Edward looked up with only slightly raised brows. It was an abrupt change of topic, but then again, he was far too used to Sebastian to be overly startled. ―No," he said. ―Too hot."

Seb considered that. ―I expect you‘re right."

―And the malaria," Edward added. ―I met a man with malaria once." He shuddered. ―You wouldn‘t want it."

Sebastian had seen his share of malaria while fighting with the 18th Hussars in Portugal and Spain. You wouldn‘t want it seemed a spectacular understatement.

Besides, it would be difficult to continue his clandestine writing career from abroad. His first novel, Miss Sainsbury and the Mysterious Colonel , had been a smashing success. So much so that Sebastian had gone on to write Miss Davenport and the Dark Marquis, Miss Truesdale and the Silent Gentleman , and the biggest best seller of them all—Miss Butterworth and the Mad Baron.

All published pseudonymously, of course. If it got out that he was writing gothic novels…

He thought about this for a moment. What would happen if it got out? The starchier members of society would cut him, but that seemed more of a boon than anything else. The rest of theton would find it delicious. He‘d be fêted for weeks.

But there would be questions. And people asking him to write their stories. It would be so tedious.

He liked having a secret. Even his family didn‘t know. If anyone wondered where he got his funds, they‘d never inquired about it. Harry probably assumed he got a stipend from his mother.

And that he cadged his breakfast every day as a means of economization.

Besides, Harry didn‘t like his books. He was translating them into Russian (and was getting paid a fortune for it, possibly more than Sebastian got for writing the original in English), but he didn‘t like them. He thought they were silly. He said so quite frequently. Sebastian didn‘t have the heart to tell him that Sarah Gorely, author, was actually Sebastian Grey, cousin.

It would make Harry feel so uncomfortable.

Sebastian drank his tea and watched Edward read the newspaper. If he leaned forward, he might be able to read the page facing him. His eyesight had always been freakishly sharp.

But not, apparently, sharp enough. The London Times used ridiculously small print. Still, he tried. The headlines were legible, at least.

Edward set down the paper and gave him a look. ―How bore dare you?"

Seb drank the last of his tea. ―Oh, terribly. And you?"

―Quite a lot, since I can‘t read the newspaper with you staring at me."

―I‘m that distracting?" Seb smiled. ―Excellent."

Edward shook his head and held out the paper. ―Do you want it for yourself?"

―Gad no. I was trapped into a conversation with Lord Worth last night, all about the new excise tax. Reading about it would be only slightly more pleasant than plucking out my toenails."

Edward stared at him. ―Your imagination borders on the macabre."

―Only borders?" Seb murmured.

―I was trying to be polite."

―Oh, you should never do that on my account."

―Clearly."

Seb paused for just long enough for Edward to think that he‘d let go of the conversation, then said, ―You‘re getting quite dull in your old age, whelp."

Edward quirked a brow. ―Which makes you…"

―Ancient but interesting," Sebastian answered with a grin. Whether it was the tea or the fun of baiting his young cousin, he was starting to feel better. His head still hurt but at least he didn‘t think he was going to ruin the carpet. ―Do you plan to attend Lady Trowbridge‘s affair tonight?"

―Up in Hampstead?" Edward asked.

Seb nodded, pouring himself another tea.

―I think so. I haven‘t anything better. And you?"

―I do believe I have an appointment with the lovely Lady Cellars on the heath."

―On the heath ?"

―I‘ve always enjoyed the wilderness," Sebastian murmured. ―I just have to figure out a way to get a blanket into the party without anyone noticing."

―Apparently you don‘t enjoy the wilderness in all of its glory."

―Just the bits about the fresh air and adventure. The twigs and grass burns I can do without."

Edward stood. ―Well, if anyone can manage it, it‘s you."

Seb looked up, surprised and perhaps a little bit disappointed. ―Where are you going?"

―I have an appointment with Hoby."

―Ah." He couldn‘t keep him, then. One did not disappoint Mr. Hoby, and one most certainly did not get between a gentleman and his boots.

―Will you be here when I return?" Edward asked from the doorway. ―Or do you plan to go home?"

―I‘ll probably still be here," Sebastian replied, taking one last sip of his tea before lying back down on the sofa. It was barely noon, and he wouldn‘t need to head home to get ready for the Ladies Trowbridge and Cellars for hours yet.

Edward gave a nod and departed. Sebastian closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but after ten minutes he gave up and grabbed the newspaper.

It was too damned hard to sleep when he was alone.

Chapter Three

Later that night

She couldn‘t marry him. Oh dear God, she couldn‘t.

Annabel dashed through the darkened corridor, not caring where she was going. She had tried to do her duty. She had tried to behave as she ought. But now she felt sick, her stomach churning, and above all she needed air.

Her grandmother had insisted they attend Lady Trowbridge‘s annual affair, and after Louisa had explained that it was a bit out of town, all the way in Hampstead, Annabel had been looking forward to it. Lady Trowbridge kept a splendid garden, opening right up onto Hampstead‘s famous heath, and if the weather was fine, she‘d likely put out torches and decorations, allowing the party to move out of doors.