Alix and the Spy

Chapter Three

London, England

1825

Meanwhile

Colin had been with his family for less than a day, and already, he was feeling like that second son he had been years ago.

            Firstly, when he had sought out his father to say his greetings, his father had merely looked over his papers, frowned at him, nodded, and then dismissed him with a wave of his hand. It was almost a repetition of Colin’s years as a schoolboy, back in the Eton days, when he had nervously asked his father for something. His father had always had a disapproving frown on his face, as if wondering who is this idiot who keeps appearing in my house and disturbing my work?

            His reception from his mother was slightly warmer, as she deigned to lean over her yapping corgis and brush a faint kiss on his cheek, noting that he had grown tanner, and was looking alarmingly dark, and that was not very attractive in London, was it? But Duchess Tyron had always been a bit absentminded, and more attached to her dogs than to her children (though even then, she had always favoured Ralph a bit more), so Colin had not minded much. Besides, her head was currently filled with plans for the ball, and he decided the only way to avoid that topic was to escape from her room as soon as possible.

            Then Ralph had entered the house, and his welcome had been much more than both his parents combined. They had shook hands, patted each other on the shoulder, Ralph had asked him where he had been, Colin had answered with his usual vague shrug, and they had retreated to the drawing room for some brandy.

            Although Colin was much closer to his brother than to his parents, they had never had the strongest of brotherly bond either. Colin had seen several of his friends in school as exceedingly close to their own siblings, and had noticed the lack of warmth between Ralph and him. They were certainly cordial and on good terms with each other, but they never went out of their way to help one another, nor did they spend great amounts of time with each other. They talked whenever they met, drank when the occasion called for it, wrote to each other (sometimes), and laughed chummily, but Colin had a feeling their brotherly relationship would never go much beyond that.

             Still, Colin was always inclined to try, so he maintained a good mood for his brother as they poured out the brandy. Raising his glass towards Ralph’s, Colin grinned and toasted, “To your future bride.”

            Ralph audibly groaned, tipping the glass back and swallowing a mouthful of the drink at once, probably to numb his discomfort at the subject. “You sound like Father now.”

            “Do I? Well, I have always wanted to be like him.”

            Ralph passed him a look. “It’s all he can talk about now. ‘Ralph, I have a list of suitable brides’, or ‘Ralph, you are getting old’, or sometimes just ‘Reproduce now’.”

            Colin laughed. “Well, you are getting on your years. You have wrinkles, grey hair, on the doorstep to getting gout; Father is right. Impregnate a wife before you’re too old for it.”

            His brother glared at him. “You sound so brazen about it. Besides, we are of an age, and you look perfectly fine, so I must too.”

            “What makes you think so? While you have been swamped down with heir duties here, I have been running around Scotland having a wild time.”

            “Have you? Lucky you.”

            Of course, it was at this time that Duke Tyron decided to walk in, and the frown on his face told them he had heard Colin’s answer, and did not approve of it. Colin took in the deep etched furrow of his brows, and was transported again to his initial, awkward childhood days, before he had been saved by Eton and Cambridge life.