for a pint.” Warburton dragged him by the arm toward the stables. “Gladiator is saddled and ready to go.”
“Why do we have to leave this minute?”
“Your brother has been gravely injured in a carriage accident. He’s clinging to life. We may already be too late.”
Spots danced before Dane’s eyes. “That can’t be true. Roman would never do something that stupid. I’m the one who’ll die in a carriage accident, not him.”
Warburton’s steely gray gaze softened. “I’m sorry, Dane.”
And that’s when Dane knew it was true. There was nothing soft or emotional about Warburton. That pitying look in his eyes could only mean Roman really was at death’s door. Warburton’s iron grip on his arm was suddenly more of a support than an annoyance.
“Roman’s really dying.”
“He’s been asking for you. Won’t talk to anyone else. There’s no time to waste. I already have your saddlebags packed.”
“Can we make a stop on our way out of town? There’s someone I must say goodbye to.” He couldn’t leave without making some explanation to Sandrine.
“Did you hear what I said? Your brother is asking for you, a dying man’s last wish. We can’t waste another second. Write her a letter, whoever she is,” Warburton said impatiently, dragging Dane toward the stables. “We ridenow.”
Chapter Six
A promise from a rake is as hollow and useless as a well gone dry.
—Mrs. Oliver’s Rules for Young Ladies
This thing—this misshapen, mute thing in the bed—this wasn’t his brother. His brother was made of iron and barbed wire. His will was absolute. His words cut to the quick. Dane had never even considered the possibility of his brother being struck down at five and forty.
“Roman.” He touched his brother’s cold, limp hand. “It’s me. I heard you were asking for me.”
His brother made no response beyond the rasp of his shallow breathing.
There was no love lost between Dane and Roman. He was so much older and had always treated Dane like a mistake, one that had cost their mother her life. Roman had been convinced that this time his wife would produce the heir that would secure his line.
“It won’t be long now,” said the family physician, a wizened man named Sneath. “He’s lost too much blood, and I fear he’s bleeding internally as well.” He cleared his throat. “The last rites have already been given. I’ll leave you alone with him to say your goodbyes.”
Dane didn’t know what to say. Should he hold Roman’s hand? His brother had always been cruel to him. He wouldn’t want Dane’s pity now. “Wake up, Roman,” he said harshly.
Grief knifed Dane’s heart, sudden and sharp. His brother was his adversary, but there’d been a time when Dane had worshipped him and would have done anything for his approval.
Now he’d do anything for another sneering lecture from his brother about Dane’s exploits harming the family name and how he’d be cut off without a farthing if he didn’t mend his wild ways.
“Wake up and curse me, you blighter!”
But Roman remained unconscious, wheezing, blood soaking the bandages wrapped around his torso.