The Lady By His Side
Chapter 1
Arthur’s Gentlemen’s Club, St. James, London
October 15, 1850
“I need your help.”
Lord Sebastian Cynster, Marquess of Earith, sank into the comfort of a leather armchair in the refined quiet of Arthur’s and watched as Lord Drake Varisey, Marquess of Winchelsea, settled his elegant length in the armchair facing Sebastian’s.
Drake had sent a footman around that morning with a request for this midafternoon meeting. Sebastian had arrived to find Drake waiting in the foyer, and together, they’d ambled through the club. It was too late for the luncheon crowd and too early for the dinner scrum; there’d been few to witness their presence. By unvoiced agreement, they’d made their way to the alcove off the far end of the long, narrow library; from the pair of armchairs slightly angled down the room, they could see at a glance that there was no one near enough to overhear their exchange.
“As I recall,” Sebastian murmured, “the last time I helped you, I had to hide my hands from my mother for more than a week.” He glanced at one hand, long fingers relaxed on the chair’s arm. There was no sign of bruised and scraped knuckles now, but his sharp-eyed mother, the Duchess of St. Ives, had she detected such evidence her firstborn was indulging in fisticuffs, would have evinced far too much interest as to the circumstances for either Sebastian’s or Drake’s comfort, Sebastian’s mother being a bosom-bow of Drake’s mother, the Duchess of Wolverstone.
“You enjoyed every minute of it,” Drake replied. “And regardless, this is, I’m afraid, a matter of queen and country.”
“Ah.” Sebastian stilled. “Queen and country” was Drake’s way of flagging affairs—more specifically missions—with the potential to impact the security of the realm.
“Besides,” Drake said, his dark brows arching, his golden-hazel eyes—eagle’s eyes—keen on Sebastian’s face, “what other absorbing prospects can you possibly have to fill your hours at this time of year?”
As it happened, Sebastian had a mission of his own that he was currently pursuing, but it wasn’t something he had any intention of sharing with anyone, much less Drake.
They were very alike—in many ways and on many planes. Drake was two years Sebastian’s senior, and because of the friendship between their families, they’d known each other from their earliest years. As sons of the higher nobility, they’d attended Eton and Oxford, both at Balliol; their paths had, perforce, crossed again and again at both institutions.
Although they would never be mistaken for brothers, the physical similarities were nevertheless striking. Both were tall—several inches over six feet—broad shouldered, long limbed, and lean, and moved with the inherent, somewhat predatory grace of powerful men comfortable in their own skins—men who were confident in their strengths, in their prowess, in their ability to meet whatever challenges the world sent their way.
They were both dark haired, although Sebastian’s hair was a true blue-black, while Drake’s was sable. Scions of the upper echelon that they were, their hair was fashionably cropped, worn just long enough to brush their collars, and they were elegantly attired, both favoring subdued colors and unobtrusively exceptional tailoring. Sebastian, with his pale green eyes, generally wore some combination of black and tan, while Drake, with his eagle’s eyes, habitually wore midnight blue teamed with lighter-hued golds and browns.
Both shared the pale complexions of their Norman ancestors, together with the chiseled facial features and innately autocratic expressions of those progenitors. High cheekbones, wide brows, well-set eyes, and patrician noses, thin, mobile lips, and squared chins completed the picture, yet the impression each projected was quite distinct.
Sebastian appeared hard, shielded—more openly a warrior in civilized garb. Drake, on the other hand, could, when he smiled, seem charming, but behind the façade lurked a ruthlessness that anyone who really looked into his golden predator’s eyes could not fail to see.
Drake had, in large part, picked up where his powerful father had left off. When Royce, Duke of Wolverstone, had finally retired from assisting the government and the Crown in dealing with matters that threatened the realm—those matters that required incisive, decisive, and covert action—many had assumed that, with the wars long over, there would be no real need for the services of such as Wolverstone again.
In that, they’d erred. While no fresh wars had been declared, tensions remained, exacerbated by this action or that, which resulted in plots, clashes, and schemes, some commercial, some political, and many held the potential to destabilize the state and cause havoc in wider society.
