The Storybook Hero Excerpt

The figure sprawled in the worn wingchair made no effort to smooth the creases in his rumpled cravat nor to rearrange his long legs in a more decorous posture. “And what circumstances are those, William? The prospect of a warm family reunion?”

The Marquess of Killingworth gave an exasperated snort as he turned away from his youngest brother and caught the eye of his other sibling. “You see? Bloody waste of time, inviting him. I don’t know why we bothered. Uncle Ivor must be daft to have thought he might accept.”

“Come now, William,” murmured Thomas Sheffield, Viscount Alston, in a voice designed to put out the sparks of anger beginning to flare in the Marquess’s heated gaze. “You promised to keep a cool head. Remember the reason we are here.” Taking the ensuing silence as a grudging acquiesence, he sighed and went on. “And you, Alex. You might try not to goad him on. It has been a long time. Too long. It’s good to see you . . . .” He paused as he regarded the bloodshot eyes, sallow complexion and state of dishevelment that spoke all too clearly of a night spent in reckless carousing. “. . . though I wish I could say you are looking well.”

“Always the peacemaker, Tommy.” Alexander Sheffield noticed the cufflink dangling from the cuff of his wrinkled shirt and slowly fastened it in place. “Don’t bother.”

The marquess shrugged in impatience to indicate things were going exactly as he expected. “Well, will you come?” he demanded. “Or are you too busy wenching or gambling or God knows whatever else it is you do that seeks to sink the family name in further reproach.”

“William,” warned Thomas.

His younger brother only laughed. “Oh, I have much too thick a skin for any of Lord William’s stinging setdowns to have the least effect.”

The marquess’s lip curled in contempt.

“But,” he added in a slow drawl. “I admit to an overwhelming curiosity as to Uncle Ivor’s summons. And seeing that the chance to dine with my affectionate family occurs so rarely these days, I do believe I shall make an appearance.” If truth be told, the fact that it would also irk his elder sibling to no end was perhaps the deciding factor.

“Very well. But if you think to bring another—” The marquess nearly choked on the word “—doxy into my house masquarading as a lady acquaintance, I vow I shall throw you bodily from the premises.”

That had been a rather shabby thing to do, reflected the youngest Sheffield. He must truly have been four sheets to the wind to have come up with such a stunt. He had nothing against his sisters-in law. In fact, he liked them quite a bit. But then again, he had no trouble getting along with females.

“You might try pressing your coat and finding a fresh set of linen.” continued the marquess. “And you might—”

Alston put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Tomorrow at seven, then, Alex?”

The figure in the chair nodded, his unruly long, dark locks falling to obscure the flash of pain in his eyes. His hand shot out for the glass on the sidetable and he drained the amber contents in one quick gulp. “Oh, seeing that it has been quite some time since either of you visited town, let me know if I may be of any assistance in suggesting some entertainment. Madame Violet has a particularly lovely assortment of females—you do still favor big breasts, William?”

Alston propelled his older sibling through the door before the growl of rage reverberating in the marquess’s throat could reach a roar.

As it fell shut, Alexander Sheffield poured himself another brandy.

Sheffield paused before reaching for the familiar lion’s head brass knocker. He usually avoided Grosvenor Square—not that his usual jaunts tended to take him anywhere near such a bastion of propriety. The imposing townhouse, home to four previous Earl of Wrights, had changed not a whit since his first stay, when he was a lad not yet out of leading strings. His throat tightened for just a moment as he recalled larking through the hallways and sliding down the bannisters with William and Thomas—and Jack, of course.

Damnation, he knew he shouldn’t have come.

But it was too late to turn tail now. He reached up and rapped with rather more force than was necessary. Almost immediately, the heavy varnished door swung open.

“Why good evening, Mister Alex.” The reedy butler, already a fixture in the house in his father’s time, gave a quirk of smile before composing his angular features into their normal impassive expression. “Welcome home.”

“I doubt that I am,” he muttered under his breath as he allowed the elderly man to relieve him of his greatcoat. To his dismay, he could feel a strange flutter in his stomach.

