Gabriel's Torment (Regency Club Venus 2)

by Carole Mortimer

  Evesham’s expression brightened. “Name it.”

  “I have some other business to attend to this evening, if you would like to act as host in my stead for a few hours?” Gabriel made a point of leaving his study every evening to talk with the gentlemen who patronized his club. Not only to be sociable, but also to gauge if any of those men needed further watching to ensure the safety of the ladies who worked here. Tonight, he intended to venture into St Giles to see if he could learn news of Victory.

  Evesham gave a grin, only a sight bruising left about his merry blue eyes as evidence of his recent beating. “I would be honored.”

  Gabriel gave him a chiding glance. “You do realize that part of being the host means you are not allowed to fraternize with the young ladies?”

  The younger man chuckled. “I believe I can manage to resist for the few hours you are away.”

  Gabriel had no idea how it had occurred that one of his closest friends now seemed to be a man who was six or seven years younger than his own two and thirty. Perhaps because of the absence of Shaftesbury’s company now that the other man was married and gone to one of his country estates for the duration of his honeymoon.

  Gabriel did have other friends, of course. The closest of them, besides Bastian, were Doctor Lord Benedict Winter and Lord Julius Soames, the Earl of Andover.

  Winter might attend the ladies professionally here during the day, but he refused to visit during the evenings, claiming he already spent enough time here. Gabriel could find no argument with that, but he would have appreciated spending more time socially with the other man.

  As it was still only a week or so after Christmas, Julius had not yet returned from spending the holiday season on his estate in Cheltenham, where all of the Soames family, including his widowed mother, had enjoyed Christmas together.

  Gabriel’s own mother had died giving birth to him, another reason why he had felt Elizabeth’s loss so deeply. She had been a little mother to him during his childhood. His father had been present, if not loving, for the first eighteen years of Gabriel’s life, but he had refused to even acknowledge his father socially for many years before his death.

  Gabriel knew that Evesham was as bereft of close family as he was.

  Evesham’s mother and father seemed to have been estranged for many years before his mother died six months ago. His father, the Earl of Newnham, had moved to the Continent many years ago “for the good of his health,” whatever that meant. It was that continuing good health that had so far denied Evesham the earldom.

  Gabriel had never heard the younger man speak of either parent.

  Perhaps, as Evesham spent the majority of his evenings here, a friendship between the two men had been inevitable. Gabriel also suspected, and admitted to feeling flattered by it, that Evesham seemed to have begun to consider him in the role of an older brother.

  Gabriel nodded. “Hopefully, I will only be gone for a couple of hours.”

  Gabriel knew stepping foot into St Giles, one of the most notorious slums in London, especially at night, was not a wise or sensible thing to do. But it needed to be done if Gabriel was to put to rest his concern for the missing Vic.

  The boy was so very young and yet so brave. Never once had Gabriel heard Vic complain about the hardship of his lot in life. On the contrary, the boy’s disposition was always chirpy and cheerful, even if he was not always feeling that same happiness inside. More importantly, the boy always went out of his way to make Gabriel smile. A rare occurrence at the best of times.

  The least Gabriel could do was enquire about the health of Vic’s mother, and at the same time ensure the boy was safe and not floating in the Thames waiting for someone to find his bloated and unidentifiable body.

  He gave a shudder at the thought of Vic meeting such a fate. “Keep an eye on Lord Gordon,” he advised Evesham. “He has been a little…thoughtless of the ladies’ welfare since he was denied the opportunity of claiming the prize of the virginity of one of them.”

  Evesham chuckled. “If you remember, I was a little put out myself at being usurped when Shaftesbury not only claimed the virginity of the lady but then married her and took her off to the country.”

  Shaftesbury had first met Abigail Barton at Club Venus when she rescued him after he had been left tied naked to the bed by the spiteful Carlotta. It had not been a situation which encouraged the beautiful and innocent Abigail to approve of nor be enamored of Shaftesbury. But the earl had very quickly persuaded her otherwise before whisking her away from the club and, yes, three days ago, Bastian had married her and made her his countess.

