A Husband for Hartwell (The Lords of Bucknall Club Book 1)

by J. A. Rock

  “Well…actually, I don’t know if she’s read the latest. I don’t know how many there are or—Are there many of them? Volumes, I mean?”

  “There are four thus far. With a fifth rumoured to be in the works. The author is, as you might expect, that noble friend of societies far and wide, Anonymous.”

  “Four! How does one…I mean, how much is there to say on the subject of…whatever the subject is, exactly?”

  “The subject is a rake by the name of Slyfeel. His arms are as thickly muscled as a horse’s hindquarters, and something else of his is comparable to a horse’s as well.”

  “Gale. We cannot discuss this here.”

  “Would you like me to stop?”

  “No, I must know more.”

  “Well, he is a cad and a bit of a scoundrel. But he is well versed in the art of pleasing the ladies. And the gentlemen. Really everyone. There is no one he has not pleased.”

  “You’ve read these books?”

  “I have browsed them.”

  Hartwell was more flummoxed than he wished to admit. “Do you think this is what Becca desires in a husband? Strong…horse arms? And a…well versedness in pleasing?”

  “Not in a husband, perhaps, but in a lover, certainly.”

  Hartwell felt a bit queasy. He’d rarely been the jealous type, but he suddenly wanted very much to challenge this fictional Slyfeel to a duel. One could fire a pistol just as well with regular arms as one could with horse arms, he imagined.

  Gale studied him. “Do you wish me to lead you to these soul damners?”

  He struggled to recover himself. “What I thought I might do was buy volume one for myself. To get a taste of it, as it were, and to perhaps better know her mind. In matters of”—he lowered his voice again—“lovemaking.”

  “I see.”

  “So do you…ah…know where I might—”

  Gale sighed. “Come with me.”

  Twenty minutes later, Hartwell walked out of the shop with a brown paper package under his arm. He realised he was actually quite looking forward to getting home to Warry. He was nearly there when another familiar voice, far sweeter than Gale’s, called out, “Halloooo! My lord!”

  He stopped and turned with a smile. Becca looked lovely in pale blue, carrying a white parasol. She was accompanied by several of her cousins, a beautiful bevy of fluttering butterflies, including, or perhaps especially, Morgan Notley. Notley hadn’t made his debut into Society yet, but Hartwell had heard there were already several distinguished peers counting down on their calendars until that auspicious day.

  “Good day,” Hartwell said, giving a practised bow.

  The girl cousins twittered. Notley looked bored to death.

  “Have you been in the Temple, Hartwell?” Becca asked curiously. “Good Lord, I didn’t know you read.”

  “We all have our secrets,” Hartwell said, peering at her closely in a vain attempt to discern if that was a blush turning her cheeks a pretty pink or just the bite of the cool air.

  “That we do,” Becca agreed and linked her arm through his.

  Such a display of familiarity was hardly appropriate in the middle of the street, but Becca had never stood much on ceremony, and Hartwell supposed that they would be officially courting soon in any case.

  They walked along.

  Becca lowered her voice so her cousins did not hear her. “Father received a message this morning saying Warry is staying at your house. Did he really get so terribly drunk last night at Bucknall’s that he can’t face our parents?”

  “What? No!” Hartwell gave a guilty start, remembering that he’d offered to sponsor Warry’s membership at Bucknall’s and had then forgotten all about it again. Clearly Warry hadn’t if he’d used it as an alibi. “Why, it’s nothing like that at all. You know what a dull scholar Warry is. I’m having him help to organise Father’s library, that’s all. It hasn’t been touched in years, so it’s rather an ambitious undertaking.”

  Becca slapped him on the wrist. “The library! But, William, I’m a far better candidate to assist than Warry!”

  Not with the sort of books she liked to read, Hartwell imagined. The dry histories and collections of stale poetry in his father’s library would bore her to tears. They’d always had that effect on Hartwell.

  “Well,” she said, without waiting for his answer, “I shall pay you both a visit after luncheon.”

  “No!” The word was loud enough to catch the attention of the cousins, and Becca narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously. “It’s…it’s a surprise,” he finished lamely.

  “Why would your organising the duke’s library be a surprise for me?”

