“Right,” said Drake, the gravel beneath his feet shifting and crunching to the cadence of his footsteps. “Don’t fall asleep, boys. I won’t be long. Long enough to take care of business, nothing more.”
She listened to the receding steps.
Not long after did a low voice say to her, “Are you well, Your Grace?” James the coachman stood next to her.
Charlotte looked up into the anxious face of her servant and nodded. The coachman must already know her to be mad. Why else would a new wife demand this of her staff? Hopefully, the beds in Bedlam were comfortable.
Looking towards the front door of the house, she wondered what Drake had meant by taking care of business. She couldn’t quite wrap her mind around his words. And was his mistress really hosting a party this evening? That could complicate the plan. She had anticipated the two of them being intimate with each other, but would they be so bold at a party? And why wouldn’t he be long if it were a party, especially knowing how much Drake loved an evening of social frivolity?
A quick feel of her hat and hair assured her all was safely tucked beneath the cap. And now, to wait. She wanted to allow ample time for Drake to become flirtatious with his mistress. If she could catch them kissing, that would be enough to brand his guilt.
While she waited, she surveyed the house, trying to form a plan. There would be a servant’s entrance, but would that grant her access or increase her chances of getting caught? The butler would be guarding the front, so perhaps if she snuck in through a back door, she could avoid detection. From there, she could follow the sound of Drake’s voice and wait for her moment to surprise them in an amorous embrace.
After what must have been only half an hour but felt like five, she dashed a nervous nod to the coachman and set off on a gravel path that wound around the house to a terrace. Light and sound flooded the patio. She didn’t yet dare step around the corner to see the room from which came said light and sound. Straining, she heard laughter and conversation, but couldn’t distinguish Drake’s voice. In fact, the tones sounded predominantly female.
Pressing her back against the cold stone of the house, she tried to calm her beating heart. The one element to give her pause was if she could stomach seeing him with another woman.
Tears welled but didn’t fall. A few swift blinks cleared them away. She had fallen for him in London, or rather, the idea of him. He had been magnificent. Could she live with the vision of him in the arms of another woman?
She must. She must see it for herself as a reminder never to love him, never to trust him.
With renewed confidence, she walked forward. Columns lined the terrace, supporting a balcony above. If she could dash unseen behind one of the columns, she would have a prime view of the room.
With a deep breath, she sprinted through the darkness for the first column. While the terrace was illuminated from the candles in the room, she doubted anyone inside could see outside. When she reached the column, she threw herself against it, hiding from view.
She waited, breathless. Her hands trembled at her sides, chills running down her spine. No alarms or exclamations sounded from inside, only the laughter and conversation she heard before. It would seem she had succeeded in her stealth. Turning cautiously, she pressed her cheek against the column, willing herself to be flat and still. More waiting. More laughter and conversation.
The party would, indeed, be an inconvenience. With other people milling about, how would she ever get inside to find him? To make matters worse, she had yet to hear his voice.
Slowly, she inched forward to catch a glimpse of the room.
To her delight, the column’s position presented an advantageous view, as she could see the entire room. No corner hid from her observation. Double doors were flung wide, offering the guests an August breeze, and, quite conveniently, allowing Charlotte an easy entrance when she discerned the opportune moment.
The room was a smallish parlor, two doors leading from the room to inside the house. She would need to sneak into the parlor when the guests were distracted and go through one of those two doors to search for Drake. But which door? Could he already be in a room somewhere with his mistress? Was she missing her opportunity?
Surveying the crowd, she was immediately alarmed.
Her stomach somersaulted. What was this place? Who were these people?
Her eyes roved over the guests with morbid fascination. This was not the kind of party she’d ever attended or knew existed. The scene was decadent. Lining the wall were tables with food, dessert sculptures, and more glasses of wine than she’d ever seen. Every inch of the room crawled with couples and groups, many in rather intimate embraces.
Even more curious, the guests were mostly older women with a handful of surprisingly young men. If she hazarded a guess, she would say the women were of a similar age to her mother-in-law and the men were her age or thereabouts, some considerably younger.
With a few exceptions, each young man was fawned over and fed by a group of women. One chap, leaning against a far wall, took turns kissing several women. No matter how long she watched the madness, she couldn’t make sense of it.
Where was Drake, and why would he come to a place like this? Had she married a salacious lecher? At this moment, she preferred thinking of him only as an adulterer. Having a mistress didn’t seem quite so bad compared to this, whatever this was.
He wasn’t the age of either the women or the boys, but from her perspective, he would be closer to the age of the women. Was he here to be seduced, or was he a seducer? Charlotte felt a twisting sickness as she aligned Drake, by age alone, in league with the women, though unsure if he was a procurer of the young men for the women’s pleasure, or if he was a seducer of the young men alongside the women.
She squeezed her eyes shut when she spotted a group undressing each other on the settee. She needed to get out of here. Fast. Whatever kind of party this was, she wanted no part of it. She had seen enough to realize her husband was far worse than Charlotte ever imagined.