“The others are in the drawing room. Shall I—”

“I haven’t forgotten the way, Evans. And no thank you, I shall announce myself.”

The butler inclined his head a fraction. “As you wish, sir.”

Once again, he hesitated slightly, his eyes drifting of their own accord to the gilt framed portrait of the first earl hanging at the head of the ornately carved staircase, then to the massive crystal chandelier dangling in the center of the entrance hall, missing several baubles due to having served on occassion as target practice for four unruly boys. With a mental shake, he banished such thoughts and forced his steps down the polished parquet hallway.

“Ah, Alexander!”

His Uncle Ivor, the Earl of Chittenden moved from a spot by the crackling fire and extended his hand. “I appreciate your coming.”

Sheffield felt his throat constrict. He said nothing as he shook hands.

His two brothers rose from their seats. A cousin, his uncle’s only son, laid aside the book he was perusing and looked up as well.

“Alex,” murmured Thomas in greeting, a tentative smile on his face.

The earl glowered and gave only a curt nod.

His cousin Richard, following his father’s lead, also came over to greet him. “Good to see you, Lex. It’s been too damn long,” he murmured, leaning in close to Sheffield’s ear as he gave him a firm handshake.

“I believe you are acquainted with your sister-in-laws, are you not?”

Sheffield nodded and sketched a bow towards the Marquess’s wife, Augusta, and Thomas’s wife, Oliviaa.

For a moment, there was an uncomfortable silence.

“What can I get you to drink?” continued his uncle in a hearty tone which sought to dispel the underlying tension in the room.

“Anything, as long as the bottle is full,” muttered the marquess.

Their uncle shot him a dark look, then went on. “Sherry? Brandy?”

Sheffield shrugged. “Whatever you are having.”

The earl returned with a glass of sherry and motioned for him to take a place in one of the wing chairs by the fire. Sheffield accepted the drink but ignored the invitation to be seated. He merely polished off the contents in one gulp and shifted the glass from hand to hand, his lips curled in a willful belligerance that challenged any reproach.

“Let us not waste time with strained civility, Uncle. Why did you ask me here?” he blurted out.

His uncle’s brow furrowed slightly but he kept a smile on his lined face. “Plenty of time to discuss business after dinner.”

“Ah, you mean we should spend some time in convivial family chatter?” The mocking tone of his voice could hardly be mistaken.

“Well, at least you have had the decency to appear before us in a pressed coat and properly tied cravat,” muttered William.

“Oh, Squid is capable of starching a neckcloth or polishing a boot, if he is so directed.”

His brother’s brow furrowed. “Squid?”

“My valet.”

“A deucedly queer name for a gentleman’s man, but then again, you might—”

”An interesting moniker. And just how did he come to be called that?” interrupted Olivia, seeking to deflect the barbs being tossed by her elder brother-in law.

Sheffield’s lips quirked slightly. “Because he was accorded to have rather slippery tentacles in his former line of work.”

There was a snort of disgust from the Marquess, while Olivia ducked her head to hide a grin.

“Actually, the ladies prefer to call him ‘Angel’ for his cherubic looks,” continued Sheffield. He paused to pick at a thread on his sleeve. ”And from what I hear, he does transport them to heaven—”

“For God’s sake, hold your tongue! Have you forgotten there are true ladies present, and not your usual sort of company?” snapped the marquess.

Augusta didn’t attempt to repress an amused laugh. “Come now, William. Have a sense of humor. Can’t you see that Alex is merely trying to pull your cork. Besides, we are hardly schoolroom misses here, that we cannot sully our ears with anything more bland than the state of the weather or the latest modiste.”

“But I was referring to true ladies, dear brother,” went on the marquess’s youngest sibling, a wicked twinkle in his eye. “I assure you on the several occassions we have exchanged places, Sqid has comported himself in a most gentlemanly manner. Most gentlemanly. Why there are more than one wealthy widows in Brighton who are no doubt pining the departure of the blond Mr. Sheffield—”

The marquess’s fist came down upon the table with a resounding bang. “That is enough, I say.”

