At dinner that evening, the squire himself knocked on the door.

“I’m going to stop this right now,” Poppy said, and opened the door, Aunt Charlotte at her side.

“It’s my understanding,” the squire intoned, “that Lady Poppy is to be married to the Russian prince.”

Aunt Charlotte opened her mouth to say something, but Poppy cut her off. “I’m sorry, sir, but your information is incorrect. Lady Charlotte and I are departing in the morning for London.”

And she tried to shut the door.

But the squire stopped it with his hand. “Of course, you’ll have many parties to attend in London before the big event. But do let us know when the nuptial feast will occur. If it’s to be in Town, my wife and I would be honored to represent the village.”

“Thank you,” Poppy answered, and managed to shut the door. “Tomorrow morning,” she said grimly, leaning against it, “we’re leaving this place and going back to London to get some peace.”

“I told you once before, village life is as grueling as Town life, if not more.” Aunt Charlotte chuckled.

But Poppy wasn’t amused. She packed her bags and went to bed that night with much to contemplate. The adventures of Clarissa called, however, and she was dying to forget her own troubles. So she opened the novel and read about Clarissa’s until her candle burned low.

CHAPTER 41

Nicholas wasn’t happy. Every night he dreamed about that wretched scene at Lord Derby’s, where Poppy told him she never wanted to see him again. And every morning he’d wake up and hear in his head the cryptic comment Harry had made at their club:

Lucky you.

Was he really lucky?

Or wasn’t he?

He stared at the small oil painting above his desk—a drawing room scene of him and Frank as boys—and came to a decision. He had nothing to lose.

Absolutely nothing.

His properties and title were in a state of decay, his brother was a wastrel, and Poppy rightfully despised him. The sting of her dismissive slap on his jaw had brought home to him the realization that every good thing in his life had slipped away. He wasn’t sure how he’d come to this point, why he’d neglected to respect the age-old adage that nothing worthwhile comes easily.

But looking into Poppy’s scornful eyes the night they’d ended their betrothal, he’d understood as never before that good things came at a price, a price he’d been unwilling to pay—

Until now.

He couldn’t fix everything, but he could do one thing right.

He was going to work on his relationship with Frank. He’d held his sibling at arm’s length all these years because Frank had gone from being a brother to a burden. Yet it certainly hadn’t been Frank’s fault that Nicholas had been charged by familial duty to nurture him to manhood in the absence of his parents.

Nicholas had chosen not to accept the responsibility gracefully. He’d been standoffish, all the while pretending Frank had been the one driving him away with his rude manners.

It wasn’t true, and Nicholas would have to rectify the situation immediately.

He found Frank in the same cheap hotel. His room was tiny and dim, and the wall was lined with stacks of small, empty kegs. There were a few more now than the last time.

He nudged Frank in the arm, and his brother jerked awake, bleary-eyed, roundly cursing Nicholas.

“You didn’t really drink all these, did you?” Nicholas pointed to the kegs.

“None of your business, you rotter. Go away.” Frank’s waistcoat was stained, and he smelled like he belonged in a barn.

Nicholas hauled him up. “Let’s go. We’ve got some talking to do.”

Frank grumbled, of course, but a few minutes later, Nicholas managed to get him outside. “We’re going on a walk,” he said. “And to get something to eat and drink. But not brandy.”

Frank cursed him roundly again, but he stumbled alongside him.

Nicholas took a sideways glance at him. “I’ve been a bad brother,” he said low. “And I’ve come to apologize.”

Frank stopped in his tracks. “Wha’?”

“I’ve neglected you,” Nicholas said simply. “And I’m sorry.”

Frank blinked and looked around. “Am I dreaming?”

“Hey, Frankie!” a rough voice called out from across the street. “Here’s another!”

Nicholas turned and saw a swarthy cooper in his open-air shop, holding aloft a small keg. “She’s a beauty, ain’t she?” A bright fire burned merrily behind him.

Frank’s face lit up. “She sure is! How much?”

The cooper grinned. “A few more shillings than you have in your pocket, lad. Ask your rich brother for some more money.”

Nicholas squinted at the cooper, then looked back at Frank. Was there something special about that barrel? Why was his brother so excited by it?

And why would he want to own it?

