Lord Sebastian's Secret (The Duke's Sons #3)(65)

“Good.”

And still his brother didn’t go. “There’s no need to hang about watching me as if I was a raree-show.”

“No, I wasn’t. I’m very glad all’s well. And I also wanted… That is—” Randolph stopped.

“What?” Sebastian peered at his brother, curiosity overcoming his self-absorption. There was something odd about Randolph recently. He hadn’t reeled off any verses of poetry in days, or amused himself with wordplay that flashed over Sebastian’s head.

Randolph shuffled his feet. “I wondered if you could do me a favor.”

Sebastian was startled. “Oh. Is that it? What do you need?” It was an unusual but not unprecedented request.

“Would you…would you write and ask Nathaniel to procure a lute?”

Sebastian felt his mouth fall a little open.

“One probably has to look in London, you see. I imagine they’re not particularly easy to find.”

“What the devil are you… What sort of loot do you imagine Nathaniel can get his hands on? He’s a viscount, not a dashed buccaneer.”

“Not loot,” replied Randolph. “Lute. L-u-t-e. It’s a musical instrument.”

“Instrument?”

“It’s stringed, something like a guitar.” Looking embarrassed, Randolph mimed holding a guitar and strumming.

“You don’t play the guitar. Do you? I thought you said you hadn’t much time for music any longer.” Randolph nodded. For the life of him, Sebastian couldn’t interpret his brother’s expression.

“Would you just do it and not press me?” Randolph asked. “As a brotherly gesture of goodwill.”

When he put it like that, Sebastian could hardly refuse. “But why not ask Nathaniel yourself?” It would certainly be far easier for Randolph to dash off a letter, though he didn’t mention that part.

“I’d rather not,” his brother replied.

“Is there something off about these…lutes?”

“Of course not.” But his brother looked embarrassed.

“Then why get me to ask?” Sebastian eyed him suspiciously. “Is it a prank of some kind? I request this lute thing, and everyone gets a good laugh out of it?”

“No, it’s nothing like that!”

“Why then?”

“Well…it is a rather odd request.”

Sebastian waited for more. Then, finally, he got it. “And the family already thinks I’ve run mad.”

“No they don’t!” But Randolph looked away.

“Daft Sebastian, raving on about packs of pugs and mysterious Hindus, eloping with his own fiancée.”

“It isn’t like that!” Randolph exclaimed. “But…you did ask for an ointment to repel the dogs.”

He’d known almost from the moment that particular letter was posted that he’d gone too far there, Sebastian thought. Sykes had been right; they should have left it out. But at the time, he’d been desperate. Sebastian touched his pocket. It held the ragged cloth animal he now carried with him everywhere. Like a dashed talisman. Perhaps he had lost his mind. Maybe that was his real problem. “I suppose you’ve already written to someone about my previous existence as a tattooed Welsh savage?”

Randolph did not meet his eyes.

“Of course you have. No Gresham could resist a story that good.” How agreeable it was to have a family that shared all their news, Sebastian thought bitterly. Letters—which he produced with such difficulty—flew back and forth among them as if they were a damned flock of carrier pigeons. The situation definitely had a lot of that thing Robert was always nattering about. Irony, that was the word.

“Mama was asking how things were going,” Randolph muttered.

He looked positively hangdog. Sebastian couldn’t bear it. He gave in. “Oh, very well,” he said.

“Thank you!” For a moment he thought Randolph was going to shake his hand. Instead, he added, “I really appreciate it.”

“Enough to tell me why you want the thing?”

Randolph shook his head, looking away again. “Not quite that much. Until I see, you know, how it comes out.”

It was probably some expression or remark he’d missed along the way, Sebastian decided. Sort of thing that happened to him all the time. No need to emphasize his ignorance by persisting. “All right.”

With a grateful nod, Randolph departed. Sebastian returned to his earlier brooding. He got nowhere, and after a while, he gave it up as a bad job and went upstairs to ring for Sykes. Might as well get the letter done. He wasn’t accomplishing anything useful loitering in an empty parlor, acting like a mooncalf.

Sykes answered the bell with his customary speed and took up the pen without comment. Sebastian noticed that this instrument did pause over the page at the mention of a lute. “That’s l-u-t-e,” he spelled out helpfully.

Sykes blinked at him. “The medieval musical instrument?” Here was Sykes the playwright, rather than the impassive valet. The former had been appearing more and more often at Stane Castle, and more strongly under the onslaught of strange events. It was as if the barrier between the two roles was weakening. This Sykes looked frankly curious and astonished.

“Is it medieval?” Randolph hadn’t said anything about that. But then, he’d been dashed mysterious.