On that note, dinner was announced.

The meal was a strained affair. Despite the earl’s attempts to keep conversation flowing, seconded by the efforts of the two ladies, a number of awkward silences puncuated the clink of crystal and the scraping of silverware. Sheffield hardly spoke a word, responding to the questions from both his uncle and his sisters-in law with little more than monosyllabic replies. It was to everyone’s relief when Chittenden finally pushed back his chair and suggested the gentlemen forego the ritual of port and cigars at the table so that they might all retire to the drawing room to take their coffee.

The earl cleared his throat after the cups were passed around, signalling that he was at last ready to discuss why he had gathered them together. “I believe you are all familiar enough with family history to know that my wife’s mother, your grandmother, had a younger sister,“ he began, fixing all three Sheffield males with a pointed look. “This sister fell in love with a Russian count attached to their embassy here in London. They married, and when he was posted home, she naturally returned with him.”

“Yes, yes,” grumbled the marquess. “We have all heard stories of our great aunt and her adventures in that cursed land of ice and bears. Interesting perhaps, but I don’t see what it has to do—”

“Perhaps if you allowed Uncle to finish we would find out.” Sheffield regarded his elder brother through the amber contents of his brandy glass. He alone had chosen to remain standing, and as he leaned nonchalantly against the carved mantel his eyes found the spot on the intricate acanthus molding where he had once carved away a scroll of leaf with a new jacknife. “But then you always think you know it all, don’t you William?”

The marquess opened his mouth to reply but was waved to silence by his uncle. “Might you try not to act as if you were six instead of thirty six, William?”

The marquess clamped his jaw shut.

“And Alex, at twenty nine you are no mere boy anymore either. I ask that you not try to intentionally provoke your brother.”

Sheffield lowered his eyes and took a long swallow of brandy.

“Well then, as I was saying, your great aunt went to live in Russia. Though she never returned for a visit, her son Nicholas spent a year at Oxford when . . . Jack was there.”

“I remember him,” interjected Thomas. “Jack brought him down one weekend to visit. You were at Eton, Alex, so you didn’t meet him, and William, you were away shooting at a friend’s estate in Scotland. He was a nice chap.”

“Yes, a nice chap. He, too, married an English girl—Lord Brougham’s youngest daughter—before returning home.” He paused and let out a heavy sigh. “I received some bad news a week ago. Nicholas was killed in a skirmish near the Polish border some months ago.”

“A pity,” murmured Alston.

“Aye,” agreed his uncle. “But that is not the worst of it.” He removed a letter from his coat pocket. “This arrived on its heels. It is a letter from Nicholas’s wife, and it contains some very disquieting news. It seems she mistrusted her husband’s relatives enough to fear for her young son’s safety. She appeals to us for help in removing the boy from Russia until he has reached his majority.”

The marquess’s brow furrowed. “Why does she not bring him here herself?” he asked. “Or appeal to her brother.”

“She was quite ill when she wrote this. Apparently an epidemic of influenza swept through their estate. Your great aunt was among the first to succumb.” He stopped to take a swallow of brandy. “I met Brougham yeterday—the Countess did not survive either.”

There was a rustle of silk as the two ladies shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. The marquess made a slight grimace as he took a swallow of port, while Alston stared into the dregs in his coffee cup. Only Sheffield showed no change in expression, but his eyes remained locked on his uncle’s grim visage.

“So the sole survivor of that branch of the family is their only son, Nicholas’s namesake. A boy the age of twelve.”

“I am sure we all agree that it is a terrible pity,” remarked Killingworth. He tugged at a corner of his immaculate cravat. “But surely the concern is more Brougham’s than ours. After all, he is her brother.”

“The new Lord Brougham will not bother to lift a finger. He is an indolent fool, caring only for cards, claret and whatever willing female will tumble into his bed,”

snapped the earl.

