Henry’s gut twisted sharply as the pictures Skelton’s words painted flowered in his mind, in all their graphic horror.
Christopher on his knees before this monster.
“After you dropped him…”
Henry felt like he might throw up, but he would not let his feelings show to the man standing before him. The man who was only saying this as revenge for what had just happened.
Without emotion, Henry said, “Stay away from my son. If you don’t, I’ll destroy you.”
He was only a little gratified to see Skelton pale before he turned away and stalked back to the gaming room.
Freddy was waiting in the carriage. He didn’t say anything when Henry climbed in, keeping his face turned towards the window.
“As I mentioned,” Henry said as he settled onto the opposite bench, “I have an engagement this evening, but I’ll take you back to Curzon Street first.”
“Fine,” Freddy said. His tone was flat and uninviting.
Henry suppressed a sigh and stuck his head out of the window to call out instructions to the coachman.
Once they were on their way, he watched Freddy’s shadowy profile. Freddy had to be aware of his scrutiny, but he said nothing, his jaw tight, lips pressed together.
At last, unable to bear the silence any longer, Henry said, “Skelton is scoundrel. You do see that?”
“Yes,” Freddy muttered.
“Good,” Henry said, “because your friend, Bartlett, doesn’t seem to have cottoned on.”
“He’s just foxed,” Freddy shortly. “I’ll put him right on it tomorrow. There was no talking to him tonight.”
“If he’s the sort of man who won’t listen to reason, perhaps you should consider whether you want to have him as a friend,” Henry said.
Freddy turned and glared at him them, the angry gleam in his eyes unmistakable.
“Who would you rather I spend my time with, Father? Edgar, perhaps?”
Edgar Maitland, Freddy’s best friend at school, was an exceedingly likeable young man. He and Freddy had got along famously, since they were both energetic and adventurous, though their escapades had given Henry more than a few grey hairs over the years.
“Freddy—” Henry began wearily, knowing what was coming.
“I could have,” Freddy said, bitterly, “If you’d agreed to buy my colours.”
Henry made a sound of frustration. “I’m sorry, but I don’t want you to join the army—”
“Cavalry,” Freddy interrupted.
“Army, cavalry, navy—it’s all the same,” Henry said flatly. “You’d be signing your life away.”
“It’s a good career!” Freddy exclaimed. “Most fathers would be proud at the idea of their son taking a position as a cavalry officer.”
“It’s dangerous.”
“Just because Uncle Arthur died, doesn’t mean—”
“Frederick—”
Freddy fell silent, just as the carriage began to slow. They were home.
“I’ll let you get to your engagement then,” Freddy said stiffly, opening the door.
And then he was gone, and the carriage door slammed shut.
Henry sighed.
He checked his watch—nearly midnight. He wondered if Christopher would be annoyed by his late appearance. If he would even admit Henry now.
He stuck his head out of the window again.
“Take me to Palfrey Terrace.”
13
Kit
Kit had made it his business some time ago to find out as much as he could about Peter’s natural father, Mr. Percival Bartlett.
Bartlett was a typical idle gentleman of the ton. He liked clothes, gambling, and drinking. He disliked work. Or, more accurately, he considered work to be something that did not fall within the purview of a man of his class. Work was contemptible. But apparently, to be work-shy, to sponge off of others, and to neglect to pay his bills was the height of good taste.
And on top of all that, the man was a rapist and a bully.
Despite his father’s considerable wealth, Bartlett was nearly always strapped for money. His allowance was generous, but he gambled whatever he had away within days of receiving it, and for the next quarter would simply rack up bills and issue promissory notes, digging himself deeper and deeper into debt as he waited for his wealthy father to die.
Kit knew that one of the gambling establishments Bartlett attended was owned by none other than Jake Sharp. And so, once Clara had calmed down from her ordeal in the park, Kit went in search of Sharp.
It took Kit a little time to track him down. He tried first the club Sharp had opened near Redford’s, where he was told the man had only just left for the Knightsbridge club. When he got to Knightsbridge, he was informed that Sharp had not yet arrived, though he was expected quite soon. Kit gave his name and asked if he could wait. He expected to be turned away, but to his surprise, was invited inside and led into the office of a man who introduced himself as Mr. Tait, the manager of the Knightsbridge club.
Kit wasn’t entirely sure what to make of the fact that Tait seemed to know exactly who he was, but he accepted the offer of a glass of port wine with polite thanks, and for the next half hour made pleasant conversation with Tait as they waited for Sharp’s return.
When Sharp arrived—throwing the door to Tait’s office open without so much as a knock and marching inside—it was evident he’d been informed of Kit’s arrival already. His keen gaze went straight to Kit and he grinned wolfishly.
“Mr. Redford,” he said with satisfaction, his forceful personality seeming to suck all of the air out of the room. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Kit’s own smile was pleasant but careful. “I was rather hoping you might be able to help me with something.”
Sharp’s eyes gleamed, his mouth twisting into a smile that was both sardonic and attractive.
“I will certainly do my best. Come to my office and we can talk.”
He beckoned to Kit, who rose from his chair, pausing to thank Tait for his time and the wine.
