by Lisa Kleypas
“Let’s stop off at my house first,” Severin suggested, eyeing his scuffed shoes with disfavor, “and my valet can do something to spruce you up.”
“I look well enough for our usual haunts,” West said, staring at the passing scenery as the carriage lurched and rolled through the streets. “If you’re too fastidious for me, let me out at the next corner.”
“No, never mind. But we’re not going to the usual places tonight. We’re going to Jenner’s.”
West jerked at the name and stared at him incredulously. The very last place in London he wanted to go was the gentlemen’s club owned by Phoebe’s father. “The hell you say. Stop the bloody carriage, I’m getting out.”
“What do you care where you do your drinking, so long as someone keeps pouring? Come, Ravenel, I don’t want to go alone.”
“Why do you assume they’ll let you past the front door?”
“That’s just it: I’ve been on the membership waiting list for five years, and last week I was finally allowed in. I thought I was going to have to have someone killed to clear a space, but thankfully some old codger passed away and spared me the trouble.”
“Congratulations,” West said acidly. “But I can’t go in there. I don’t want to risk crossing paths with Kingston. He visits now and then to keep his thumb on the business, and it would be my bloody luck for him to be there tonight.”
Severin’s eyes were bright with interest. “Why do you want to avoid him? What did you do?”
“It’s nothing I’d care to discuss while sober.”
“Onward, then. We’ll find a quiet corner and I’ll purchase the best liquor in the house—it will be worth it for a good story.”
“In light of past experience,” West said sourly, “I know better than to confide anything personal to you.”
“You will anyway. People always tell me things, even knowing they shouldn’t. I’m sure I don’t know why.”
To West’s chagrin, Severin was right. Once they were settled in one of the club rooms at Jenner’s, he found himself telling Severin far more than he’d intended. He blamed the surroundings. These rooms had been designed for comfort, with deep leather, button-back Chesterfield couches and chairs, tables laden with crystal decanters and glasses, crisply ironed newspapers and bronze cigar stands. The low, box-paneled ceilings and the thick Persian carpeting served to muffle noise and encourage private conversation. The main hall and the hazard room were more obviously extravagant, almost theatrical, with enough gold ornamentation to make a baroque church blush. They were places to socialize, gamble, and amuse oneself. In these rooms, however, powerful men conducted business and politics, sometimes altering the course of the Empire in ways the public would never know.
As they talked, West reflected privately that he knew exactly why people confided in Tom Severin, who never muddled an issue with moralizing or judgments, and never tried to change your opinions or talk you out of wanting something. Severin was never shocked by anything. And although he could be frequently disloyal or dishonorable, he was never dishonest.
“I’ll tell you what your problem is,” Severin eventually said. “It’s feelings.”
West paused with a crystal glass of brandy close to his lips. “Do you mean that unlike you, I have them?”
“I have feelings too, but I never let them turn into obstacles. If I were in your situation, for example, I would marry the woman I wanted and not worry about what was best for her. And if the children you raise turn out badly, that’s their business, isn’t it? They’ll decide for themselves whether or not they want to be good. Personally, I’ve always seen more advantage in being bad. Everyone knows the meek won’t really inherit the earth. That’s why I don’t hire meek people.”
“I hope you’re never going to be a father,” West said sincerely.
“Oh, I will,” Severin said. “I have to leave my fortune to someone, after all. I’d rather it be my own offspring—it’s the next best thing to leaving it to myself.”
As Severin spoke, West noticed out of the periphery of his vision that someone walking through the club rooms had paused to stare in his direction. The man approached the table slowly. Setting down his glass, West gave him a cool, appraising glance.
A stranger. Young, well-dressed, pale and visibly sweaty, as if he’d endured some great shock and needed a drink. West would have been tempted to pour him one, if not for the fact that he’d just pulled a small revolver from his pocket and was pointing it in West’s direction. The nose of the short barrel was shaking.
Commotion erupted all around them as patrons became aware of the drawn pistol. Tables and chairs were vacated, and shouts could be heard among the growing uproar.