Alston darted an involuntary look at his younger brother

“What is it you are suggesting, Uncle Ivor?” asked Sheffield softly. “That we should take responsibility for the boy?”

“His mother and grandmother were English, and of Sheffield blood. He belongs here, with his family, so that we may care for him and see to it he may live to take up his rightful inheritance.”

“It’s impossible,” said the marquess. “Why, even if we agreed that it was our duty to help, it can’t be done. Haven’t you seen the newspapers these last few days? Napoleon is cutting a swath through Austria and many here are sure he means to march on Russia as well. The country will be in chaos. By the time we could hire someone willing to brave the risks, it would be much too late. Besides, who would be mad enough to undertake such a dangerous undertaking, no matter how much money is offered?”

“Actually, I wasn’t going suggest we hire someone, William.”

The marquess was speechless for a moment. “You can’t mean, that . . . that you want us . . .“ he sputtered.

Sheffield looked faintly amused.

“That’s precisely what I meant, though ‘us’ is rather broader than I had in mind.” He turned to his youngest nephew. “Actually, it is you I planned to ask, Alex.”

There were several murmurs of shock. Ignoring them, the earl went on. “You have always shown a gift for languages, and I happen to know that you picked up a working knowledge of Russian from the mathematics professor who spent a term at Oxford. Why, your tutor at Merton —”

“Alex was sent down from Oxford,” barked the marquess. “In disgrace. In case you had forgotten?”

“You certainly haven’t,” countered his uncle, and the marquess had the grace to color slightly. Turning back to Sheffield, Chittenden went on, “Your tutor felt you were one of the brightest students he had ever taught.”

Sheffield picked at a thread on his jacket cuff. “As William says, that was in the past. Long in the past.”

The earl fixed him with a penetrating look, one that mingled both exasperation and sympathy. Under such scrutiny, it was Sheffield who finally looked away.

“What on earth made you think I might agree to such a proposal?” he asked softly. His usual cyncism quickly reasserted itself and he gave a curt laugh. “Obviously it would solve a great number of problems—William would be free of the burden of my quarterly allowance and the rest of you would no no longer have to fret about what blot will fall next on the family name.”

“I thought you might say yes because I remember a young man who had just the sort of pluck and resourcefulness to bring off something like this.”

“That man died ten years ago,” said Sheffield harshly.

“Did he?” answered the earl quietly. “My memory must be getting addled in my old age—I thought only Jack died.”

Sheffield gulped the remaining contents of his glass and thumped it down on the mantel hard enough to set several of the silver candlesticks to wobbling.

“It’s not fair to ask—” began Alston.

“It’s much too great a risk—” blurted out Olivia at the same time.

Their voices were overridden by the marquess’s own protest. “You must be mad, Uncle Ivor. To think that Alex . . . “ He hesitated a fraction, his gaze raking over his youngest brother. “. . . could be counted on to act responsibly. The first whiff of vodka or flounce of a skirt and he’d forget all about our young cousin. Pluck and resourcefulness you say? More like and recklessness. God knows, this family is aware that he has more than enough of those qualities!”

A muscle twitched on Sheffield’s rigid face and he paled slightly.

Thomas reached out a hand to restrain any further words. “That’s enough, William.”

“Yes—I have never understood why you all blame Alex for—”

“I don’t need you to fight my battles, Augusta,” said Sheffield coldly. “Neither do I need your pity.”

His sister-in-law fell into a wounded silence.

“Naturally I’m overwhelmed by your confidence in my abilities, dear brother,” continued Alex, his tone changing to one of obvious sarcasm. “Actually, you should be voicing a hearty encouragement, knowing the chances are good that I would follow Jack to the grave.”

“I . . . I have never said I wished such a thing.”

Sheffield’s lips curled in a mocking smile. “No,” he agreed. “You have never said it. You are much too much a gentleman to voice what you really feel.”

“For God’s sake, none of us would wish for any harm to befall you, Alex. I think you know that,” cut in Alston.