  Gabriel’s lips quirked. “I should not let Shaftesbury hear you talking in that familiar manner in regard to his wife. He has become more than a little possessive of her.”

  “With good reason. She is a very lovely and beautiful woman,” Evesham acknowledged lightly. “Do not fret. Your club will remain in good hands while you are away, and the sooner you leave, the quicker you will return.”

  Gabriel eyed him mockingly. “I believe you are looking forward to spending an evening imagining yourself as whoremaster.” As much as Gabriel despised having his establishment and the ladies who worked here described in such an insulting manner, he knew that was the way in which Society viewed Club Venus. But the more Society showed Gabriel their disapproval, the more he was inclined to continue owning and running the club.

  The young man grinned. “I believe I am.”

  Gabriel chuckled. “I expect to learn I am still the owner of this club when I return in a few hours.”

  Evesham shot him a cheeky smile. “Perhaps the ladies might prefer a younger master.”

  Gabriel was shaking his head as he left the premises. A younger master, indeed. He was two and thirty, not two and seventy.

  His good humor faded and his smile was replaced with a frown and then a scowl of distaste as he first neared and then entered the slum of St Giles. He carried a lit lantern in one hand and his sword stick in the other.

  The inside of the rookery was a cacophony of shouting, swearing, and children of all ages crying. The miasma of the garbage and raw sewage sliming the streets was enough to rob Gabriel of breath for several seconds. The boots he was wearing would certainly need to be completely disposed of. The foul-smelling slime would infiltrate the soft leather.

  The buildings either side of him were mainly built of wood which was rotting and falling down, most with the windows broken and patched with rags to keep out the rain. Rats ran about the place as if they had more right to live here than the humans did. Many of the rickety houses were connected by galleries above, along with wooden planks from building to building, no doubt to allow for easy escape if some brave constable or watchman should dare to enter the slum in search of a miscreant. Which they rarely did.

  And who could blame them? Gabriel would not have stepped foot in the place either if he were not so concerned about Vic. It was as if he had stepped into another universe rather than an area of England’s capital.

  Sitting in the doorways of these disgusting hovels were the men, women, and children, their clothing dirty and ragged, who were the reason for the shouting, swearing, and crying. Some of the adults wore worn shoes or boots, but the children were mainly barefoot and up to their ankles in the disgusting detritus on the street.

  The scolding, shouting, and swearing lessened to become a murmur before growing louder again after Gabriel continued to stride purposefully down the filthy street.

  In truth, he had no idea where he was striding to, or if indeed this was actually where Vic lived. But the thought of asking one of these filthy wretches for information as to where Vic and his mother might live was beyond him at the moment. One thing he did know, when he found Vic, he would be removing him and his mother from whatever rat-infested cesspool they resided in.

  “Well, lookie here,” a voice taunted from the darkness to his right before a shadow moved away from the rotting wooden building and a man stepped into the edge of the g
low given off by the lantern Gabriel carried. “A bit far from yer usual gaff, aincha, ya lordship?”

  Gabriel held the lantern higher so that he could see his assailant better. The man was six or seven inches shorter than Gabriel—no doubt due to poor nutrition all his life—and wore the usual layers of the clothing of the poor in an attempt to attain some defense against the cold and frosty January weather. His hair was dark and matted together with filth, and no doubt lice too. His face was dark with dirt that was grimed in, his teeth, as he gave a predatory smile, mostly black and rotten if not missing altogether. Yet Gabriel would hazard a guess the man’s age was at least ten years younger than his own.

  “It is Your Grace,” he corrected. “And I am looking for someone.”

  “Oh, I apologizes, Ya Grace.” The man gave an exaggerated bow and then a leering grin. “Boy or girl? Wha’ age? Costs more if’n ya wants them young, if’n ya knows what I mean.”