  Hartwell unlinked his arm from hers and tried for a charming smile. “Why, if I was to tell you that, it would no longer be a surprise.”

  Becca narrowed her eyes. “William, if Warry is too ill after a night of drinking at Bucknall’s, you could just tell me, you know. I wouldn’t tease him too terribly.”

  Hartwell blinked. Yes, that was definitely the lie he ought to have gone with.

  “I would never lie to you,” he lied. He bowed again. “Good day, Lady Rebecca.” And to the cousins, “Good day.”

  And then he fled before Becca demolished the last of his composure.

  Chapter 5

  By the end of his third day at Hartwell House, Warry was champing at the bit to get out, not least of all because he had finally received a response from Wilkes. Hartwell, upon spotting the letter on the tray, had asked if it was from his family, and Warry had been grateful for Hartwell’s preoccupation with his own affairs, for Warry had only been required to murmur a noncommittal response.

  Warry had made no mention of the robbery in his correspondence, offering only an apology that he had been detained on his way to their meeting and stating that he wished to set up another—Would the Four-in-Hand do? That was the gaming hell Hartwell had agreed to take him to. He hadn’t been certain Wilkes would go for it, as Hartwell had described the Four-in-Hand as a moderately reputable establishment where Warry and his bruises were unlikely to be recognised, and Warry pictured Wilkes lurking in the shadows of the city’s underbelly, unwilling to venture so far into the light. But Wilkes had agreed to the meeting time and place.

  Warry was in his bedroom—well, Hartwell’s guest bedroom—studying his bruises in the vanity mirror and plotting how to best lose Hartwell once they were at the hell, when there was a rap on his door.

  “Yes?”

  The door opened, and Hartwell stood there, looking as though he’d seen a spectre.

  “Are you well?” Warry asked.

  Hartwell nodded. A small jerk of his head at first and then a more extensive nod. His face was white as the curtains but for two splotches of bright red high on his cheeks. “Yes. I was just doing a bit of reading.”

  “I didn’t know you read.”

  “Why does everyone keep saying that? Of course I read.”

  “What were you reading?”

  “That is none of your concern!” Hartwell said with far more volume than Warry thought the situation called for. The man drew in a deep breath. “I was just going through some books in my father’s library. Which I am organising. And you are organising. We are organising it for Becca. As a surprise.”

  Warry frowned. “For Becca?”

  “Yes.”

  “I have seen your father’s library. She would not like the books in it.”

  “Well, I suppose that’s what makes it such a surprise. Why would we organise it for her if its contents are not at all to her taste? Most unexpected.”

  “You are acting very strangely.”

  “Am I?”

  “I don’t particularly wish to organise your father’s library.”

  Hartwell took a few steps into the room. Warry studied their reflections in the mirror. Hartwell wore a splendid gold brocade waistcoat and a dark-blue velvet coat. His cravat was pinned with a cameo brooch. “Fortunately for you, that is only what I told Becca to keep her from c
oming here to visit you.” He seemed about to come closer, then hesitated.

  “So you…were or were not in your father’s library?”

  “I do not know,” Hartwell said faintly, his expression many miles away.

  It was unlike Hartwell to appear anything but cocksure. If he was not himself, then he had Warry’s sympathy. But this could work to his advantage. “You need not accompany me tonight if you are unwell. I’m certain I shall be fine on my own.”

  “Of course I’m coming! I am fit as a fiddle. In fact, I came in here to bring you this.” He held up a small, pearl-coloured pot. “White paint. This should hide the bruises well enough.” He at last came to stand by Warry. “I could help you put it on.”

  Warry was unsure why he nodded, and equally unsure why Hartwell had offered. Surely Warry could apply paint to his own face? But neither of them commented on the absurdity of the exchange. Rather, Warry turned to Hartwell, who unscrewed the lid of the pot. “My mother’s,” Hartwell explained brusquely as he dipped his finger into the paint. “She refuses to accept that fashions are changing and insists on appearing as pale as Marie Antoinette in public.” He took Warry’s jaw in his other hand, and Warry promptly forgot how to breathe. “Marie Antoinette several days after death, actually.”

