Henry looked up at that and snorted. “Aside from the one obvious difference, yes.”
Reid’s mouth quirked. “And what was the arrangement you fixed upon?”
“I purchased the house for him—furnished, of course—and staffed it, and he received a monthly stipend besides. When we parted ways, there was to be a severance payment and the house was to be made over to him.”
“And part ways you did.”
Henry nodded. “Before the end of our contract. Caroline had fallen ill by then. She wanted me to give up Christopher and take her back to Wiltshire so we could spend her last months together. I couldn’t refuse her.”
Reid’s gaze was sympathetic. “And how did your Christopher react?”
Shame drenched Henry. “In all honesty, I don’t know. It was all very sudden. Caroline insisted we leave town immediately and I’d made her a promise…” He trailed off, his gut twisting unpleasantly. “In short, I wrote Christopher a letter giving him the news and gave it to Parkinson to deliver in person, along with instructions to have the house made over and the money paid.”
“Ah,” Reid said, heavily. “And now you have discovered that Parkinson didn’t carry out your instructions.”
Henry closed his eyes. “It would seem not. Well, at least not in relation to the house. I’m hoping he at least honoured the severance payment.”
And delivered the letter.
“How much was that payment to be?”
Henry raised his head and met Reid’s curious gaze. “Three hundred pounds.”
Reid’s eyes widened and he whistled, low. “And the house? You did lose your head.”
I lost my heart, Henry thought.
But he didn’t say that aloud.
Reid looked thoughtful. “It seems to me more likely than not that the severance payment was made. If you’d broken the agreement entirely, surely Christopher or the madam would have kicked up a stink?”
“That’s what I thought,” Henry said. “After I went to Wiltshire I heard nothing more from Christopher. Not a thing. But then, why not make a stink about the house? That was part of the agreement too.”
Reid frowned. “Without knowing what Parkinson said to this Christopher, I don’t think you can make any assumptions. Perhaps Parkinson offered him more money instead? Have you asked Christopher?”
Henry shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “He has refused to meet with me. I only learned he had not received the house through a chance meeting with a mutual acquaintance. Otherwise I would never have known.”
“So, what will you do now?”
“Try to find Christopher for myself,” Henry said. “I was hoping you might assist me with that.”
“Of course.” Reid nodded. “What’s his full name? I can make enquiries.”
“Christopher Redford.”
“Redford?” Reid’s gaze was sharp, almost disbelieving. “Not Kit Redford?”
Slowly, Henry said, “Do you know him?”
“Not well, but I know of him,” Reid replied. “Your Christopher is the owner of an exclusive club for gentlemen of our persuasion. Redford’s on Palfrey Terrace.”
Henry gawked at him.
Reid said, almost apologetically, “I’m a member myself.”
“Does he live there? At Palfrey Terrace?” Henry asked.
“I’m not sure, but that’s something I can soon find out. Let me look into it and I’ll send a note over in the morning.” He paused, then added quietly, “If you’re sure that’s what you want.”
“I’m sure,” Henry said quickly.
Reid’s gaze was sympathetic. “It’s worth giving some thought to,” he said gently. “These events took place a very long time ago, and in all the years that have followed, no trouble has come your way. Is it prudent to stir this up now?”
“You think I should let sleeping dogs lie?”
Reid’s gaze was steady. “It’s worth considering. Redford probably won’t be how you remember him. Only think how much you have changed in the last two decades. I know I’m a different man from who I was twenty years ago.”
It occurred to Henry then, for the first time, that he may not like the new Christopher—and that the new Christopher may not like him. That they might find each other sadly lacking in comparison to the memories they had of the young men they had once been.
Memories were such crude and unreliable things.
Henry shook his head. That didn’t matter. This wasn’t about satisfying his curiosity about Christopher—thought he was, of course, curious. It was about righting a wrong that he was responsible for. He wouldn’t shirk from that. If he had breached his agreement with Christopher—even inadvertently—it was up to him to make good the deficit.
He met Reid’s eyes and said quietly, “I’m quite sure.”
Soon after that, Reid took his leave, promising to return with Christopher’s direction as soon as possible.
Henry spent the rest of evening brooding over his memories of Christopher, and trying to envisage what he would be like now.
Ever since his last interview with Jean-Jacques, he’d been tormented by the thought of Christopher being thrown out of the little house in Paddington Green. They had been so happy there, in the limited time they had spent together.
Well, Henry had been happy.
Perhaps that was all it had ever been. Perhaps Christopher had only ever been performing his duties. Tolerating the attentions of the man who put a roof over his head, paid his bills, and put money in his pocket.
It was a depressing thought, but it was one that Henry could not shake as he stared into the fire and made his way through more of the brandy bottle than was wise.
9
Kit
On Friday afternoon, Kit was writing a letter in his private sitting room, when Tom burst into the room, his eyes wide.
“Kit, you’ll never guess who’s here!” he gasped.
Kit looked up from his writing slope. “Tom,” he said wearily. “Footmen do not enter rooms without knocking. Nor do they—”
He got no further as Tom blurted out, “There’s only a bleeding duke here to see you!”
