Victor strode to the front door and knocked firmly. The sound was much louder in the country than it had been in Grosvenor Square. Just as in London, there was no immediate answer. Victor waited another moment, then knocked again.
A light glowed from the window, which must be the front drawing room. Ah. Someone was awake, and Victor could be done and over with this ordeal in mere minutes.
He waited. And waited.
Then a woman's voice spoke from the other side of the door. "Who are you?"
This he should have expected, but it still gave him pause. Partially because the voice was younger than a housekeeper's should be.
"My name is Lord Victor Roland, and I've brought Lord Southill home."
A gasp was followed by a rapid series of clangs as the door was unlocked and pulled open.
Whoever Victor had expected from the woman who'd questioned him, it wasn't the woman who stood before him, holding a candle. She was young. Not yet twenty, if Victor had to guess. Her honey-gold hair spilled over her shoulders, and her eyes shimmered blue in the candle light. She wore a night rail of soft white that was modest, yet gentled over her womanly curves, making Victor swallow hard. The young woman's lips were full and pink and her lashes dark, belying the color of her hair. She was, for lack of a better description, a veritable Venus.
He must still have brandy running through his veins, because no woman's appearance had ever made him speechless, yet here he was. Speechless. The woman was like a living, breathing artist's masterpiece. He told himself it was because he'd expected a housekeeper, or a maid, or a butler, or anyone, but not a well-bred lady.
"Where is he?" she asked.
Victor exhaled. His mind refocused. "He's in my carriage. He's had a bit of an accident."
The woman's hand flew to her mouth. "Is he all right?"
"Yes," Victor was quick to say. "He's merely . . . I am sure he'll be much better once he's slept off his inebriation."
The woman's eyes widened, and then her cheeks flushed a beautiful red. "My brother's drunk?"
She was Southill's sister? The unmarried sister he'd tried to wager? Victor cleared his throat. "Well, yes-"
The door slammed shut. Before Victor could react, the locks slid into place, and the woman said in a fiery tone, "You can tell him to go to Hades!"
Juliet knew she was being completely unreasonable, but a middle-of-the-night visit from a stranger telling her that her brother had been delivered home as a drunk wastrel had sent her over the edge of reason. If someone were to interrogate her on her true feelings, she could honestly say that at this moment, she hated her brother.
She hated how he'd left her alone at the estate after their father's death. She hated that he'd surrounded himself with friends, drink, women, gambling, and other vices while Juliet had to oversee all he'd left behind.
A soft knock sounded at the door, and Juliet flinched. The man-Lord Victor something-was still there. He was most certainly a member of the peerage, and his name did seem familiar, although she couldn't place it under her current duress. Hopefully he was only a baron and not a viscount or earl, or heaven forbid, a marquis.
"Miss?" he said.
Juliet leaned her forehead against the door and sighed. "Can you take John somewhere else?"
"This is Southill Estate, correct?" the man asked.
"Yes."
"I don't think your brother has the funds to pay for a night at the inn," he said.
Of course he didn't, and Juliet's cheeks burned hot to know that this man knew of her family's financial devastation. "Is that why you traveled so late at night?"
The man didn't answer right away, then he said, "Partly."
Juliet wanted all of this to go away. She wanted to be in her bed, sound asleep. But she'd fallen asleep in the drawing room, and that's why she heard the knock on the door. Mrs. Campton slept like the dead, and the butler was gone for a few nights to his ailing father's home.
"What do you mean by partly?" she asked.
"Do you think you could open the door so we might have a proper conversation?"
It was true, his voice was quite muffled, and hers must be as well. It would be more practical to open the door and speak with the man face-to-face. She turned the lock and cracked the door open no more than a hand span.
"That's better," the man said, his deep voice rumbling softly.
Now that Juliet was over her original shock, she had a good look at the stranger on her doorstep. He was certainly of the elite class. His dark jacket-perhaps navy or black-was tailored to fit his broad shoulders, and his light brown vest looked to be imported silk. His breeches were also tailored, but Juliet wasn't about to assess their particular fit. The singular glow of the candlelight made it no secret that his boots were of high quality and expertly polished. She was surprised to see that he used a cane, which defied the youth of his voice. When her gaze finally rose to his face, his dark eyes gleamed with amusement, as if he were calling her out for scanning him from head to foot.
His mouth quirked, and Juliet didn't miss the slight dimple on one side of his face. The late hour was also made apparent by the presence of whiskers on his chin and cheeks. The dark wave of his hair completed the visage and reminded Juliet of a hero in a contraband romance novel she'd once read. She really shouldn't be thinking of him in such terms. He could be married, or even worse, a drunk gambler like her brother. Although . . . his black eyes didn't appear unfocused in the very least.
Juliet realized she was staring at him, and she took a deep breath to refocus her thoughts. "Were you injured?" she asked, gesturing toward his cane, then immediately regretted her question. This man had nothing to recommend him, other than a title, which he could have made up. And the fact that her brother was in his carriage . . . Well, she didn't even know that.
"I was," the man's tone sounded surprised. "I fell off a horse a couple weeks ago. Turned my ankle."
Juliet nodded. So not a war injury or something from a drunken brawl. She swallowed against the dryness of her throat because the man seemed to be doing a thorough exam of her own person, and she was clothed in her night rail. It couldn't be helped, and after tonight, she would never see this man again.
"I don't mean to pressure you," he said, "but I plan to return to London tonight, so I'd like to get your brother situated sooner rather than later."
"Lady Juliet Baldwin," she said. "That's my name. Remind me of your name. I'm afraid I was a bit distraught at waking to someone banging at my door."
"Understood. I'm Lord Victor Roland, Earl of Locken." He gave a brief bow.
Juliet quickly hid her shock-he was an earl, beneath a marquis and a duke. Unless he had yet to inherit a higher title . . .
"Nice to meet you, Lady Juliet Baldwin." His dark eyes seemed to pierce right through her. "Is there a butler or groomsman who might help me carry your brother to his room?"
She hated to tell Lord Locken that there was no man here to help, and she refused to call upon a neighbor at such an hour. The fewer people who knew about her brother's deplorable condition, the better. "I'm afraid only myself and the housekeeper are currently in residence," she said.
To his credit, Lord Locken didn't look aghast. He simply said, "I can probably manage on my own if you will but lead the way."
"All right," she said. "I need to find a robe first."
It seemed that Lord Locken used great effort to keep his gaze on her face when he stepped back and said, "Very well. I'll try to rouse your brother in the meantime. Perhaps fortune will be upon us, and he will rise on his own."
Juliet nodded and turned from the doorway. She kept ahold of the candle and hurried up the stairs to her bedchamber. She was out of breath by the time she reached her room. Not only was she about to help her drunken brother to his room, but she was about to let the most handsome man she'd ever met into her home. Not that she'd met many men of the ton, so as far as she knew, he paled in comparison. Somehow, she doubted it.
She drew on a robe and tied it about her waist. Then she smoothed her hair back and fastened a ribbon to hold the unruliness into place. A lady's maid would be useful right now, but Juliet hadn't had that luxury. She snatched up the candle again and set it on the hallway table near her brother's room. Then she went into his bedchamber and lit another candle.
By the time she returned to the front door, she'd lit several other candles so that Lord Locken would be able to navigate his way throughout the house.
She stepped outside, leaving the door wide open, and walked right into a light drizzle. Of course it would start raining now. There wasn't much else that could happen to make the night worse. She found Lord Locken standing inside the curricle, where her brother must be.