“You’re entirely welcome, Mr. Redford,” Tait said. “It’s been a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.”
Finally?
Kit kept his expression blank, but he wondered at Tait’s words. Had Sharp spoken of him to Tait? And if so, why?
There was no time to puzzle it out. Sharp was already striding out the room, and Kit hurried after him, following him into another room further down the corridor.
Tait’s office had been comfortable and tasteful, but Sharp’s… well, it was something else entirely. Fully twice the size of Tait’s, it held a large desk, a round table with four chairs, and the largest and most luxurious chaise longue Kit had ever seen, upholstered in deep-red velvet and big enough for two grown men.
Kit raised his eyebrows at the chaise longue and Sharp laughed.
“I spend a lot of time here,” he said. “May as well have everything I need.” He gestured at the table. “Take a seat, Kitten.”
Kit tried to hide his instinctive bristle at the nickname as he pulled out a chair and sat himself down. Sharp opened up a cabinet in the corner of the room and drew out a decanter of amber liquid and two large glasses.
“Brandy,” he said decisively as he approached the table. He didn’t ask Kit if he wanted one, just set the glasses down and poured out two generous measures, then took the chair opposite Kit.
“Tell me, then. How can I help you?”
Kit sipped the brandy. It was very good, and certainly French.
“There’s a man causing trouble for one of my people. I think he may come to this club, and I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he owes you money. I was rather hoping to beard the lion in his den—or rather, in your den. A public confrontation with the threat of more scandal would be, I think, enough to scare him off.”
Sharp sipped his brandy then leaned back in his chair. He looked amused. “This may surprise you, Kitten, but I generally don’t allow my punters to be harass
ed here. It’s not what I consider to be good business.”
Kit smiled and shrugged. “I thought you might make an exception in this case.”
“Why?” Sharp asked, his eyes gleaming with appreciation. “Will you grant me something in return?”
Kit met his gaze. “Possibly.”
Sharp’s eyebrows went up. “Who is this fellow?”
“Percival Bartlett,” Kit said. “Oldest son of Sir Algernon Bartlett.”
Even as he spoke, he saw the interest in Sharp’s gaze.
“I know of him,” Sharp admitted. “And yes, he does come here. His credit’s just about up, in fact. I was expecting to have a quiet word with him in the near future.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” Kit said. “He’s an inveterate gambler and entirely lacking in self-control.”
“Well, he’s not alone in that,” Sharp replied cheerfully. “Which is just as well for me, or I’d have no punters. So, you want me to let you cause a scene here, do you? Embarrass the man in front of his friends?”
“That’s about the size of it,” Kit agreed.
“And what will you give me in return?” Sharp leaned over the table and laid his hand on Kit’s forearm. His hand was square with blunt fingers. He had a long scar across three of his knuckles. It was a strong hand. A fighter’s hand. He met Kit’s gaze with eyes the same tawny-gold as a bird of prey. “I’d give a great deal to have you under me for a night. I think I could show you a thing or two.”
Sharp was a compelling man, very attractive in his way, but he could not have said anything less appealing. Kit had no interest in a man who thought he could teach him anything between the bedsheets, thank you very much. Besides, he'd sworn a long time ago never to trade his body again. And he had a feeling there were other ways to gain Sharp’s agreement.
“I’m afraid that’s not something I’m prepared to bargain with,” Kit said smoothly. He paused then, aware of the enormity of what he was about to do. “But I’ll owe you a favour.”
He knew it was rash to make so broad an offer to a man like Sharp. But his own request was not small. And since he was refusing what Sharp had asked in return, he had to offer something worthwhile.
A favour—anything—that could be called on at any time.
Sharp’s tawny gaze sharpened with interest and he smiled. A slow, dangerous smile.
“Very well, Kitten,” he said. “We have a bargain.”
It was after six o’clock by the time Kit left Sharp’s club and not worth going back home for dinner. He decided to go straight to Redford’s and eat there. He’d take the opportunity to do a little work in his office before heading downstairs to mingle with his patrons.
He wondered if Henry would come to Redford’s tonight.
By now the man had had plenty of time to think better of his impulse. He’d been overcome by guilt earlier—and perhaps not a little lust. Once his common sense had reasserted itself, he’d have realised it was terrible idea.
He won’t come, Kit told himself firmly. But the idea that he might kept teasing at the edges of Kit’s mind, preventing him from concentrating on anything, and as the hours ticked by, he was unable to control the mounting, squirming excitement in his belly.
It had been an eventful day. As well as Henry’s visit, there had been Clara’s ordeal and his interview with Jake Sharp. The latter two events were far more significant in terms of Kit’s day-to-day life than a visit from the man who had left him destitute two decades earlier. But as he sat in his office reviewing the latest invoices and delivery notes for the club, all he could think of was his encounter with Henry. And as he dined in his small private parlour before going downstairs to socialise with his patrons, he could barely manage a bite of the delicious meal the kitchens had sent up for the nervous excitement fermenting his gut.
Henry.
It had been so long.
