The Tempting of Thomas Carrick Read Free Page B

down the street.
    But one voice reached through his abstraction and jerked him to awareness.
    “I don’t know. It’s brown, after all. Why are they all brown this year?”
    Thomas halted so precipitously the messenger following at his heels ran into him.
    The boy bounced off, ducked, and muttered an apology, before scurrying around Thomas and continuing on.
    Thomas barely noticed, his gaze riveted by the two men standing before the wide window of a gentleman’s outfitter; they were discussing the hats arrayed behind the glass.
    Thomas blinked, then smiled. “Nigel. Nolan.”
    The pair turned, surprise on their faces.
    Thomas crossed the pavement and offered his hand. “Well met, both of you. What brings you to Glasgow?”
    Not that he cared; whatever had brought them there, the pair were the answer to his not-quite-formulated prayer. Through them he could learn what was behind Bradshaw’s letter without journeying to Carrick Manor.
    Nigel—the elder, fractionally taller than Nolan although several inches shorter than Thomas—looked blank for half a second, then he smiled. “Thomas!” He gripped Thomas’s proffered hand. “It’s good to see you!”
    “Indeed.” Nolan—blond where Nigel was brown-haired, with blue eyes instead of Nigel’s brown—shook Thomas’s hand once Nigel released it. “We didn’t want to disturb you at work, and there’s so much to do here.” Nolan gestured about them. “Always something to fill the time.”
    “How long have you been here?” Thomas asked.
    “Just a day or so,” Nolan replied.
    Thomas wanted to discuss Bradshaw’s letter, but the open street wasn’t the place. Sinking his hands into his greatcoat pockets, he asked, “Have you dined yet?”
    Nigel shook his head. “We hadn’t got that far.”
    Nolan pulled out a fob watch—a handsome piece Thomas hadn’t previously seen. Nolan glanced at the face. “Twelve already—I hadn’t realized.”
    “If you haven’t any plans,” Thomas said, “let me take you to lunch at my club.” He tipped his head back the way he’d come. “The Prescott in Princes Street—it’s not far.”
    The brothers exchanged a glance, then both turned similar smiles on Thomas. “Excellent notion,” Nigel said.
    Nolan nodded. “It’ll give us a chance to catch up with how things are going with you—Papa always asks, and he’d love to know.”

    * * *

    It’ll give us a chance to catch up with how things are going with you.
    The Prescott Club was the premier gentleman’s club in Glasgow, refined and restrainedly elegant. Over the following two hours spent within its hallowed precincts, in the grandly appointed dining room and later in a corner of the smoking room, Thomas discovered that Nolan’s words had been more polite response than actual intention.
    When it came down to it, the pair were interested in little beyond themselves, and that little largely revolved about what entertainments were on offer that might appeal to their hedonistic souls.
    Thomas had forgotten why it was that of Manachan’s four children, the company of these two—of his own sex and nearest to him in age—so grated on his nerves.
    Nigel and Nolan were quick to remind him.
    Although only thirteen months lay between Thomas and Nigel, with another thirteen months between Nigel and Nolan, the pair always made Thomas feel more like, if not their father, then at least an uncle. They always seemed a good decade his junior; their current focus on horses, all manner of horse racing, and lightskirts seemed more appropriate to young men of twenty or thereabouts rather than the pursuits of well-bred gentlemen in their late twenties.
    The distinction, Thomas had to admit, was one of degree. Most of his friends appreciated fine horses, but the subject didn’t dominate their conversation. Most gentlemen of their age had a social interest in the sport of kings, but few were devotees of the track, much less the more questionable dives catering to the industry