The Lady in Disguise

Chapter Thirty-Four (part one)

Byrne leaned on the patio railing, gripping it so hard he imagined the stone might crumble in his fingers.

It didn't, of course, but the way he felt right now, it would feel immensely satisfying if it did.

Was he truly supposed to keep up the pretense of civility after all that? It wasn't even as if he hadn't heard it all before. The Irish were barbaric, lazy, uncivilized, more than often drunk. They couldn't be trusted to govern themselves. He'd heard it from men who refused to do business with him, from banks that refused to keep his money, even from workers who suddenly didn't want the job, not with "an Irish" in charge.

It wasn't a surprise... yet it was. He'd thought he'd worked his way up to a sort of pinnacle where such words couldn't touch him. Even the rejections he'd suffered had been borne with a sort of lazy amusement these days. Really, the Irish insults often only came when his adversary was losing.

The Browning family was losing, even if they didn't know it yet, and at his hands. So why did he let anything a man like Reginald Browning had to say affect him?

He heard the door from the drawing room open behind him and turned sharply, his fists clenched.

A part of him expected Reginald Browning, ready to deliver more diatribes against the Irish, but it was Oliver Browning. He found his fists unclenching, but why should they? Wasn't he just as bad?

"What are you doing out here?" Byrne demanded.

"I... I followed you."

"You shouldn't have. I have no need for company."

"I suspected as much, but I—"

"And didn't I make it clear that your staying here meant you would not speak to me?"

Oliver stepped into the scant light cast from the drawing room's French doors. "I wanted to apologize."

Byrne leaned against the railing, letting out a bitter laugh. "For which crime? Forcing your way into this party? Harassing me with your letters and visits all these years? Colluding with my valet, no doubt to keep gathering information on me? Trying to ruin my plans in Coton?"

Oliver drew back slightly. "No. I'm not sorry for any of that, actually. And I wouldn't say I've colluded with Fletcher. We just happen to be very old friends. He never answers my questions about you. Some sort of... code."

"Aye, I'm familiar." Fletcher claimed the same when avoiding Byrne's questions about the Brownings.

"I wanted to apologize for my brother," Oliver said, his eyes downcast. "Reg... He has this way of saying the worst things. I don't even think he means them. He just wants to dig at people."

"Why shouldn't he mean them?" Byrne turned away. "It's not like I haven't heard all of it before from men like him."

"I know him. He's only doing it to upset you. Reginald likes to make himself feel big by putting others below him, but deep down, he's really—"

"I have no desire to know what Reginald is really like," Byrne cut in, "deep down or otherwise." He doubted the man had any more depth than a puddle.

Oliver was silent a moment. "Very well, then. I... I just want you to know that I'm not... I mean, that I don't think—"

The door opened again. "Never known you to leave the table early, Ollie."

Oliver sighed loudly. "Reg, could you please—"

"They didn't even serve pudding yet. Very unlike you."