  Gabriel’s top lip curled back with distaste for the man’s assumption he wished to purchase a child for his sexual pleasure. He decided then and there that he would bring the problem of these slums to the attention of his peers in Parliament. Something must be done to protect the children here as well as rid society of these dens of iniquity. “His name is Vic, and I believe he resides somewhere in this…area, with his mother. He is a friend, nothing more.”

  “No need to be so ’oity-toity,” the ruffian mocked. “A lot of your sort come ’ere lookin’ to buy a quick fuck. Ain’t no skin off’n my nose.”

  “Well, I am not one of them,” Gabriel answered evenly, sincerely hoping that no one he knew had ever added to the wretchedness of this existence by procuring sexual pleasure in this way. “As I said, I wish to know the whereabouts of Vic and his mother.”

  The man glanced behind Gabriel, a pleased smile curving his chapped lips. “Come an’ see what we ’as ’ere, lads,” he invited in a louder voice.

  Gabriel took a step to the side so that he was now able to see the man in front of him and the three equally ragged men who were about to join them. Four against one was not good odds, but Gabriel had fought bigger ones, and won, during his years in the army. “I really advise that you consider carefully before thinking of robbing or attacking me.”

  “Oh, ya advises it, does ya?” the first man mocked. “’And over yer money and that silver-tipped cane, and maybe we’ll let ya leave ’ere wivout slittin’ yer froat!”

  Gabriel remained calm and unmoving. “Do not say I did not warn you of attempting such an action.”

  “Wha’—”

  Gabriel had pressed the mechanism on his silver-tipped cane before the man could finish speaking, revealing the long silver sword hidden inside the wooden casing before he pressed the point against the base of the man’s exposed throat. He glanced at the other men, who had now come to a halt several feet away. “Take yourselves, and your companion, and be on your way, and I will not run him, or any of you, through with my sword.”

  “There’s four of us an’ only one o’ you,” the man, who was obviously the leader of the gang, taunted as he took a knife out of one of his boots.

  Gabriel shrugged. “I like those odds.”

  “Does ya now?” the man mocked, his cry of “Get ’im, lads!” the only warning Gabriel had of the imminent attack.

  It was over almost before it began, Gabriel’s skill with a sword being legendary.

  Half a dozen slices with his blade, and he had not only disarmed his four attackers, but they were all clutching the wounds on their wrists and hands to stop the blood from flowing freely.

  “Bastard!” the original man snarled. He had received an extra slash of the sword to the base of his throat and was now trying to stanch the flow of blood there as well as on the back of his hand.

  “I am sure there are many people who would agree with that sentiment,” Gabriel drawled. “But I still require an answer to my question. Does the Vic live here who usually occupies and sells flowers and fruit on the steps of the theatre not far from here?” Although the conditions in this slum made those two venues as far apart as night was from day.

  “Dark curly hair?”

  Gabriel blinked. “I suppose he could have, yes.” Underneath all that muck and grime and the cap Vic always wore, there was a possibility that Vic’s hair was naturally dark and that it could be curly. He had never seen the boy without the cap upon his head.

  “Sure ya don’ wanna fuck ’im?”

  He drew in a deep and steadying breath. “I do not.”

  “Next street, second ’ouse along, top floor,” the leader of the other three provided abruptly as he wisely sensed Gabriel was nearing the end of his patience.

  “Left or right? That side,” he pointed his bloodied sword to the left when they all looked at him blankly, obviously having no idea which was left and which was right. “Or that one.” He nodded to the right.

  “Left,” one of the other man snapped. “But you ain’t gonna get much sense out of ’im when ya finds ’im.” He snorted.

  Gabriel raised dark brows. “And why is that?”

  “Cos ’is muvver died yesterday, and they took ’er off to bury in a pauper’s grave this mornin’.”

  Chapter Three

  “Vic?”

  Vic looked up to stare blankly at the shadowed apparition of the man who now stood in the doorway to the one-room hovel that was home. The man held aloft a lit lantern, adding even more harshness to his refined features.

  “Vic, I am so sorry. I have only just heard your sad news.” The apparition moved forward until the man was close enough to crouch down so that their faces were level.

