Henry regarded Ian’s clenched fists—and the grazes on his right knuckles—for a length of time. “Is Jared still in the dark about it all? Or did you tell him last night, and he reacted…badly?”
“Getting physical with the groom would have been poor form the night before his wedding.”
Thankfully, an attempted cargo theft at the docks had required Ian’s immediate attention, and he was happy to depart Sunderland’s Club after the first round of drinks. He rarely handled enforcement himself these days; his men were exceedingly well-trained and needed little oversight. But last night, he’d welcomed the chance to demonstrate what happened to the jackals who had the audacity to come after Holt & Company.
And the Devil of the Docklands, as Ian was known there.
Afterward, when the heat in his blood had cooled, he’d felt hollow. And the emptiness only exacerbated his conflicted emotions about his brother’s impending marriage.
Henry’s mouth quirked around another probing question, but a sharp knock and muffled shouts from outside prompted them to hurdle over the flowers and dash into the foyer.
The door flung open.
A footman staggered inside with Jared’s unconscious body. His brother’s coat and waistcoat were missing, as was his tie, and his shirt was half open. A sickeningly sweet scent, peppered with whiskey, wafted off him.
This sight was further complicated by the other man who stood propping up Jared’s slumped body.
“Don’t worry, he isn’t dead,” Leo Ashton, the Duke of Sunderland, quipped. “But he’s well and truly sozzled. Even a bucket of water wouldn’t revive him.”
Ian clapped his gaping jaw shut, and Henry had the sense to mutter something that ended in “Your Grace,” as they relieved the duke of Jared’s weight.
Sunderland’s glance darted between Jared and Ian, as was often the case when people found out they were brothers and searched for some physical similarity. The duke wouldn’t find much evidence of it. Jared’s fair skin and hair were even more washed out with his pallor. In comparison, Ian must have appeared like a dark-haired, dark-eyed fiend.
With the help of the footmen—and the duke himself—they transported Jared upstairs. Mrs. Turner, the housekeeper, gave a small squawk before she harangued a footman to send for a doctor and took command of settling the patient into his bedroom. She tossed a glare at Ian, Henry, and the duke before slamming the door.
In the sudden quiet of the corridor, the three men carefully evaluated each other.
Ian finally said, “Thank you for your…help with my brother, Lord Sunderland. I would be most grateful for your discretion about all of this.”
“Where did you find him?” Henry asked.
When the duke replied with an infamous address in Soho, Ian and Henry exchanged a grave look.
“That wasn’t where his friends said they were taking him,” Ian said tightly.
“No,” Sunderland confirmed. “He departed after them in a separate carriage.”
“How keen of you to make note of it.”
“They were at my club. Everything that happens at my business is my business.”
“And to protect Sunderland’s reputation, you wouldn’t want people to think he left your establishment in the state he’s in now,” Ian said.
“Precisely. When your man turned up this morning inquiring about your brother's whereabouts, I thought it best to go myself.”
“Was there anything else…of note, where you found him?” Ian kept his expression intentionally blank.
“Not that I recall.” Sunderland assessed Ian with a chilling air. “My discretion has a price, Holt. It would be in both our interests to talk about it soon.”
As the duke barreled down the stairs, Henry murmured, “Should I be worried about that?”
“No more than usual.”
“Right, then. Back to our present debacle.” Henry clasped his hands together. “Someone must give Miss Rives the disappointing news she won’t be getting married today.”
“Why?” Ian snapped. “Jared’s drunk; he’ll revive. When he does, things will proceed.”
“Kind of you to consider Miss Rives’s feelings. Don’t you think she should decide for herself how she wants to handle this?”