“Whilst I would like to think that’s true,” Henry said, “your choice of companions lately rather suggests otherwise.”
Freddy opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again, but his expression told Henry everything he needed to know about his state of mind—there was resentment in his gaze, and his jaw had a stubborn thrust to it.
“I’m going to change for dinner,” he said flatly, and left the room, shutting the door sharply behind him.
For a few moments, the rest of them were silent, then Henry sighed. “Well, that went well.”
“It’s not your fault, Papa. He’s so bad-tempered these days,” Marianne said.
“Hmmm,” Henry replied, not quite agreeing. Freddy had always had a bit of a temper, even as a little boy, but it stemmed from that boundless energy of his. With direction, he would be a formidable young man. His actions today—rushing to the rescue of that young woman without hesitation—demonstrated as much. But without direction or purpose, he had a tendency to become easily bored.
Marianne said, “I don’t think he’s going to take your advice, Papa.”
Henry agreed. And though it would prevent him getting to Redford’s promptly, he knew what he had to do.
“Well, I think I’ll call in at this gaming club he’s going to,” Henry said. “And see for myself what he chooses to do. Besides,” he added. “I’d like to get a look at this new friend of his. Percy Bartlett.”
By ten that evening, Henry was near grinding his teeth in frustration.
He’d told Christopher—Kit—that he would arrive at Redford’s at some point after nine o’clock, but now he had to stop by Sharp’s first. Freddy had only left half an hour ago, and Henry had decided to wait a full hour before venturing to Sharp’s for himself. No point arriving before Freddy had so much as sat down.
The delay was giving him far too much time to brood over what might happen—or what might not happen.—at Redford’s.
He tried to read a book to pass the time, but could not concentrate, and found himself staring endlessly at the same page.
Getting to his feet, he paced the room, finally halting in front of the looking-glass above the mantel. He sighed. Sometimes it was startling to look at one’s reflection and recall how old one was.
He was seven-and-forty.
When last he’d seen Christopher, he had been nine-and-twenty.
Not so very much older than Freddy was now.
He sighed, remembering his argument with Freddy earlier.
“I’m not a child! I’m perfectly able to make my own judgments on the people I come across.”
It was really quite galling, Henry reflected, how he had gone, in his children’s eyes, from being a godlike creature whose sage advice was sought on the smallest matters to being someone whose every word was apparently quite superfluous and unnecessary. George barely confided in him at all these days, and if Henry gave Marianne enough rope, she’d manage him as though she were the parent and he were the child.
Henry sighed again and turned his head to examine more closely the streaks of grey at his temples.
Silver threads amongst the gold, as his mother used to say—or amongst the chestnut-brown in his case.
He ran his hands down his torso, frowning at the slight softness to his once-flat belly. He was fortunate enough to still be reasonably fit, thanks to his daily rides in Wiltshire, but he was beginning to notice that the years were taking their toll. His left knee had begun to ache when it rained—the niggling remnants of a twisting sprain he’d suffered after catching eleven-year-old George jumping down from a tree he’d got stuck in.
It made him feel old.
He thought back to when he’d first met Christopher. He'd had no conception then of how handsome and healthy he had been.
Perhaps no one realised how fortunate they were at that age.
Perhaps it was only later, as one witnessed the gradual, unrelenting loss of those attributes, that one began to truly understand what one had once had.
The clock in the corner chimed the half hour.
Time to go.
Henry carefully adjusted his neckcloth, minutely rearranging the folds, then made his way downstairs, to where the carriage would be waiting.
When he arrived at Sharp’s, Henry stayed inside the carriage, sending his groom to tell the doorman that the Duke of Avesbury sought to be admitted. Though not a member, his title and fortune would undoubtedly grant him entry. Sure enough, only a few minutes later, a well-dressed man emerged. Henry watched from the carriage window as the man took in the elegant equipage, and the ducal crest painted on the door.