Arthur’s Gentlemen’s Club, St. James, London
October 15, 1850
“I need your help.”
Lord Sebastian Cynster, Marquess of Earith, sank into the comfort of a leather armchair in the refined quiet of Arthur’s and watched as Lord Drake Varisey, Marquess of Winchelsea, settled his elegant length in the armchair facing Sebastian’s.
Drake had sent a footman around that morning with a request for this midafternoon meeting. Sebastian had arrived to find Drake waiting in the foyer, and together, they’d ambled through the club. It was too late for the luncheon crowd and too early for the dinner scrum; there’d been few to witness their presence. By unvoiced agreement, they’d made their way to the alcove off the far end of the long, narrow library; from the pair of armchairs slightly angled down the room, they could see at a glance that there was no one near enough to overhear their exchange.
“As I recall,” Sebastian murmured, “the last time I helped you, I had to hide my hands from my mother for more than a week.” He glanced at one hand, long fingers relaxed on the chair’s arm. There was no sign of bruised and scraped knuckles now, but his sharp-eyed mother, the Duchess of St. Ives, had she detected such evidence her firstborn was indulging in fisticuffs, would have evinced far too much interest as to the circumstances for either Sebastian’s or Drake’s comfort, Sebastian’s mother being a bosom-bow of Drake’s mother, the Duchess of Wolverstone.
“You enjoyed every minute of it,” Drake replied. “And regardless, this is, I’m afraid, a matter of queen and country.”
“Ah.” Sebastian stilled. “Queen and country” was Drake’s way of flagging affairs—more specifically missions—with the potential to impact the security of the realm.
“Besides,” Drake said, his dark brows arching, his golden-hazel eyes—eagle’s eyes—keen on Sebastian’s face, “what other absorbing prospects can you possibly have to fill your hours at this time of year?”
As it happened, Sebastian had a mission of his own that he was currently pursuing, but it wasn’t something he had any intention of sharing with anyone, much less Drake.
They were very alike—in many ways and on many planes. Drake was two years Sebastian’s senior, and because of the friendship between their families, they’d known each other from their earliest years. As sons of the higher nobility, they’d attended Eton and Oxford, both at Balliol; their paths had, perforce, crossed again and again at both institutions.
Although they would never be mistaken for brothers, the physical similarities were nevertheless striking. Both were tall—several inches over six feet—broad shouldered, long limbed, and lean, and moved with the inherent, somewhat predatory grace of powerful men comfortable in their own skins—men who were confident in their strengths, in their prowess, in their ability to meet whatever challenges the world sent their way.
They were both dark haired, although Sebastian’s hair was a true blue-black, while Drake’s was sable. Scions of the upper echelon that they were, their hair was fashionably cropped, worn just long enough to brush their collars, and they were elegantly attired, both favoring subdued colors and unobtrusively exceptional tailoring. Sebastian, with his pale green eyes, generally wore some combination of black and tan, while Drake, with his eagle’s eyes, habitually wore midnight blue teamed with lighter-hued golds and browns.
Both shared the pale complexions of their Norman ancestors, together with the chiseled facial features and innately autocratic expressions of those progenitors. High cheekbones, wide brows, well-set eyes, and patrician noses, thin, mobile lips, and squared chins completed the picture, yet the impression each projected was quite distinct.
Sebastian appeared hard, shielded—more openly a warrior in civilized garb. Drake, on the other hand, could, when he smiled, seem charming, but behind the façade lurked a ruthlessness that anyone who really looked into his golden predator’s eyes could not fail to see.
Drake had, in large part, picked up where his powerful father had left off. When Royce, Duke of Wolverstone, had finally retired from assisting the government and the Crown in dealing with matters that threatened the realm—those matters that required incisive, decisive, and covert action—many had assumed that, with the wars long over, there would be no real need for the services of such as Wolverstone again.
In that, they’d erred. While no fresh wars had been declared, tensions remained, exacerbated by this action or that, which resulted in plots, clashes, and schemes, some commercial, some political, and many held the potential to destabilize the state and cause havoc in wider society.