When she braved opening her eyes, it was to witness three women relieving a young man of his clothing. Her jaw went slack.
Charlotte had never seen a man shirtless before, yet there stood a shirtless man, nigh thirty feet from her. He was slender with a smooth and flat chest. Dismayed, she stared, curious, disgusted, panicked. If any more clothing came off, she might faint.
Dread pumped through her veins. She needed to make another mad dash back around the path and to the front of the house before she was seen. This was a disaster.
Then she heard Drake.
Tearing her eyes from the perversion, she scanned the room again, trying to pinpoint the location of his voice. He was shouting. She couldn’t make out the words, but she heard his angry intonation, gruff words barking. It was an unusual sound to associate with Drake, as she’d never heard him angry or shouting, not even when she’d confronted him. He’d spoken loudly a few times, but never a bellowing, angry shout.
Leaning closer to the room, she strained to hear his words. The most difficult part was averting her eyes as the women availed the boy of his shoes and stockings. The horror of what would go next physically shook her. Everything about the scene made her ill.
One of the two doors opened, then, and Drake stepped out. Charlotte gasped and gripped the column tighter. He took one step into the parlor, his face still turned into the room from which he came.
“I tell you, I’ve had enough,” he said to an unseen figure inside the room, then as if realizing he was standing half in the parlor for all to hear, he hastily stepped back through the doorway, shutting the door behind him.
Though she’d been desperate to discover his whereabouts, she no longer cared. All she wanted was to return home.
Not until a woman with fiery hair stared directly at Charlotte did she realize she had stepped past the darkness of the column. A woman standing next to
the redhead followed her companion’s gaze, eyes alighting on Charlotte. Before she knew what was happening, half of the inhabitants of the parlor stared out at her.
The scene in Maggie’s parlor gnawed at Drake’s memories, a rabid dog tearing at the fabric of his youth.
He remembered his first rout and his first meeting of the marchioness with a mixture of pain and pleasure, a turning point in his life filled with simultaneous heartache and satisfaction.
He had been fifteen, heir apparent, and on break from Eton. His father had arranged a soirée to showcase one of Drake’s compositions, a point of great contention with his mother who didn’t want anyone outside the family knowing of his musical inclination.
Margaret Collins, the Marchioness of Waller, not yet a widow and the much younger wife to his father’s closest friend, had attended, applauded, and approached him, promising to patronize his music if he would come to her home the following evening for a private performance and to discuss his plans for the future. He remembered clearly the elation, the sense of accomplishment, even the pride of triumph over his mother’s doubts.
The following day, he went to the marchioness. Under one arm was a portfolio of music, in one hand, his violin, and on his sleeve, an eagerness to share his talent with the world. He went under the pretense of being recognized as a composer and musician. A false pretense.
Drake arrived to a scene similar to this evening, different young men, but the same women, albeit twenty years younger at the time. The innocent eyes of a fifteen-year-old boy recognized the party artistically rather than sensually. One young man, a few years older than himself, had been playing a harpsichord, and Drake had erroneously assumed the boy would be accompanying the violin performance. Another boy recited poetry to a group of women. All about the room he’d seen artists, people who would understand him.
All seemed promising when he set his music and violin on the harpsichord lid, flashing a smile at the pianist. Maggie introduced him to everyone one by one, including Teresa, an opera singer who had smoked her way out of stardom, her voice chalky rather than husky.
Not until an hour later, after his first sniff of snuff, his first smoke of a cheroot, an entire bottle of wine, and his first, second, and third kiss, did he realize none of the people in the room were interested in his music. They were, however, all interested in him. Sycophants. Seductresses. Ravishers. The scene was nothing more than a decadent feast of lust, he and the other male guests the main course.
Never in his life had he experienced anything like it, but he knew he wanted more. He’d never known affection of any kind, yet that evening, for the first time, he knew love, lust, and beauty. He knew the feel of exploring tongues and hands. He knew the exhilaration of feeling wanted. His music forgotten, the promises of patrons ignored, he explored passion and relished in undivided attention.
In that moment, he’d fallen in love with all of Maggie’s promises. The evening had been his first everything, as well as the last time he composed music for well over a decade. He had wasted his youth in the arms of a manipulative seductress.
Not that he hadn’t used her in return, securing a reputation as a virile lover to combat his mother’s accusations and the fear society would see him the same. His use of her could never equal what she’d done to him, for he’d walked down that path believing it to be a love affair. He had thought himself in love with her and her with him, such was the perception of youth and innocence.
Hindsight gave him the advantage of seeing she had destroyed many aspects of his life and never returned his affections. Like a lovelorn youth, he had welcomed that destruction, valuing her as a bedmate more than he valued his own dreams and ambitions. He cared more for what others thought of him and how she made him feel than he did about himself.
How could he not have become addicted to her? Not once had she accused him of being a molly for playing women’s instruments. Not once had she called him uncouth for wanting to compose. Not once had she said he was too much like his father. No, she welcomed him with arms wide, with loving caresses, and with compliments. He was hooked from the first kiss.