“You self-serving bastard,” the stranger said unsteadily.
“That could be either of us,” Severin remarked with a slight frown, setting down his drink. “Which one of us do you want to shoot?”
The man didn’t seem to hear the question, his attention focused only on West. “You turned her against me, you lying, manipulative snake.”
“It’s you, apparently,” Severin said to West. “Who is he? Did you sleep with his wife?”
“I don’t know,” West said sullenly, knowing he should be frightened of an unhinged man aiming a pistol at him. But it took too much energy to care. “You forgot to cock the hammer,” he told the man, who immediately pulled it back.
“Don’t encourage him, Ravenel,” Severin said. “We don’t know how good a shot he is. He might hit me by mistake.” He left his chair and began to approach the man, who stood a few feet away. “Who are you?” he asked. When there was no reply, he persisted, “Pardon? Your name, please?”
“Edward Larson,” the young man snapped. “Stay back. If I’m to be hanged for shooting one of you, I’ll have nothing to lose by shooting both of you.”
West stared at him intently. The devil knew how Larson had found him there, but clearly he was in a state. Probably in worse condition than anyone in the club except for West. He was clean-cut, boyishly handsome, and looked like he was probably very nice when he wasn’t half-crazed. There could be no doubt as to what had made him so wretched—he knew his wrongdoings had been exposed, and that he’d lost any hope of a future with Phoebe. Poor bastard.
Picking up his glass, West muttered, “Go on and shoot.”
Severin continued speaking to the distraught man. “My good fellow, no one could blame you for wanting to shoot Ravenel. Even I, his best friend, have been tempted to put an end to him on a multitude of occasions.”
“You’re not my best friend,” West said, after taking a swallow of brandy. “You’re not even my third best friend.”
“However,” Severin continued, his gaze trained on Larson’s gleaming face, “the momentary satisfaction of killing a Ravenel—although considerable—wouldn’t be worth prison and public hanging. It’s far better to let him live and watch him suffer. Look how miserable he is right now. Doesn’t that make you feel better about your own circumstances? I know it does me.”
“Stop talking,” Larson snapped.
As Severin had intended, Larson was distracted long enough for another man to come up behind him unnoticed. In a deft and well-practiced move, the man smoothly hooked an arm around Larson’s neck, grasped his wrist, and pushed the hand with the gun toward the floor.
Even before West had a good look at the newcomer’s face, he recognized the smooth, dry voice with its cut-crystal tones, so elegantly commanding it could have belonged to the devil himself. “Finger off the trigger, Larson. Now.”
It was Sebastian, the Duke of Kingston . . . Phoebe’s father.
West lowered his forehead to the table and rested it there, while his inner demons all hastened to inform him they really would have preferred the bullet.
Chapter 33
West remained seated as night porters, table waiters and club members milled around the table. He felt trapped, and surrounded, and very alone. Severin, who liked nothing better than to be in
a place where interesting things were happening, was having a grand time. He regarded Kingston with a touch of awe, which was understandable. The duke looked thoroughly at home in this legendary place, even a bit godlike, with that inhumanly perfect face and beautifully tailored clothes and that stunning self-possession.
Keeping hold of Larson as if he were a disobedient puppy, Kingston berated him quietly. “After the hours I just spent with you, providing excellent advice, this is the result? You decide to start shooting guests in my club? You, my boy, have been a dismal waste of an evening. Now you’re going to cool your heels in a jail cell, and I’ll decide in the morning what’s to be done with you.” He released Larson to the care of one of the hulking night porters, who ushered him away expediently. Turning to West, the duke surveyed him with a quicksilver glance, and shook his head. “You look as though you’ve been pulled backward through a hedgerow. Have you no standards, coming to my club dressed like that? For the wrinkles in your coat alone, I ought to have you thrown into a cell next to Larson’s.”
“I tried to have him spruced up,” Severin volunteered, “but he wouldn’t.”
