Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(113)

“After a twenty-four-year silence?”

Colin grinned and stood up as Rand came into the room. “Zounds, my conscience hasn’t put in more than an occasional word or two, but I’ve never known yours to raise the roof with its volume.”

Rand smiled slightly as they clasped hands briefly, and then his expression became more grave. “I had meant to get back before he finally went.”

They looked at each other intently.

“It dragged on for bloody weeks,” Colin replied, sitting down again with a sigh. Rand went over to the fireplace and propped an elbow against the mantel. “Though you kept him entertained till the last, Rand . . . you embroiled yourself in a nice little scandal, didn’t you?”

“Did it upset him?” Rand inquired, stone-faced. “He actually laughed about it, the old bird, and you know how he hated to laugh—said it was undignified and tried to stop, laughed some more.”

“What exactly did he find so amusing?”

“He seemed to think that you took after him as far as the ladies are concerned . . . tell me, why do they find a brutish, dark-skinned bugger like you so attractive— and on top of that, how did you manage to get involved with Brummell’s daughter?” Colin paused as Rand turned and walked a few steps away. “Are you going?”

“Just to the bar,” Rand answered dryly, opening the decanter of brandy. “In spite of your tactless questions, I find you less annoying than usual, so we’ll prolong the conversation.”

“You’re drinking,” Colin said, his mouth hanging open. “You never drink unless you’re in bad straits.”

“True,” Rand admitted, taking a warming swallow and closing his eyes briefly.

“You want something from me?”

Rand’s eyes flickered to the window, and he stared outside bleakly as he replied, “Rosalie Belleau has been kidnapped.”

“God’s nightgown, why tell me? I don’t have her!” Colin exploded.

“She’s been kidnapped because she’s Brummell’s daughter,” Rand continued, his voice hardening slightly. “But I’m going to get her back.”

“I don’t know what you think I could—”

“Brummell used to belong to Watier’s. That was where he gamed the most, that is the place known as the dandies’ club. You frequent Watier’s, and therefore you can help me get information.”

“Damned if I know why I should help you, Rand.” Ignoring his younger brother’s sulkiness, Rand thrust a sheet of paper toward him so insistently that Colin accepted it automatically.

“The names on the first list are already being checked out. Look at the second—those are Brummell’s top creditors. Which ones would be most likely to want Brummell’s daughter?”

Colin stared at him with dawning understanding and repugnance. “Oh, I see . . . you want me to point the accusing finger?” He snorted in amusement. “Not likely, Rand. I’m still in hot water with a few of these macaronis, enough so that—”

“Which ones?” Rand repeated, his face hard and cold.

“Why should I—?”

“Because if you don’t, I’ll be damned if I hand one cent of the inheritance over to you, and I’m certain you’re aware that your allowance depends on my goodwill.”

Colin stared at him bitterly. “Oh, this is too much . . . you’ll hang that threat over my head for the rest of my life! I won’t dangle from your purse strings, dearbrother.”

“If you help me,” Rand said softly, “I’ll never threaten you with it again.”

“Never thought I’d see you so torn up over some little toy. Egads,” Colin remarked, eyeing him with wonder, “she must be as beautiful as sin, or remarkably good in—”

“Which one?” Rand interrupted, and Colin examined the paper.

“Could be Edgehill. He still complains about Brummell quite often, mad as hell about the Beau skipping the country. Edgehill has damned funny notions of justice and such . . . I’ll bet he could have taken her and considered it rightful payment. . . . Or Mountford — now, there’s a funny card. He’s in deep, up to his neck in debt. In and out of the club, lost his sense of humor, and looks rather desperate. Maybe he went snappy and went after her for revenge. Or it could conceivably be—”

“Then let’s go. You can tell me about the rest on the way to Watier’s,” Rand said abruptly, nearly dragging his foppish younger brother by the collar.

He did not accompany Colin into the gaming club for two reasons. The most important was that he did not want to take the chance of his presence inhibiting any confidences that might be told to his brother. The second was that if any members of White’s, his own club, suspected that he was anywhere near the archrival institution of Watier’s, it could impinge his honor, cast doubts on his loyalty, and result in exile from White’s. Damn the situation, Rand thought darkly, longing to get out of the carriage, go into Watier’s, and knock wigs together until someone revealed something about Rosalie’s whereabouts. He disliked the dandies’ club, having few doubts that one of them could have taken Beau Brummell’s daughter to get back at the Beau and the cowardly way he had run from his creditors. They were a spiteful lot, worse than a group of jealous women, comparing fashions and testing the workings of their puny minds against each other, preening and admiring each other and then stabbing each other in the back. In Rand’s view, nothing meant much to them except money and pincurls. He rather preferred his own crowd, which at least was not hypocritical. If they were going to stab one of their own in the back, they gave advance warning.