“I’m not sure what’s going on,” he said to Frank. Now that he thought about it, there were no alcohol fumes emanating from the small kegs in Frank’s room.

Frank made an ugly face. “It’s none of your business.”

Nicholas grabbed his arm. “Listen to me, brother. I don’t want to hurt you. I want to understand you.”

“Sure you do. Dummy.”

Nicholas prayed for more patience. “Are you … are you saving barrels for a reason?”

Frank looked down and bit his lip. “I like them, is all,” he muttered. He wouldn’t look Nicholas in the eye.

“You like barrels.” Nicholas made it a statement.

Frank’s forehead was furrowed deeply, but he nodded. Once. Quickly.

This was all very odd, Nicholas thought. But interesting.

“Let’s get a couple of meat pies,” he said. “And we’ll talk about the barrels.”

“Hey, governor!” called the cooper. “What’s your decision about this keg here?”

“I’ll check back with you later,” Nicholas called to him, and made a motion with his chin for Frank to keep up. “I want to hear about barrels first.”

“All right,” Frank said in a surly tone, but at least the pucker in his forehead was gone. And his eyebrows weren’t two slash marks, either.

Progress, thought Nicholas, and for the first time in years, he felt a smidgeon of tenderness for his sibling well up in his heart. Just a smidgeon, though. Nothing more.

But still, it was something.

An hour later in a quiet inn, after the two of them had shared a simple meal of steak-and-kidney pie, ale, and a small pudding, Nicholas felt as if he’d just met a person he’d never known. Frank mumbled on and on about barrels. Their different sizes. The various woods used to make them. The great fire always going at the cooper’s shop.

He even chuckled when he told the story about how the cooper’s cheeks blew out every time he had to squeeze the metal hoops around the staves.

My God, thought Nicholas. The man wanted to be a cooper. He was probably born to be a cooper!

But who’d ever have considered it a possible future for the son of a duke?

No one.

Frank was a tradesman at heart.

“How would you like to learn the coopering trade?” Nicholas asked him.

Frank drew in his chin. “Me?”

Nicholas nodded.

“But I—I can’t learn to be a cooper.”

“Why not?”

“It’s hard work. I don’t know how to do hard work. I hate hard work.”

“Here’s the secret.” Nicholas leaned forward. “It’s not hard work when you enjoy it. Then it’s called fun. You might work long hours and get tired at the end of the day, but you’ll go to bed happy.”

“Happy?” Frank scowled.

“It can happen to you,” Nicholas said. “You can become happy.”

“Really?” Frank’s eyes cleared, and Nicholas saw something more than a surly wastrel looking out. “But what would Mother and Father think?”

“Why, they’d want you to be happy. And productive. You want it, too.”

“I do?”

“Yes. You’ve just been too angry to see it. I’m going to take you back to that cooper. We’re going to arrange an apprenticeship. If he says no, we’ll find another cooper. We’re not going to give up until you, Frank Staunton, are making barrels. You’ve got the brawn and you’ve got the brains. Someday, everyone will be buying Staunton barrels.”

Frank grimaced.

But then Nicholas realized it was actually a small, real smile. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen one on Frank’s face.

“But you’ll need to stop drinking so much,” Nicholas said, “and stealing spoons from White’s—”

“Oh, I’ll stop. I’ll be busy shaping staves,” Frank interrupted him.

“Good.” Nicholas grinned, happy to see Frank had barely touched his ale, he’d been so excited talking about barrels. “I can’t wait to see your progress. I’ll visit every week.”

“Will the princess come, too?”

“No.” Nicholas was firm. “I’m not going to marry her.”

Frank’s face fell. “But you have to. She paid me good money.”

“Where is it now?”

Frank shrugged. “I drank it away. And bought a fine, tall cask.”

“I didn’t see it in your room.”

Frank’s eyes bugged out. “That’s because…”

“What? Spit it out, brother.”

Frank sank low in his chair. “That’s because I bought it for the princess. She told me I’d better get her one to put Lady Poppy in and then send it on a wagon to the sea, where someone was going to place it on a packet to Australia and release her when the boat set sail. I have it in a special place, where no one can find it, in a small shed behind Lord Howell’s residence.”

“You’re joking.”

Frank shook his head.

“You were willing to kidnap Lady Poppy?”