Tonight was a bitter way to come to terms with his life. Even after they’d split, he’d still seen himself as the same young man she’d seduced, as a young buck sated by the diversions the routs offered. While he no longer wanted her sexually, he still remembered their times together with fondness. Having the actual scene flung in his face changed everything.
The moment he stepped into the parlor, he realized he no longer identified as one of the boys. He identified as a middle-aged peer witnessing lewdness. The truth was he’d not only allowed her to manipulate him, but perpetuated her search for new lovers by carrying on the narrative of the faux affair. How many other young men’s lives had he ruined by being party to this madness?
Tonight, he hated himself just a bit.
He should have known what he would find when he arrived. Though she promised it would be an innocent farewell party as a public end to their imaginary affair, he had known better. She would do whatever it took and hurt whoever she needed to hurt to see her own plans to fruition, namely finding new playmates. He was but a pawn to her, a way to attract more young men who were curious of the duke’s long-time mistress.
To say he looked into the room with revulsion was an understatement.
Nothing prepared him for the amalgamation of feelings, the assault of memories. He hadn’t attended one of her parties since his early twenties, and he regretted falling for her trickery tonight. He regretted it with every fiber of his being.
As willing as the young guests would find themselves, he knew it for what it was, ravishment. What dreams did these boys hold that the women would rip from their chests in exchange for pleasure?
Full of disgust, he stood in Maggie’s library off of the parlor. The hostess sat on the edge of a chair, smoking a cheroot, as usual. Every cackle from the next room aroused his pity, evoked a sharp shudder, and riled his anger.
“I shouldn’t have come,” he admitted. “Stroud’s son isn’t even here to reap the rewards of your puppet show.”
“You never complained about my parties before.” She arched a thin black eyebrow, wrapped her rouged mouth around the end of the cigar, and inhaled a cloud before continuing. “Did you expect me to change?”
With a sweep of his hand through his hair, he stared at her, at a loss for words.
Hypocritical to criticize her when he served the role of avid participant for years. His disgust turned inward, revulsion at his own behavior.
“I know I said I would stay an hour, but let’s call a spade a spade and end the charade,” he suggested after a stretch of silence. “She’s not even speaking to me, you know. Thinks I’m unfaithful.” He laughed ruefully. “I’m going home, Maggie. This will be the last time you ever see me.”
After two puffs of the cheroot, she replied, thick smoke exhaling with each word. “You drive an hour to attend my party to stay only half an hour? I’m disappointed.” Maggie’s gray eyes studied his before she shrugged and said, “Go. There is nothing for you here. After all your shouting, there will be no doubt you’ve quit your mistress. This will make replacing you easy.”
She wouldn’t circle back this time, and he wouldn’t be so foolish to accept her if she did. Drake felt a weight lifted from his shoulders. He was finally free.
The tinkle of glass and throaty laughs welcomed him when he stepped out of her library. The women were cajoling their guests, nothing untoward happening yet, but he most decidedly wanted to leave the party before it became any more heated.
He stopped in his tracks. The scene before him curdled his blood. What the devil was his servant doing in Maggie’s parlor?
Standing in a circle of women stood his tiger, the young Philip, head hung low, both hands gripping his cap. The women around the boy crooned. It was any wonder they hadn’t undressed the lad yet.
Had Drake been a decade younger, he would have stepped back into the library to give the tiger more time to put hair on his chest. Now, Drake was furious the servant had come inside, disgusted the women were trying to seduce his groom, and dismayed he’d have to come to the rescue.
Drake stepped forward.
“Pardon me, ladies, but I need my groom. It’s time we returned home.”
They placed protective hands on the boy’s arms and groaned, all pleading with Drake to give them another hour.
“He’s the sweetest and shyest of young men, Drake! Let him stay and play,” said Teresa who stood behind Philip, blocking the boy’s escape.
Philip pulled the corners of his cap down and tucked his chin into his livery.
“Philip. Come. We’re leaving,” Drake commanded.
Drake headed for the hallway door, only stopping when he realized the servant hadn’t followed. Was the boy going to put up a fuss? If the boy wanted to stay, he could consider that his resignation. Normally, and especially given his foul mood, Drake would have kept walking, leaving the boy behind, but after his revelations this evening, he thought better of it. If he weren’t mistaken, and the boy’s body language confirmed his suspicions, Philip didn’t want their affections.
Drake turned back to the room, casting his most menacing ducal glare at the women.
“Now, Philip.” he said.
The women backed away, releasing the stable-boy from their talons. They all stood and waited. No one moved.
“Philip. If I have to drag you out of here, I promise you will not receive a reference after your dismissal.” He growled, his temper rising at the disobedience.
Philip shook his head, his gaze trained on the floor. To Drake’s annoyance, the boy stepped backward, bumping into Teresa. Drake didn’t know the groom since he was a recent hire, but he never expected insubordination.
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