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removed his coat, and reached into the inside pocket. He withdrew the metal object
    there and regarded it with some dismay.
    Clearly his latest design for a reliable hydraulic reservoir pen that contained its own supply of ink and
    could be carried about in one's pocket needed more work.
    This was the third coat that he had ruined in the past two weeks.

CHAPTER FOUR
    MARCUS HAD JUST HELPED HIMSELF TO A PORTION OF eggs from one of the trays on the
    sideboard when Bennet sauntered into the breakfast room the next morning.
    " 'Morning, Marcus." "Good morning. Lovelace said you had returned toLondon. I wasn't expecting
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    you." Marcus glanced at his brother, started to smile, and then blinked in astonishment. "Bloody hell.
    What happened to your hair?"
    "Nothing happened to my hair." Bennet's handsome face twisted into an offended scowl. He went to the
    sideboard and busied himself lifting the lids of various serving trays. "This style is all the rage."
    "Only among Byron and his crowd," Marcus surveyed his brother's elaborately tousled curls. Bennet's
    dark hair was normally quite straight, just as Marcus's was. "Remind your valet to he cautious with the
    crimping iron. He'll set fire to your head if he's not careful." "That is not amusing. Are there any muffins?"
    "Last tray on the end, I believe." Marcus carried his own heavily loaded plate back to the table and sat
    down. "I thought you intended to spend the entire month inScotlandwith your friend Harry and his family."
    Bennet kept his attention focused on the muffin tray. "I thought you were going to spend the month in
    Yorkshire."
    "I changed my mind." "So did I."
    Marcus frowned. "Did something happen to cause you to alter your plans?"
    "No." Bennet concentrated intently on laying eggs out of another tray.
    Marcus eyed his brother's back with an uneasy feeling. He knew Bennet A too well. Bennet had never
    kept secrets from him. Something was wrong.
    Marcus had single-handedly raised Bennet since their mother's death eighteen years ago. True, Marcus's
    father had still been alive at the time, but George Cloud had taken no more interest in his youngest son
    than he had in his eldest. George preferred his hounds, his hunting, and his friends in the local tavern to
    the bothersome burdens of family life.
    There had been no one else to see to the rearing of Bennet, so Marcus had taken on the responsibility,
    just as, at an even earlier age, he had assumed the responsibility of working the family farm.
    The profits from the farm improved steadily over the years, thanks to Marcus's successful experiments
    with tools, fertilizers, plows, and breeding techniques.
    George had used much of the increased income to purchase better hounds and jumpers. When Marcus's
    mother had timidly suggested that Marcus he allowed to attendOxfordorCambridge, George had
    squashed the idea immediately. He was not about to deprive himself of the income produced by the best
    farmer in the district.
    Occasionally George clapped Marcus on the back and chortled about having produced such a useful
    son. Once in a great whole he thought to hoist Bennet aloft in a gesture of casual affection.
    Cloud frequently observed with some satisfaction that it was fortunate both of his sons had inherited his
    own excellent constitution. He pointed out that chronic ill health, such as Mrs. Cloud suffered, was a
    damnable nuisance. But that was the limit of his paternal involvement in his sons' lives.
    Marcus's mother, whose medical complaints were generally of a vague nature and featured such
    symptoms as melancholia and fatigue, contracted a very real fever the year Marcus turned eighteen. She
    succumbed to it within a matter of hours. Marcus had been at her bedside, his two-year-old brother in
    his arms.
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    His father had been out fox hunting. Cloud had lived for