Kit’s mouth dropped open. Not Henry? Not here?
“Sorry,” Tom said hurriedly, straightening himself up. In a more dignified tone, he added, “His grace, the Duke of Avesbury is here to see you, sir.”
For several long moments, Kit could only stare at Tom, his heart racing, and when his voice came out it was shaky. “I beg your pardon?”
“His grace, the duke—”
“Sorry, no, I heard you—I’m just—just rather shocked.” Kit forced himself to take a deep breath, hating the audible shudder in his exhalation that Tom could not fail to notice.
“Did you show him into the drawing room?” he asked.
“Yes, and I asked if he’d like some tea, but he said no.” Tom paused and bit his lip. “Is that all right? Did I do the wrong thing? He swore he knew you. If he’s a fake, I’ll chuck him out, you just say the word.” Tom didn’t look quite as confident as his words suggested. Tom was a big fellow but Henry was bigger… wasn't he?
Kit frowned. It had been so long, he wasn’t sure how reliable his memories were.
“Kit?” Tom said uncertainly. “Do you—do you want me to ask this cove to leave?”
“No, no,” he said. “I’ll see him.” He offered Tom a reassuring smile. “It’s fine. I know Avesbury—or at least I did, a long time ago. I’m just surprised he came here, that’s all.”
Tom’s expression was pure relief.
“Tell him I’ll be along in just a few minutes, once I’m properly attired.” Kit was wearing a pale-yellow silk banyan, embroidered with tiny blue flowers, and he would not be receiving Henry in it, thank you very much. If the man was prepared to call on him after eighteen years without so much as sending a note, he could kick his heels for a few minutes while Kit made himself halfway presentable.
Tom nodded and left to deliver the message.
K
it shook his head, remembering how eager he used to be to see Henry. Back then, he’d have run down the stairs in naught but his drawers to have a few more moments with the man.
He shook his head at his own past foolishness. God, he’d thought himself so desperately in love.
Realising his heart was racing, Kit took a deep breath and forced himself to calmly put away his writing slope, before making his way back to his bedchamber to dress.
He selected a cream-and-maroon striped waistcoat and a beautifully tailored coat, tying his neckcloth with great care. He put a little pomade in his hair, used a little of his favourite cologne—a blend of bergamot, orange blossom, and rosemary—and pushed a large topaz and gold ring on his right index finger
He examined himself in the looking glass.
His stomach was in knots, his palms damp.
God damn but he was as nervous as a kitten and he hated that. He didn’t want to be nervous. He wanted to be cool and in control. Reserved and unaffected.
He said aloud, “Henry. To what do I owe this pleasure.”
He groaned. His voice was thin and tense, and “Henry”? “Pleasure”? No!
He took a deep breath, then another.
“Your grace. How may I help you?”
Christ, no.
“Your grace. This is unexpected.”
Yes.
He took another breath, in and out, and said it again, his voice a little deeper this time.
“Your grace. Well, this is unexpected.”
No, he sounded arch now. He went back to first version.
“Your grace. This is unexpected.”
Now he sounded defensive.
“Your grace—” He broke off, groaning.
Perhaps he should have told Tom to send Henry away.
Henry.
“Henry,” he said. “This is unexpected.”
The lump in his throat was unexpected.
He used to think that “Henry” was the dearest name in all the world. The most perfect two syllables created.
Strange, how one’s reaction to a mere word could change so fundamentally.
He turned away from the looking glass and strode to the door, trying to take big, even breaths, to consciously manage his own racing nerves.
When he got to the bottom of the stairs, he saw Tom. “Come on,” he said. "You can announce me. It’ll be good practice.”
Tom grinned and straightened his coat. “Right-o!” he said, and started down the corridor at a clip, Kit following in his wake.
Kit’s heart thundered his chest as he followed Tom, an odd mix of nerves and long-suppressed, slowly-building anger filling him. And something else too, mortifyingly. A touch of the old excitement he used to feel, on the nights he knew Henry was coming. He was honest enough to admit that, and had enough pride to hate himself for it.
When Tom reached the drawing room, he opened the door with sweeping formality, as if Kit was the duke in this tableau.
Just before he stepped inside, Kit wondered what Henry would make of this grand entrance. Perhaps he’d think Kit was putting on airs? That he’d got above himself over these last eighteen years?
Well, what if he did think that?
Fuck him.
Fuck Henry Asquith, Duke of Avesbury.
Kit lifted his chin and stepped inside.
10
Henry
Henry stood at the window of Christopher’s drawing room, looking down at the street below. The street where Christopher now lived. This was a quiet corner of London. Not fashionable but reasonably well-to-do, and the house was much larger than the one he’d bought for Christopher in Paddington Green.
He hadn’t been sure if Christopher, would agree to see him. The footman who greeted him had been wide-eyed from the moment Henry gave his name. He’d respectfully—and rather too trustingly, in Henry’s opinion—shown him into what looked to be the best room of the house, before offering to have tea sent up without even checking with his master.
When the same footman had opened the door again less than ten minutes later, Henry had half-expected to be asked to leave, but the man had merely said that Mr. Redford would be down in a few minutes, if he would care to wait.