“A bit late for sprucing,” Kingston commented, still looking at West. “At this point I would recommend fumigation.” He turned to another night porter. “Escort Mr. Ravenel up to my private apartments, where it seems I’ll be giving counsel to yet another of my daughter’s tormented suitors. This must be a penance for my misspent youth.”
“I don’t want your counsel,” West snapped.
“Then you should have gone to someone else’s club.”
West sent an accusing glare at Severin, who shrugged slightly.
Struggling up from his chair, West growled, “I’m leaving. And if anyone tries to stop me, I’ll knock them flat.”
Kingston seemed rather less than impressed. “Ravenel, I’m sure when you’re sober, well-rested and well-nourished, you can give a good account of yourself. At the moment, however, you are none of those things. I have a dozen night porters working here tonight, all of whom have been trained in how to manage unruly patrons. Go upstairs, my lad. You could do worse than spend a few minutes basking in the sunshine of my accumulated wisdom.” Stepping closer to the porter, the duke gave him a number of quiet instructions, one of them sounding suspiciously like, “Make sure he’s clean before he’s allowed on the furniture.”
West decided to go with the porter, who identified himself as Niall. There wasn’t really a choice, and he couldn’t come up with an alternate plan. He felt slightly weak and foggy, and his head was filled with an on-and-off rushing noise, like the blasts of air that swept a train platform when a train was hurtling past. God, he was tired. He wouldn’t mind listening to a long lecture from the duke, or anyone, as long as he could do it while sitting.
As they all began to leave the club room, Severin appeared somewhat forlorn. “What about me?” he asked. “Is everyone just going to leave me here?”
The duke turned to him, arching a brow. “It would seem so. Is there anything you need?”
Severin pondered the question with a frown. “No,” he finally said, and heaved a sigh. “I have everything in the world.”
West lifted his hand in a gesture of farewell and followed Niall. The porter was dressed in a uniform, some kind of rich matte cloth in a shade of blue so dark it looked black. No gilt or fancy trim, save for a thin, black, braided trim on the lapels of the coat, and on the collar and cuffs of the white shirt. Very discreet and simple, tailored for ease of movement. It looked like a uniform for killing people.
They went through an inconspicuous doorway and up a narrow, dark staircase. Niall opened a door at the top, and they went through some ornately decorated vestibule with a ceiling of painted angels and clouds. Another door opened into a set of beautiful serene rooms, gold and white, with pale blue water-silk paper on the walls, and carpets in soft, subdued colors.
West went to the nearest chair and sat heavily. The upholstery was soft and velvety. It was so quiet up here—how could it be this quiet with the clamor of nighttime London just outside the window, and a damned club downstairs?
Wordlessly Niall brought him a glass of water, which West didn’t want at first. After he took a sip, however, a voracious thirst overcame him, and he gulped it down without stopping. Niall took the glass, went to refill it, and came back with a small powder packet. “Bicarbonate compound, sir?”
“Why not?” West muttered. He unfolded the packet, tilted his head back to dump the powder on the back of his tongue, and washed it down.
As he lifted his head, he saw a painting on the wall, in a carved and gilded frame. It was a luminous portrait of the Duchess with her children when they were still young. The group was arranged on the settee, with Ivo, still an infant, on his mother’s lap. Gabriel, Raphael and Seraphina were seated on either side of her, while Phoebe leaned over the back of the settee. Her face was close to her mother’s, her expression tender and slightly mischievous, as if she were about to tell her a secret or make her laugh. He had seen that look on her face, with her own children. And with him.
The longer West stared at the painting, the worse he felt inside, inner demons jabbing at his heart with spears. He wanted to leave, yet he was no more capable of exiting that chair than if he’d been chained to it.
The duke’s lean form came to the doorway, and he regarded West speculatively.
“Why was Larson here?” West asked hoarsely. “How is Phoebe?”
That caused Kingston’s face to soften with something that resembled sympathy. “My daughter is well. Larson took it upon himself to come here in a panic and try to enlist my support in persuading Phoebe to marry him. He tried to present his situation in the best possible light, presuming I would be willing to overlook his relationship with Miss Parris because of my own profligate past. Needless to say, he was disappointed by my reaction.”