“Your grace,” the man said as he approached the carriage window. He executed a creditable bow. “William Tait, at your service. Do I take it you will be honouring us with your presence this evening?”
“I thought I might,” Henry replied, offering a remote, polite smile. It never did to appear too keen.
“Ordinarily, we require our patrons to apply for membership in advance,” the man told Henry, “but in your case we would be very happy to make an exception.”
Henry nodded at the groom to open the door and stepped out of the carriage. He followed Tait to the front door, and the doorman stood aside to let them pass.
Inside, Sharp’s was gleaming and new-looking. The main gaming room was all dark green and gold. Gold-striped wall hangings and heavy, bottle-green velvet curtains. Dark-green leather upholstered armchairs and baize-topped walnut card tables.
Most of the chairs were occupied, and the play looked to be serious. The conversation was relatively muted, and there were no lightskirts patrolling in search of customers.
“Do you wish me to have a new table set up for you, your grace?” Tait asked.
“Let me do a circuit of the room first, to see if there is anyone I know here whose table I might join.”
“Very good, your grace. Would you care for some refreshment? Some champagne, perhaps?”
“That would do very well,” Henry agreed. “Thank you.”
The man nodded and disappeared, and Henry began to slowly make his way around the room.
He recognised almost no one. Having been gone from town nearly two decades, he had relatively few acquaintances in society circles. There were a few faces he thought he recognised, but only one he could positively identify: the elderly Viscount Linton. Linton had been ancient when Henry was a boy and appeared not to have changed so much as a hair in the last eighteen years. He frowned in Henry’s direction as though trying to work out who he was.
The other men in the room glanced at Henry less obviously, mildly curious but mostly hiding their interest. As for Henry, he smoothly wove his way between the tables, stopping every now and again to watch play for a while before moving on.
He finally found Freddy in a small, private room off the main chamber. There was no croupier dealing the cards or observing the play in here. Just the players at the table.
Henry stood, unnoticed, in the doorway for a few moments. Despite having claimed he would be taking no part in the game, Freddy was indeed one of players.
Henry glanced around the table. He immediately recognised Lionel Skelton, who was around the same age as Henry. The younger son of some minor baron, Skelton had been a wastrel when Henry had first known him, and Henry could see that nothing had changed. Back then, Skelton had been a big, strapping fellow, but he had not aged well. Now his face was bloated from drink, his features coarse, his small eyes bleary.
Henry took a little longer to recognise the man sitting beside Skelton, but finally placed him: Nigel Tavestock. Eighteen years ago, Tavestock had been an unremarkable, quiet young man with mousy hair, always in the shadow of the larger, more assertive Skelton. Now, Tavestock was bald as a coot, thick in the waist, and had a florid complexion that made him look rather flustered, an impression that was not improved by his dishevelled cravat and wrongly buttoned waistcoat.
Beside Tavestock was another of Skelton’s old cronies, Cecil Hammond. Wher
e Skelton and Tavestock had swollen with age, Hammond had shrunk. He was a weedy, thin-mouthed fellow with a weak chin and watery eyes.
It seemed these three birds still flocked together… and were still seeking to take advantage of pigeons. Pigeons like Freddy, who was not—as he had suggested earlier this evening—merely watching the game but was fully engaged in it, and was presently studying his cards in complete ignorance of Henry’s arrival.
Henry felt an odd combination of helpless love and frustrated anger as he watched Freddy. He may be two-and-twenty, but Henry would always see the little boy in him. The sturdy, adventurous little boy, who used to lead his more careful elder siblings into scrapes that Henry would inevitably have to rescue them from—like George from that tree.
Just then, Freddy looked up, as though sensing Henry's attention, and his eyes widened with horror. “Father,” he said. “What are you doing here?”
The other men around the table all looked up at that.
“Avesbury?” Tavestock said, sounding surprised.
Henry nodded. “Good evening, Tavestock,” he said. “You don’t mind if I join you.” It wasn’t a question—he pulled out an unoccupied chair and sat down. Tavestock blinked and shot a panicked glance at Skelton, who pressed his lips tightly together but voiced no objection.