“Do I now?” Sheffield walked slowly to the sidetable and refilled his glass nearly to the brim. Downing it in one swallow, he make a point of filling it again before speaking again. “My thanks for such an enjoyable evening en famille, but if you will excuse me now, I have a pressing engagement. “ He made an elaborate show of consulting his pocket watch. “And since I pay by the hour for the favors I receive, I should not like to be even a minute late.” A thin smile toyed on his lips at the yelp of outrage from the marquess. ”Don’t bother getting up, William—I know the way out.”

“Think about it, Alex,” counseled the Earl as his nephew stalked toward the door.

There was no answer but the thunk of the heavy oak falling shut.

A crackle of what sounded like gunshots pierced the frigid air, causing the solitary figure at the railing to start with alarm. It took a moment for the young lady to realize that the sounds were not made by any firearms but by the frozen canvas of the topsails as the crew aloft set the big merchant ship into motion. She pulled her shabby clock even tighter around her willowy form and watched as the heavy oak hull gathered way and the bustling dockyards began to recede. The freshening wind bit through the thick wool but rather than retreat to the cramped confines of her tiny cabin, she chose to remain on deck for awhile longer. The prospect of having to endure the mindless chatter of the Embassy secretary’s plump wife for the entire voyage was enough to set her already unsettled stomach to churning.

Besides, she thought with grim humor, she had better get used to the cold.

The portside watch sprung into the rigging nearby where she stood and scrambled aloft to obey the series of orders bellowed by the officer on deck. Intrigued by the strange terms, as incomprehensible as Hindu to her landlocked ears, the young lady watched with great interest as the men swung out precariously on the yardarms and let out another billow of sail.

“Excuse me, Miss, but you would be better off below, out of harm’s way.”

Though the officer’s voice was polite enough, the meaning was clear. For a moment she was tempted to ignore the veiled order, but thought better of setting herself at odds with those in command so soon. With a last look at the winking lights of the Isle of the Dog, with London a mere haze behind it, and made her way across the rolling deck to the main hatchway.

Below deck, the combination of murky darkness and fetid air caused the bile to rise in her throat. With lurching steps she managed to locate her cabin and stumble to her narrow berth.

“Don’t worry dearie, you’ll soon get used to it,” came a shrill voice, more irritating for its grating cheerfulness. “Most everyone is dreadfully sick for the first few days, though I must confess I seem to have been blessed with a strong stomach. You’ll recover—unless you are one of those unfortunate few who never find their sealegs and remain miserable for the entire journey. Why, I traveled to India with Joseph in the spring of ‘95, and let me assure you, that was a voyage to remember . . . “ Mrs. Phillips launched into what promised to be an interminable account of the trials of shipboard life.

Miserable? Hah, that was an understatement, thought Miss Octavia Hadley as her insides gave yet another heave. It was a good thing she had more than enough practice in letting wave after wave of whinings or complaints wash over her with as little effect as the salty chop was having against the thick wooden hull of their vessel.

As Mrs. Phillips droned on, Octavia couldn’t help thinking back over the last half year, It was too bad that neither her father nor herself had ever given much thought to what would become of her when he was gone. Oh, she had known he was by no means a wealthy man, but she had never comprehended the true state of his finances. Once the innumerable creditors had been paid off with the proceeds of the sale of their snug cottage, there was scarcely enough for an outside passage on the mail coach to London.

Dear Papa, she thought, blinking back a tear. A more interesting or kindly companion she could not have asked for. She might, however, have wished for a tad more concern for real world rather than that of the ancients. Greek and Latin—along with a host of other languages—were all very well, but she would have gladly traded the lot of them for a roof of her own and a modest stipend for bread and books.

That the only relative willing to offer her a place turned out to be an ill-tempered cousin looking to save a few pounds a year by not having to hire a nanny was bad enough. It was her husband who had proved intolerable. The memory of his groping hands in the shadows of the nursery corridor was enough to bring on a fresh wave of nausea. At least, she thought with a grim smile, she had had the satisfaction of seeing his corpulent face twist in agony as her knee had smacked into his groin.

