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Authors: Shirlee Busbee
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that,” Barnaby growled as he rose to his feet. Taking the pair of breeches Lamb handed him, he proceeded to dress. The initial dizziness and weakness had passed and by the time he was pulling on his boots, other than a slight headache, he was feeling more himself.
The valise emptied, Lamb turned and sent Barnaby a sharp look. In a voice no servant ever used to his master, he asked, “Do you want to tell me what happened?”
John Lamb was the result of a liaison between Paxton, Barnaby’s grandfather, and a quadroon mistress he’d taken under his protection while in New Orleans on business for several months some thirty-six years previously. Paxton had died three years later, never knowing, or caring for that matter, that he had sired a son while in New Orleans. No one ever questioned that Lamb was his son. John’s build and facial features, especially those azure eyes, told their own story: he looked more Joslyn than did Barnaby.
When Lamb was six years old, at the urging of his mother’s latest protector, she had sent him to Virginia. Bewildered and frightened, the little boy with the stunning blue eyes in the dark gold face was shown into the grand library at Green Hill. It wasn’t until years later that he learned that the tall, handsome man regarding him so unhappily was actually his half brother.
One look at the boy and Lyndon had no doubts that John Lamb was indeed his father’s by-blow. Unable to turn his back on the boy, but unwilling to acknowledge him as his half brother, he banished the boy to his overseer’s care but saw to it that the boy was educated. Lamb wasn’t raised as the child of a wealthy planter or taken to the bosom of the family, but he wasn’t put in the fields to work either.
As Lamb put it to Barnaby one night when they were both very drunk, “Neither fish nor fowl, that’s me.” He scowled at his tankard of ale. “Sometimes, I wish your father had sent me to the fields. This half life . . .”
“Remember it is your own damn choice these days,” Barnaby said. Equally drunk, Barnaby spoke carefully, struggling not to slur his words. “After he died, I offered to set you up on your own land. You’re the stiff-necked jackass who refused.”
Lamb had grinned at him. “That’s because, as your ser-servant, I like watching you squirm. I couldn’t prick his conscience, but I sure as hell can yours.”
Which, unfortunately, was true, Barnaby thought, sighing. Neither Paxton nor Lyndon had been particularly evil: both men just ignored or brushed aside anything unpleasant or that interfered with their pursuit of pleasure.
Lamb interrupted his thoughts. “You’re thinking of them, aren’t you?”
“And if I am?”
“Stop it. I made my choices and for now”—Lamb flashed him a dazzling smile—“it pleases me to play your servant.”
Barnaby snorted. “Servant,” he muttered, “doesn’t even begin to describe you. Anyone less servile I’ve yet to meet. Or arrogant, now that I think of it.”
“True,” Lamb agreed fairly, “but I think you’re straying from the subject at hand. What happened?”
Briefly Barnaby told him what he knew, leaving out only the farce that had been played out in his bedroom after his rescue. For reasons that escaped him, he wanted to keep Miss Emily to himself—and that The Crown was rife with smugglers. At least for the present.
Lamb tried to examine the wound, but Barnaby hastily waved him away. “I’m fine—or at least I’m fine enough to ride away from here without my head wrapped in bandages.”
Frustrated, but knowing him of old, Lamb asked, “So who was it that hit you on the head and left you to drown in the Channel? Mathew?”
Barnaby studied his boots. “It doesn’t feel like Mathew.” He glanced up at Lamb, frowning. “You met him. Did he seem like the sort of fellow who would use such an elaborate and uncertain method? Knocking me on the head and I’m pretty certain, blowing up, certainly sinking the family
The valise emptied, Lamb turned and sent Barnaby a sharp look. In a voice no servant ever used to his master, he asked, “Do you want to tell me what happened?”
John Lamb was the result of a liaison between Paxton, Barnaby’s grandfather, and a quadroon mistress he’d taken under his protection while in New Orleans on business for several months some thirty-six years previously. Paxton had died three years later, never knowing, or caring for that matter, that he had sired a son while in New Orleans. No one ever questioned that Lamb was his son. John’s build and facial features, especially those azure eyes, told their own story: he looked more Joslyn than did Barnaby.
When Lamb was six years old, at the urging of his mother’s latest protector, she had sent him to Virginia. Bewildered and frightened, the little boy with the stunning blue eyes in the dark gold face was shown into the grand library at Green Hill. It wasn’t until years later that he learned that the tall, handsome man regarding him so unhappily was actually his half brother.
One look at the boy and Lyndon had no doubts that John Lamb was indeed his father’s by-blow. Unable to turn his back on the boy, but unwilling to acknowledge him as his half brother, he banished the boy to his overseer’s care but saw to it that the boy was educated. Lamb wasn’t raised as the child of a wealthy planter or taken to the bosom of the family, but he wasn’t put in the fields to work either.
As Lamb put it to Barnaby one night when they were both very drunk, “Neither fish nor fowl, that’s me.” He scowled at his tankard of ale. “Sometimes, I wish your father had sent me to the fields. This half life . . .”
“Remember it is your own damn choice these days,” Barnaby said. Equally drunk, Barnaby spoke carefully, struggling not to slur his words. “After he died, I offered to set you up on your own land. You’re the stiff-necked jackass who refused.”
Lamb had grinned at him. “That’s because, as your ser-servant, I like watching you squirm. I couldn’t prick his conscience, but I sure as hell can yours.”
Which, unfortunately, was true, Barnaby thought, sighing. Neither Paxton nor Lyndon had been particularly evil: both men just ignored or brushed aside anything unpleasant or that interfered with their pursuit of pleasure.
Lamb interrupted his thoughts. “You’re thinking of them, aren’t you?”
“And if I am?”
“Stop it. I made my choices and for now”—Lamb flashed him a dazzling smile—“it pleases me to play your servant.”
Barnaby snorted. “Servant,” he muttered, “doesn’t even begin to describe you. Anyone less servile I’ve yet to meet. Or arrogant, now that I think of it.”
“True,” Lamb agreed fairly, “but I think you’re straying from the subject at hand. What happened?”
Briefly Barnaby told him what he knew, leaving out only the farce that had been played out in his bedroom after his rescue. For reasons that escaped him, he wanted to keep Miss Emily to himself—and that The Crown was rife with smugglers. At least for the present.
Lamb tried to examine the wound, but Barnaby hastily waved him away. “I’m fine—or at least I’m fine enough to ride away from here without my head wrapped in bandages.”
Frustrated, but knowing him of old, Lamb asked, “So who was it that hit you on the head and left you to drown in the Channel? Mathew?”
Barnaby studied his boots. “It doesn’t feel like Mathew.” He glanced up at Lamb, frowning. “You met him. Did he seem like the sort of fellow who would use such an elaborate and uncertain method? Knocking me on the head and I’m pretty certain, blowing up, certainly sinking the family
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