  A man who should not—could not, be here, in St Giles, the slum that was the home of the totally bereft: prostitutes, thieves, pickpockets, and murderers.

  Vic’s eyes widened on the bloody sword the man held in his other hand.

  “Some of your neighbors needed a little encouragement in regard to revealing the location of your home,” the very aristocratic and arrogant Duke of Blackborne drawled as he placed the sword back inside its scabbard.

  For, much as it seemed impossible, it really was the duke. Not only in St Giles, but actually here, in the disgusting rat hole Vic called home.

  Even so… “Are ya truly ’ere, Ya Grace?”

  “I truly am, Vic,” he assured ruefully.

  “Why?”

  The duke’s jaw tightened. “I became concerned when you were missing from your spot on the steps three nights in a row.”

  Vic continued to frown. “Ya came to St Giles lookin’ fa me ’cos I wasn’t at me usual spot fa free nights?”

  “It has never happened before in the six months I have known you.” A scowl of displeasure creased the man’s brow. “And I have grown to enjoy our chats together in the evenings.”

  Vic was still having trouble believing a wealthy duke would come looking for a street urchin, in St Giles of all places, the worst of the London slums. Even more unbelievable was his saying his reason for being here was that Vic hadn’t been sitting on the steps for him to talk to for three evenings in a row.

  “I would also like to take you, and myself, out of here as soon as possible,” the duke rasped with distaste as he glanced about the room. “Once you have packed whatever belongings you wish to take with you, of course.”

  Vic knew what the duke’s astute gray eyes would have seen when he looked about the room. There was only a soiled mattress on the floor and a single chair upon which were a few items of ragged clothing. Vic was wearing every other piece of clothing they possessed, including the cap, in order to stop from freezing to death. “Take me wiv ya where?”

  “To Blackborne House,” the duke dismissed briskly.

  Vic snorted. “I ain’t gonna give up me gaff to be some rich man’s servant.”

  “You will be my guest, not a servant.”

  Vic’s brows rose. “A guest?” was repeated dubiously.

  “A guest.” The duke nodded. “And once you ar
e recovered from your recent loss, the two of us will sit down and discuss your future. You could go to school or possibly become an apprentice in a trade of your choice. Perhaps with a blacksmith or a horse master.”

  “School or an apprentice?” Vic repeated as if the duke were speaking a foreign language.

  Because, in part, he was. People like Vic didn’t go to school or become an apprentice in a trade. They begged in the streets and then starved or froze to death when their family couldn’t provide enough food or kindling for a fire to keep them alive.

  The hopelessness of the past few days settled as a cold lump of despair in Vic’s chest. The duke wasn’t really here. Nor had he offered to take Vic to his home to be treated as a guest. The very thought of such a thing was impossible. Which must mean that Vic was either asleep and dreaming, or had fallen into a fever of insanity brought on by grief. Either way, it was to be hoped the pleasant fantasy would continue.

  “Whichever you choose,” Gabriel confirmed. “But first, we must get you somewhere warm and some hot food in your belly. When did you last eat?” he demanded sharply as, after placing the lantern and sword stick down on the floor to help Vic to rise from his squatting position, the boy’s legs instantly went out from beneath him as his knees buckled. “Never mind,” he dismissed after the boy had looked at him blankly with eyes that were dark and hollow, his face deathly white. “Take these.” Gabriel picked up the lantern and sword stick to place them in Vic’s hand before he hooked an arm beneath the boy’s legs and the other about his shoulders and lifted him against his chest.

  A move that seemed to bring Vic out of his stupor of grief. “Ya can’t carry me outta ’ere.” He struggled to be set down. “They’ll all laugh at me if’n ya does that!”

  Gabriel tightened his grip rather than set the boy down. He had known Vic was far from robust, but he nevertheless seemed to weigh far less than Gabriel had thought he would. “Then let them laugh. You shall not be coming back here again to see it, in any case,” he added grimly.