She must remember to thank her old childhood friend Johnnie Ferguson for that interesting bit of advice on how to deal with an aggressive male when his regiment returned from the Peninsula.

It was not to be expected that the odious man would take rejection in stride, but even she hadn’t anticipated the depths of his malice. Manipulated by his slanderous lies, her cousin had fallen into a fit of near hysteria, calling Octavia an ungrateful slut—and worse—for trying to seduce her noble husband. She had been all for tossing Octavia and her meagre possessions onto the street without further ado. However her husband, a smirk of virtuous honor on his face, had argued that such a course of action would hardly be a Christian thing to do.

He had gone on to say that while it was impossible for Octavia to remain under their roof, he had taken it upon himself to find an appropriate position for her—one that would not offer her the temptation of such scandalous transgression. He had heard word that the deputy minister at the embassy in Moscow was in desperate need of an English governess for his ward, the third such female in as many months having fled for home.

Octavia was lucky, he added with a barely supressed chortle. The man and his wife couldn’t afford to be choosy. There was no doubt she would be acceptable, especially as she spoke a few words of the heathen language.

Russia? she had blurted out.

A nasty smile had spread over his face. Yes, Russia.

In the end, she really had little choice. It was that or the streets. She was not so naive as to not know what that would mean.

So here she was on a merchant ship bound for the Baltic Sea. Her friends at the Historical Society had been aghast when she had given themthe news of her imminent departure.Why, it was a land of barbarians, one of them had exclaimed.

Well, they certainly couldn’t be more barbaric than her own relatives.

Besides, she had always had a spark of adventure in her and found the idea of exotic travel intriguing. The experience should prove immensely interesting. That is, provided she survived the journey.

“MISS Hadley!” Mrs. Phillips had raised her voice to a level where it finally cut through Octavia’s reverie.

“Sorry,” she murmured. “I really am feeling a bit under the weather.”

“I said, shall we repair to the main salon for supper?”

“I believe you had better go on without me,” answered Octavia.

“Very well. But you had best try to keep your strength up. You never know what trials may await you in such a foreign land.”

“He did what? demanded Alston, nearly spilling the contents of his glass over his burgundy and grey striped waistcoat.

“He embarked not an hour ago,” replied the earl. “I just received the note he sent around with his man. . . . Squid.”

Killingworth frowned. “Can’t believe he would actually undertake such a daunting journey, especially when the odds seem so great against any sort of success. Why, Alex hasn’t make an effort to do aught but engage in one scandalous escapade after another. Deep play, indiscreet dalliances, the duel with Lord Eversham over that piece of mus. . . .” His eyes strayed to where his wife and sister-in-law where seated by the fire, and he awkwardly cleared his throat. ”It seems he deliberately behaves in a reckless manner, one that is designed to bring scorn on himself and his family. That he would put himself in danger for a child he has never even met—”

Chittenden fixed his eldest nephew with a withering look. “Put himself in danger? Good Lord, William, what do you think he has been doing for the past ten years? Are you so willfully blind that you fail to see that all of his actions are nothing but a tempting of Fate to deal him the same hand as Jack?”

The marquess shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “It is regrettable that Alex is tormented by guilt. But if he hadn’t been so damnably irresponsible that day, Jack would still be here,” he said, a note of defensiveness creeping into his voice.

The crystal glass came down on the polished walnut desk with a thump that set the candleabra to teetering. “Perhaps it is time to put that gross misconception to rest once and for all.”

There was utter silence, save for the crackle of flames reducing the logs to ashes. “W—what do you mean?”

“That if guilt must fall on anyone, Jack is the one who should bear the burden of it. It was he, and not Alex, who was completely cupshot that day!”

Killingworth paled. “But Father was adamant about the fact that—”

“That Jack, as the Killingworth heir, could not possibly be fallible?” Chittenden had moderated his tone somewhat, but an edge of irony still shaded his words. “Yes, we are all aware of your father’s pride in the noble lineage of the Sheffield family. Heaven forbid that the future earl might be revealed as anything less than a paragon of perfection. And so, to keep his precious illusions alive, he convinced himself the blame lay with Alex. The real tragedy was that he succeeeded in losing two sons instead of one.”