  Hartwell dabbed at his forehead. His hands smelled of bergamot, and his touch was sure. When Warry finally did draw a breath, the sound of it was unsteady.

  “Does it hurt?” Hartwell frowned in concern.

  “No,” Warry replied softly.

  “This isn’t doing the job quite so well as I’d hoped.” Hartwell tilted Warry’s chin this way and that, studying his handiwork. Warry tried not to focus on how his stomach fluttered with each movement or how Hartwell’s release of his jaw seemed a tragedy on par with the king’s descent into madness.

  He turned to the mirror and burst out laughing.

  “Oh, come! It isn’t so bad.”

  “Now I look like a ghost who was beaten and robbed.”

  “You mock my efforts, brat!” Hartwell was grinning.

  Warry grew so warm inside it seemed the result of some conjurer’s trick—surely one could not feel so light and alive merely through sharing a jest with a friend. Former friend, Warry reminded himself, though the sour thought could find no foothold amid his mirth.

  He touched the white paint that had turned his spectacularly purple bruises to a pasty grey. He pressed his lips together, but another laugh escaped.

  “Perhaps you need more.” Hartwell dipped his finger again and cupped Warry’s face, this time applying the paint using their reflections in the mirror. On an impulse, Warry turned his head to the side and made as if to bite Hartwell’s finger.

  “Oy!” Hartwell pulled his finger back but kept his other hand on Warry’s cheek. “I’m trying to help.”

  “Let me do you, then we’ll match.” Whatever giddy impulse had got hold of Warry, he was grateful to it when Hartwell barked a loud, clear laugh. He grabbed the pot from Hartwell and rose, dipping his finger into the paint.

  “I have a reputation to uphold,” Hartwell protested, stepping back.

  “And I do not?” Warry stepped forward and smeared a line of paint down Hartwell’s nose, noting that Hartwell made no real effort to escape. He caught Warry’s wrists and pushed him back gently, and they remained like that for a moment.

  Hartwell exhaled softly, his thumbs pressing into Warry’s wrists before his grip loosened—though he did not let go altogether. “You are such a quiet little mouse. Nobody will pay any mind to what you look like.”

  Warry’s mood darkened at the conviction in Hartwell’s tone. Hartwell may have thought to tease, but Warry knew he meant the words. With a sickening jolt, Warry recalled Hartwell’s laughter as he’d mocked Warry at the Gilmore rout. If Warry were a better friend, then perhaps he would have forgiven Hartwell—but if Hartwell were a better friend, then he should have apologised.

  He tugged free of Hartwell’s grip.

  Hartwell wrinkled his nose theatrically, swiping at the paint. Warry’s breath caught. No, perhaps Hartwell was not really a friend to him, but the ache inside Warry was such that he allowed himself to pretend, at least for the moment. He reached out and put another smear of paint across Hartwell’s chiselled face, then laughed and ducked when Hartwell reached out and smacked him lightly, teasingly, on the side of the head.

  “Well,” Hartwell said a moment later as they stared at their twin ghostly faces in the mirror. Warry had painted Hartwell thoroughly, and in return, Hartwell had added another layer over Warry’s bruised skin. “If the idea is not to attract attention, I’d say we’ve certainly destroyed any hope of that.”

  Warry couldn’t help his smile. “Aren’t we handsome, though?”

  “Well, you know, I suppose we are.”

  Their shoulders touched. Warry quite liked them being that close. As a child, he’d often imagined what it would be like to have Hartwell’s full attention, and for a reason other than to be teased or scolded by the older boy. Now, he could feel how sharp the air was between them, crackling with warmth. If this was pretending, then what joys must true friendship hold?

  Hartwell glanced at him. “Our cravats should match as well. It will complete the vision. Let me get you a pin.”

  He squeezed Warry’s shoulder lightly before leaving the room. Warry gave a long sigh. Grinned at his reflection in the glass. So very recently he’d been the sullen, awkward Viscount Warrington, good for nothing but following along behind bolder, handsomer peers. Now here he was, about to enter his first gaming hell and meet the blackmailer who sought to ruin his family. He feared scandal above anything, to be sure, but perhaps with Hartwell by his side, this night would take on an air of adventure. And he would not be quite so frightened when it came time to do the difficult part.