Hammond kept his cool a little better, merely nodding at Henry, who returned the gesture politely.
The final member of the party, who looked to be a few years older than Freddy but considerably younger than the others—perhaps in his late twenties—had to be Percy Bartlett. He was certainly dressed like a dandy, just as Marianne had described, with absurdly high shirt points and a complicated-looking cravat arrangement. His brown hair was carefully curled and arranged to look romantically tumbled.
He was almost handsome, but not quite. There was something about his pale eyes that Henry didn’t like. They were slightly bulbous and a little too far apart, giving him a vaguely froggy appearance, and his upper lip looked as though it had a tendency to curl in a sneer.
“Your grace,” the man said, inclining his head.
Henry smiled coolly. “Mr. Bartlett, I collect?”
Bartlett nodded and smiled, seeming gratified at being acknowledged by a duke.
“Yes, your grace, I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“Likewise,” Henry said with cool politeness. “Any friend of Freddy’s.”
Freddy’s face was pink and his mouth was pinched. Plainly, he was mortified by Henry’s turning up here.
“Checking up on me, Father?” he asked tightly.
“I thought I’d call in and see what Sharp’s is like,” Henry replied mildly. “I won’t stay long. I’ve an engagement elsewhere.”
“You’ll stay for a hand at least, your grace?” Bartlett said.
Henry noted Skelton’s flinch at that comment. It was a small, involuntary movement, so much so that Henry almost discounted it.
Almost.
But he knew Skelton of old.
“Why not,” he said, smiling in Bartlett’s direction. “Once you finish this game.”
While the other gentleman played on, a servant arrived with champagne for Henry. He ordered more for the table and sat back to watch the remainder of their play.
Skelton quietly dominated the game and at the close of play collected a good deal of money from the other players, including Freddy, who squirmed under Henry’s calm gaze.
“Are you playing this hand, your grace?” Skelton asked when it was time to deal the cards again.
Henry nodded, watching Skelton closely. He did not react but proceeded to deal out the cards methodically.
Henry waited till he was almost finished to observe, “These are not the house cards, I see.”
Skelton paused, just an instant, before he said quietly, “I beg your pardon?”
Henry began to sort through his hand. “I noticed on my way in that the house cards are green with gold edges. These are different.”
“Ah, yes,” Skelton said. He cleared his throat. “They are mine. This is a private game, you see.”
Henry looked up and met Skelton’s gaze, which was quite blank. Beside him, Tavestock was fiddling with his cravat.
Henry shrugged. “Unusual,” he said succinctly, then turned his attention to his cards again. He examined the faces of the cards with his eyes and, delicately, unobtrusively, the surfaces with his fingertips.
He was unsurprised to find that one appeared to be marked, two tiny, almost indiscernible pin pricks close to the edge of the Queen of Spades.
Retaining that card, he allowed play to proceed through several rounds, picking up and setting down other cards, till he had several marked ones.
How very tedious this was going to be, he thought. Freddy was not going to be happy with him at all, but then, he was going to learn a lesson this evening that should do him some good in the long run.
He set down his hand, and the other players all looked up.
“Are you folding, your grace?” Bartlett asked. He was half-foxed already, and his words were very slightly slurred. Henry decided that he agreed with Marianne—he did not like Percy Bartlett.
“I’m afraid not,” Henry said. “I’m calling an end to the game entirely.” He looked directly at Skelton and said flatly, “The cards are marked.”
“What?” Bartlett shrieked.
Henry ignored him. He kept his gaze on Skelton, who visibly paled, then hissed, “That’s impossible.”
Tavestock shrunk back into his seat. Hammond toyed with his wine glass.
Freddy said, his tone agonised, “Father—”
Henry lifted his cards and slowly laid them out in a line. “There are pin pricks on these cards,” he said calmly. “Here, and here”—he touched the edges of the cards, showing where the marks were—“and here.”
