Ultimately, Lord Worth agreed to the arrangement. Daphne witnessed his shallow nod, agreeing, with sadness and relief.
They all knew rapprochement would be a longer time coming.
“I expect the two of you,” Lorcan said to Montague and Charles, “to remain aware of your father’s affairs, as well as manage your own.”
Her brothers were shaken when they were apprised of the true carnage done to their inheritance by their father. To their credit, they both seemed to understand that railing about it was pointless.
“We’re so sorry, Daphne,” they both said. Quietly.
They did indeed each have a little money of their own, which they had invested sensibly. It was nothing compared to the inheritance they had expected.
“Sheep,” Charles said suddenly. “Wool! We have the land, Monty has the brawn, I have the brains—”
“Ho there!” Montague interrupted indignantly.
“We’ll make a go of it. The next generation will be proud.”
“If you wish to discuss investment opportunities, or if you need employment, I will be happy to assist,” Lorcan told them simply. “And now, my wife...” He turned to her. Daphne flushed when he paused at that word. He savored it every time. Imbued it with a universe of meaning. “...and I are returning to London. We’ll be living there permanently.”
“Finally home, I see. Good afternoon, St. John,” the Countess of Vaughn had said to her son as she sailed down the hall of their St. James Square town house, his father trailing her. She paused to plant a kiss on his cheek.
St. John’s eyes went wide. He’d frankly been a bitwounded at the lack of fanfare. He’d been gone—missing!—fordays. In a terrible storm!
His mother gave a little laugh at his expression.
“We knew you’d be in good hands at The Grand Palace on the Thames,” she reassured him.
He stared at her. “How on earth did you know I was at The Grand Palace on the Thames?”
“Well, for one, you were out with Mr. Delacorte. We know he wouldn’t abandon you,” his father told him. “But a most unusual man paid us a call and told us you were sound. He seemed to have gone through some considerable personal effort to get into our part of London through flooded roads on another matter of business—to visit a friend with an orangery—and he said that it had been dangerous indeed. He called upon us on impulse and assured us you would come home when the streets were passable.”
St. John could not believe his ears.
“Was this man’s name St. Leger?”
“Yes, that’s it. He said he couldn’t countenance your parents suffering over not knowing where you were.”
St. John, who had experienced more challenging emotions in the past week or so than he ever had in his entire life, had never been more flabbergasted.
Suddenly his mother peered beyond him into his room. Her eyes narrowed speculatively. “St. John... what is that?”
St. John adroitly sidestepped, blocked her view. Blushing.
His father’s eyebrows dove suspiciously and hisvoice raised incredulously. “Have you a woman in there?”
St. John hesitated.
Then sighed. “It’s a violoncello.”
“You... bought a violoncello?” the Earl of Vaughn said the word gingerly, as if he’d never said it aloud before.
St. John nodded, and with some resignation, stepped aside to reveal it, leaning against his bed.
His parents stared at it. “You stopped on your way home to buy a violoncello.”
St. John almost laughed, so confused did his father sound. “Yes.”
“Can you...playthe cello?” his mother ventured.