Kit had thought he’d forgotten what Henry looked like. He still remembered one night, some years ago now, when he’d tumbled into bed, drunk and miserable, and hadn’t been able to summon up the memory of Henry’s face. He should have been pleased but instead, he’d wept like a drunken fool, as if his heart was breaking in two.
Except, now it seemed that he hadn’t forgotten—not really—because the moment he had laid eyes on Henry, the familiarity of the man’s face, his bearing, his expressions—all of it had crashed into Kit like an unexpected wave, knocking him off his feet.
For years, he’d thought of Henry as the man who had cheated him and left him with nothing. The resentment and bitterness he’d felt over that had kept him going for a long time, like red-hot, smouldering coals keeping a fire alive.
But this afternoon, he had seen Henry’s unmistakable dismay. His mortification at having wronged Kit. Kit could admit that now—Henry’s horror at learning what had happened had obviously not been feigned. There had been real despair in his eyes as Kit had confirmed his worst fears.
All these years, Kit had believed that Henry had just cast him aside, like Kit was nothing. He had been cast aside, of course—that remained true—but not as ruthlessly as he’d once thought. And not without regret.
Henry’s regret did not, however, undo the past. And it did not change the fact that Henry had seen Kit as little more than an object to be used. One that would not be needed as long as first anticipated, and that could disposed of by an instruction given to a servant.
No need to look Kit in the eye and tell him why he was breaking their arrangement early.
But really was that so surprising? Kit had been of no more consequence to Henry than a tailor, or a footman. It was only that the services he provided were rather more intimate—and that he had made the very great error of imagining that genuine feelings had arisen between them while he was providing those services. He could only be grateful that he had not made the even worse mistake of confessing his foolish feelings to Henry, as he had been on the verge of doing so many times.
Henry had simply never reciprocated Kit’s feelings, had he? But then why was he now offering to do whatever Kit demanded to make amends?
Kit stared at his barely-touched dinner, his heart racing as he considered the question… and came to an answer that made his stomach twist.
“If you are making amends, it has to cost you something.”
Kit closed his eyes, regret settling in now.
Henry had been genuinely horrified to learn the truth, and Kit could admit now that the Henry he had known, all those years ago, was the sort of man to do whatever was necessary to make good a wrong he was responsible for.
“You, on your knees for me. Sucking me off in front of everyone.”
Did Kit really want to do that to Henry? To humiliate him like that? Would it achieve anything? Make anything better?
When Kit opened his eyes again, he glanced at the clock on the wall.
Half past eight.
Time to dress and go downstairs.
Henry probably wouldn’t come anyway.
14
Henry
The entrance to Redford’s was very discreet, and only one doorman stood outside. A large man but well-dressed and polite. Henry gave his name to the man, who nodded in recognition and opened the door to admit him.
Inside, there was another door, and another doorman—also large and polite. He directed Henry down a short, well-appointed corridor, which led to a spacious, tastefully decorated room, just like any one might find in an ordinary gentlemen’s club.
Some of the patrons sat in groups, their armchairs clustered around low tables, while others stood, talking in low voices. Several discreet waiting staff circulated. Everyone was well-dressed, and there was no sign of any debauchery.
“Avesbury? Is that you?”
Henry turned towards a familiar voice, smiling when he saw who it was.
“Corbett,” he said, genuinely pleased. “It’s good to see you, man.” He moved towards his old friend, his hand extended and Viscount Corbett took it, a genuine smil
e lighting up his rather forbidding face.
“And you—it’s been far too long! What brings you back to town at long last?”
“Family matters,” Henry said vaguely. “I am only here occasionally. I don’t bother with society events these days.”
“Christ, nor do I,” Corbett said quickly. “The last time I saw you was at your daughter’s wedding, and we didn’t get much chance to talk. Before that—hell, Avesbury, it must have been a good few years!”
“I made one or two appearances during Marianne’s season a couple of years ago, but happily my sister was only too pleased to deal with bringing her out.”
“I’m not surprised I didn’t see you then,” Corbett said, his expression pained. “I avoid those sorts of events at all costs. Must say though, this is rather the last place I’d have expected to see you turn up. Kit Redford’s club?” He arched a brow. “Did he approve your membership?”
Henry noted Corbett’s surprise with dismay. How well known was the story of what had occurred between him and Christopher?
“Why do you think he would he not?” Henry asked carefully.
Corbett looked momentarily taken aback, then he said carefully, “My apologies. I think I might have spoken rather out of turn.”
Henry shook his head. “Don’t apologise,” he said quietly. “The question was a genuine one. I’d appreciate your honest answer.”
Corbett eyed him doubtfully, then he shrugged. “It’s not something that is freely gossiped about, Avesbury—you needn’t worry about that—but there are a few, like myself, who were regulars at the Lily back then, who remember what happened.”
“And what is that?” Henry asked softly.
Corbett looked pained, but he said, “You’d set Kit up—word was with a very nice little arrangement. And then all of a sudden, it was over and Kit was out on his ear with nothing to show for his time with you.” He met Henry’s gaze. “It was rather assumed he must’ve done something—some whispered that he had stolen from you, or perhaps tried his hand at blackmail.”
Restored (Enlightenment Book 5) Page 13