“You’ll be able to help Phoebe remove him as trustee?”
“Oh, without question. Breach of fiduciary duty by a trustee is a serious offense. I’ve never liked Larson’s involvement in Phoebe’s personal life or financial affairs, but I’ve held back to avoid accusations of meddling. Now that there’s an opportunity, I’ll meddle as much as possible before I’m put back on the leash.”
West’s haunted gaze returned to Phoebe’s figure in the portrait. “I don’t deserve her,” he mumbled, without intending to.
“Of course you don’t. Neither do I deserve my wife. It’s an unfair fact of life that the worst men end up with the best women.” Taking in the sight of West’s drawn face and slouched figure, the duke seemed to come to a decision. “Nothing I say to you is going to sink in tonight. I won’t send you out in this condition—there’s no telling what trouble you’d find yourself in. You’ll stay the night in this guest room, and we’ll talk in the morning.”
“No. I’m going back to my own apartment.”
“Splendid. What, may I ask, is waiting for you there?”
“My clothes. A bottle of brandy. Half a jar of pickled carrots.”
Kingston smiled. “I’d say you’re sufficiently pickled already. Stay the night, Ravenel. I’ll send Niall and my valet to draw a bath and set out some amenities for you—including a large quantity of soap.”
West awakened the next day with only blurry recollections of the night before. He lifted his head from a soft goose down pillow and blinked at his luxurious surroundings in bewilderment. He was in a plush, remarkably comfortable bed with soft white linen sheets and fluffy blankets topped by a silk counterpane. Dimly he recalled the bath last night and staggering to bed with the help of Niall and the elderly valet.
After a good long stretch, he sat up and looked around the room for his clothes. All he could find was a gentleman’s robe, draped over a nearby chair. He felt more rested than he had in a week, which was not to say that he felt well, or anything close to happy. But everything didn’t look quite so gray. He put on the robe and went to ring the service bell, and the valet a
ppeared with startling promptness.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Ravenel.”
“Afternoon?”
“Yes, sir. It’s three o’clock.”
West was astounded. “I slept until three o’clock in the afternoon?”
“You were somewhat the worse for wear, sir.”
“Apparently so.” Rubbing his face with both hands, West asked, “Would you bring my clothes? And coffee?”
“Yes, sir. May I also bring hot water and shaving supplies?”
“No, I don’t have time for a shave. I have to go to . . . a place. To do things. Quite soon.”
To West’s dismay, Kingston came to the doorway just in time to overhear that last part. “Trying to dash off?” he asked pleasantly. “I’m afraid that jar of pickled carrots will have to wait, Ravenel. I intend to have a chat with you.” He glanced at the elderly valet. “Bring the shaving supplies, Culpepper, and see to it that Mr. Ravenel has a hot meal. Send for me when he’s fed and presentable.”
For the next hour and a half, West submitted to a barrage of scrubbing, filing, trimming and clipping. On top of that, he was in enough of a fatalistic and dismal mood to actually let Culpepper shave him. Fine, let the old cheeser slit his throat, he didn’t give a damn. It wasn’t a pleasant process—his stomach was clenched, and he was twitchy with nerves the entire time. But the knotty, loose-skinned hands were amazingly steady, the strokes of the razor light and skillful. By the time Culpepper had finished, the shave was even closer than the one Phoebe had given him. Although in a contest between the two, the view down Phoebe’s chemise still put her far ahead.
His clothes had been miraculously washed, dried and pressed, and his shoes cleaned and shined. After dressing, West sat down at a small table in an adjoining room, where he was served coffee with heavy cream and a plate of coddled eggs and a thin, tender undercut of beef sirloin that had been fried on a gridiron and dressed with salt and chopped parsley. At first the very idea of chewing and swallowing revolted him. But he took a bite, and another, and then his digestive system began to hum in gratitude, and he consumed it all with indecent haste.