No one moved or said anything.
Skelton’s nostrils flared, and twin spots of colour blazed on his cheeks. Henry had not—as yet—outright called him a cheat, but the word hung in the air. Idly, Henry wondered if Skelton would call him out if he said it. He suspected he would not. Twenty years ago, Skelton had been considered a decent shot, but Henry—who had been something of a sportsman in his youth, excelling at horsemanship, swords, shooting, and pugilism—would certainly have bested him.
And Skelton wasn’t to know he’d let most of those skills lapse.
Henry glanced at Freddy, who was staring miserably at the green baize, utterly mortified. How he would hate any further escalation of this already unpleasant scene.
It was that thought that made Henry decide to be merciful.
Calmly, he said, “Mr. Skelton, I believe you’ve been given a bad set of cards. It’s most unfortunate, but I’m sure if you return your winnings from the earlier games, the matter can be forgotten.”
It was a generous concession to make, Henry thought, and both Tavestock and Hammond looked relieved. Skelton, though, plainly burned with resentment—though not so much that he’d ignore the lifeline he’d been thrown.
“I was quite unaware of the markings,” he bit out, “but as a gentleman, I will of course return my winnings, though they were fairly won.” He turned to the pile of guineas and vowels at his elbow and began to sort them into piles.
“I don’t—” Freddy said desperately, as Skelton shoved a pile of guineas and a paper at him, but Bartlett interrupted him.
“A handsome gesture, Skelton,” he said, scooping his own, much larger pile towards him. “Shall we call for fresh cards and continue the game?”
Henry saw the flicker of amusement in Hammond’s eyes at that fatuous response. Christ, could Bartlett not see what he was dealing with?
Henry pushed his chair back and stood. He looked at Freddy.
“I have the carriage,” he said. He left the question unsaid.
Freddy. Poor Freddy; he looked utterly mortified. But hopefully, he was no Bartlett—too dim to see what sort of men he was playing with.
Several long, agonising moments passed, and then Freddy slowly rose.
“I think—I am done for the night.” He turned to Bartlett and offered a tight smile. “Tattersall’s tomorrow, Perce?”
Bartlett scowled. “Don’t be a spoilsport, Asquith!” His pale gaze shifted between Henry and Freddy, though he made no other comment.
Freddy gave a short laugh. “I’m tired,” he said. “Too many nights on the town. I’ll see you tomorrow.” And with that he turned away and walked towards Henry, who was already standing in the doorway.
Henry smiled at him reassuringly—Freddy did not return the smile.
“The carriage is outside,” Henry murmured as Freddy passed him. “I’ll be out in a moment. Need to use the convenience.”
Freddy nodded and left the room.
Henry caught Skelton’s eye and gestured with his head, letting him know he wanted to speak to him. Skelton’s mouth tightened, but he gave a slight nod. Tavestock and Hammond noticed the exchange, but Bartlett, who was draining his champagne glass, was entirely oblivious.
Henry strolled out of the room and waited in the corridor. A few moments later, Skelton joined him, closing the door softly behind him.
Henry smiled. He said gently, “Don’t come anywhere near my son again. Do you understand?”
Skelton’s face purpled with anger, but he nodded, saying nothing. Henry turned and began to walk away.
“Avesbury—”
Henry turned back. Skelton’s gaze was calculating now, his upper lip sneering.
“Do you remember Kit Redford?”
Henry flinched at the shock of that name on Skelton’s lips. It shouldn’t have been a shock—Skelton had also been an occasional patron of the Golden Lily—but there was an unwritten rule among men like them that such things were not mentioned.
Henry said nothing, only stood, waiting.
Skelton took two steps forward. In a confidential tone, he said, “After you dropped him, no one would touch him with a bargepole—except me. I took him on, and my, he was an eager little bitch.” He laughed nastily, then whispered, “I used to make him beg for my cock like a dog.”
Restored (Enlightenment Book 5) Page 12