And that was what Henry was now doing. Waiting nervously. Staring unseeingly out of the window at the street below as his mind whirred with thoughts.
When the drawing room door finally opened again, he spun on his heel.
The footman was holding open the door, and the man who was stepping forward, into the room, was, quite possibly the most elegantly dressed man Henry had ever seen. His clothes were beautifully tailored, his hair perfectly coiffed. His face—
It was the same face.
“Christopher—” The name escaped him on a shaky breath.
Christopher Redford was just as he had been nearly twenty years ago—and he was so very different.
For several long moments, they stared at one another. Henry couldn’t have moved or spoken to save his life. His gaze moved over Christopher hungrily, absorbing every fascinating detail. His hair was a more seasoned, darker gold than before, but otherwise he wasn't much changed. Still slim, still fine-featured, unmistakably the same man, only older.
The same; and different.
He was still beautiful, Henry thought, but there was a slight reserve—a coolness even— in the green eyes. And there were lines of character etched in his face that hadn’t been there before. Henry found he wanted to study him, to step close and explore all the minute changes time had wrought.
Perhaps he would have done so, if Christopher hadn’t given a wintry smile, inclined his head almost mockingly, and said with devastating and chilly politeness, “Well. This is rather unexpected, I must say.”
Henry’s heart plummeted.
In that instant, he saw that Christopher was miles distant, holding himself back behind a politely inquiring mask. Beneath the mask, Henry detected traces of wariness and anger. He saw it in the tension in Christopher’s jaw. In the slight glitter in his eyes.
“I’m afraid Kit sees no point in meeting with you. So many years, you know.”
Henry swallowed, hard. “Christopher, I—”
“Please,” Christopher interrupted, his smile a little savage. “My friends call me Kit.” He threw the name at Henry like a dart, the ‘t’ very precise and sharp. “Though you may address me as Mr. Redford.”
Henry blinked at him. Although it had been plain from his conversations with Jean-Jacques that Christopher did not remember him fondly, the sheer hostility the man was giving off shocked Henry. The last time he had seen Christopher, they had been lovers.
And now this.
Evidently, Henry was not considered a friend. In fact, by the look on Christopher’s face, he was very much the enemy.
Henry cleared his throat. “Thank you for agreeing to speak with me,” he tried again, moving forward a step. Christopher immediately stepped back, keeping the distance between them the same as before.
Henry stilled. He tried again. “I recently met Jean-Jacques—I believe he mentioned to you that he’d seen me?”
“He said he saw you in Mercier’s, with your wife,” Christopher said tightly. His lips twisted into a mockery of a smile. “I understand congratulations are in order. Again.”
Henry gave an uncomfortable laugh. “Oh, no, not at all. Unless you mean to congratulate me on my first grandchild. The lady I was with was not my wife, you see. Marianne is my daughter.”
Christopher’s eyes widened at that, and his cheeks flushed pink. “Oh,” he said, seeming entirely discombobulated. After a moment he added, a little shakily, “Well, it seems I’m even older than I thought.”
Henry let out an undignified snort of laughter at that, making Christopher glance at him in surprise, then rub his left ear in an uncomfortable gesture that was somehow endearing.
Henry said lightly, “You are not the one who is about to be a grandfather. Imagine how I feel.”
Christopher stared
at Henry for long moments, his gaze unwavering. At last, he sighed and said, wearily, “Why are you here, Henry? Really, I mean.”
“Didn’t Jean-Jacques tell you?”
Christopher shrugged one slim shoulder. “He said you felt bad about the events of the past—I can’t imagine why you should suddenly feel that way after all this time. It was a thousand years ago. We are past all that now, don’t you think? And it’s not as though we move in the same social circles.” He gave a derisive laugh. “Unless you’re angling for a membership to my club. Is that it?”
Henry flushed. Was that what Christopher thought of him? That he’d presume on their past friendship to gain entry to his club?
“I’m not angling for anything,” he said. “I came because I have just learned that you may not have received what you were entitled to when our arrangement came to an end, all those years ago.”
Christopher’s unimpressed gaze did not alter.
Henry stepped forward, meeting Christopher's sceptical look with an open one of his own, one that let all his regret show. “I swear to you, it was only a few days ago that I first learned anything of it—I still don’t know the whole story. I was horrified to learn that you were led to believe I broke our agreement.”
Christopher bristled at that. “You did break it.”
Henry flinched at the man’s sharp tone. Then he nodded. “Yes. Unintentionally, I did. I entrusted my man of business to carry out certain instructions, and I have only now, in the last few days, learned that he did not do so. Instead of conveying the house to you as he was supposed to, he let the property to a tenant I knew nothing about and diverted the rent payments to himself. My solicitor is looking into the matter now.”
Christopher gave him a disbelieving look. “Really, Henry? That is your story? Were you really so careless with your personal affairs?”
The pang of hurt that comment caused was profound. The last time he’d seen Christopher, the man had looked at him with frank adoration—as though he’d hung the moon in the sky. Now Henry had fallen so far in his estimation that Christopher all but called him liar to his face.
Restored (Enlightenment Book 5) Page 9