A collective gasp sounded from the ladies while Alston turned as pale as his ecru cravat.

“What you suggest is . . . a monstrous injustice.”

“Nonetheless, it is true. The accounts of the various fishermen who saw them set off all say the same thing. Jack had been drinking for hours, and it was he who persuaded Alex to take the boat out, even though he had been warned that a nasty storm was kicking up.” The earl gave a mournful sigh. “Like all of you, Alex idolized his oldest brother, and the invitation to have a sail with him—just the two of them—was no doubt too special to turn down, despite the portent of bad weather. Think on it—you know Alex was a quiet, serious lad, who always preferred a book to a bottle of spirits. Does it make any sense that he would have been the one to suggest a afternoon. It was Jack who should have known better!” His lips compressed in a tight line. “I always felt your father was terribly unjust in his actions after the accident. Now that you are head of the family, William, I had hoped you might discover the truth for yourself and show more compassion.

The marquess started to speak, but his uncle cut him off.

“No, wait! I haven’t finished. Have you any idea the living hell your brother has endured? When the sail blew out and the boat capsized, Alex managed to catch hold of Jack’s hand. As wave after wave swept over them, it was your supposedly reckless youngest brother who clung to the hull while seeking to keep Jack from being pulled under. Alex kept begging him to hold on, but Jack finally just . . . let go. As he slipped beneath the waves, he called out one last time, a plea for his brother to save him.” Chittenden took a long draught of his brandy and stared into the fire. “Tell me, how would you like to face those dreams each night?” he asked quietly.

Killingworth’s face was now ghostlike in it pallor. “Father never told us any of this. He insisted the blame lay with Alex. You know Father—no Sheffield was to make a mistake. They were not to be tolerated. Or forgiven.“

“What your father could not forgive was that his eldest son, the one he had groomed so carefully to be his successor, perished rather than the youngest.”

The marquess’s hand passed over his brow. “How . . . how do you know what really happened?”

“It seems I was the only one of the family who ever asked Alex what really happened. In the first few days after the accident, he needed desperately to speak of it. God knows, he blamed himself enough for Jack’s death—he didn’t need all of you to do so as well. But your father never understood that. When he began to treat Alex as little more than a murderer, well, something inside him did die. From then on, he refused to ever talk about it.” The earl got up to refill his brandy. “Did you never question why he turned from a scholarly young man into a wild rakehell?”

“It puzzled me,” admitted Killingworth. “But I assumed he had got in with the wrong crowd at Oxford and had simply . . . changed.”

Alston let out a heavy sigh as he darted a guilty look at his wife. His mouth crooked in a rueful grimace. “You have always felt that we have been too harsh on Alex. It seems you and your female intuition were right after all.” He turned back to his uncle. “Why did not you tell us this sooner, so that we might have tried to make some sort of amends?”

“While your father was alive, it was not my place to do so.” Chittenden’s gaze shifted to the eldest Sheffield. “But you are head of the family now, William, and may set your own standards for the Sheffield family.”

There was another long silence. “If I have appeared overly harsh to you—all of you, mayhap it is because I . . . I did not wish to appear unworthy of the position. I never expected to take Father’s place, you know.”

“Don’t confuse being human with being weak, William. I have always thought you a man of good judgement and good character. Trust in your own instincts, rather than try to emulate the actions of another.” The earl gave a gruff smile. “In all honesty, I think you will be a much more admirable earl than your father.”

Killingworth bowed his head. “What the devil can I do? That is, if it is not too late to reach out to Alex.”

Chittenden finished his brandy and stared for some time into the empty glass. “At the moment. I am not sure there is a cursed thing any of us might do that would make a difference. We can only pray that in setting out to save young Nicholas, Alex might also be starting a new chapter in his own life. One that will lead to something more than drunkenness and despair.”