  As promised, the Four-in-Hand was neither ostentatious nor shabby. Its patrons were deeply engrossed in their various card games, and most spared not a glance for Warry and Hartwell and their unnatural pallor.

  Warry hesitated, reminding himself that to enter a gambling establishment was not an immediate stumble on the slippery embankment leading down to hell. As Hartwell had pointed out, people gambled all the time. And if he was here to try to save his sister, then surely that mitigated the circumstance somewhat.

  Hartwell hummed as he gazed around the room. “What shall we play?” he asked, nudging Warry. “What do you fancy? Piquet? Whist? Casino? Faro?”

  Warry was terribly out of his depth. “I don’t know how to play.”

  “Which ones?”

  “All of them,” Warry said, embarrassed. Hartwell took him by the elbow and steered him toward a table.

  “We shall start with faro then.” Hartwell sat and tugged Warry down into the seat next to him.

  Warry’s sense of misery deepened as Hartwell pulled out his purse and exchanged much of the contents for coloured betting discs, all the while making conversation with their fellow gamblers at the table. Their fellows were a mix of men and women, some dressed quite soberly, and others covered from top to toe in frippery and finery. Warry could barely keep from staring at one woman who seemed in danger of her bosom tumbling from the scant bodice of her evening gown every time she moved and wore a turban, trailing ribbons, in a shade of pink that was almost violent. The man seated next to her, in contrast, was dressed in plain, rough clothes, that although they were neatly worn suggested that he was a labourer or costermonger of some sort. Warry could not imagine any other circumstances under which two such very different people would be sharing a table. As the conversation flowed around him, loud and jovial, he heard accents that belonged to all parts of London, from the House of Lords all the way down to the Billingsgate Fish Market.

  Hartwell peered inside his purse, and then shrugged and handed it over to Warry. “Watch for a few turns, then you buy in.”

  “I…” The purse might have weighed a hundred pounds for the way it lay so heavily on Warry’s conscien
ce.

  Hartwell leaned toward him and spoke quietly in his ear. “It’s a gift, Warry, or a loan if you prefer.”

  Warry nodded dumbly, tightening his grip on the purse. “I…I shall do as you say then and watch a little first.”

  He wondered if Wilkes was already there and if perhaps there was enough money in Hartwell’s gift to buy the scoundrel’s silence for a little longer until Warry could make some arrangement to secure the principal elsewhere. Twenty pounds was perhaps no small amount to Hartwell, or to the woman in the startlingly pink turban, but for most people in this room it would be more money than they earned in a year.

  His mind racing, he tried to concentrate on what was happening as the players each placed their tokens on one of the thirteen cards the dealer had laid out. The dealer then turned over two cards from the deck, a winning card and a losing card. Those around the table who had chosen the winning card were paid a token; those that had chosen the losing card gave theirs up to the dealer. That seemed simple enough, but Warry quickly got confused when it came to betting on the high card or betting on the losing card or betting on which order the final cards were dealt. Nobody else seemed at all consternated; conversation around the table continued as cheerily as ever as bets were made and changed rapidly with each new play. If Hartwell had meant to start him out on faro because it was simple, perhaps gambling wasn’t for Warry at all.

  Warry watched the game for as long as it took Hartwell to become interested in the play, and then stood, murmuring, “Excuse me for a moment.”

  Hartwell didn’t even notice as he slipped away into the crowd, and Warry was glad of it, although that didn’t explain the strange pang inside him as he glanced back at the table and saw Hartwell engrossed in the cards.

  Chapter 6

  Hartwell was halfway through his first stack of gambling chips and his second port when he discovered Warry was no longer sitting beside him. The fellow was often as quiet as a churchyard mouse, though he had a few teeth when he was prodded well enough, so Hartwell didn’t feel too guilty. He was concerned, though, as no doubt Warry could get himself up to all sorts of trouble on his first visit to a hell. He regretfully rose from the table and scanned the crowd, hoping to catch a glimpse of Warry’s wheat-gold hair and unnaturally white face. They would have looked a pair of fools in polite society, but nobody in the Four-in-Hand paid them any mind at all. Where else but the Four-in-Hand could a minister rub elbows with a molly and neither of them be offended by the contact?