“No?” The other man smiled slowly, but his eyes were empty. Cold. He gestured toward the stairs. “Then might I suggest the venison. Monsieur Gaspard serves it with an otherworldly truffle sauce.” His eyes flared with mocking drama. “Positively transporting.”
Lucien eyed the man in disgust. “What the bloody hell happened to you, Ben? I know it’s been a few years—”
“Try ten.”
“—but you’ve crawled so deep inside the bottle that every shred of dignity is lost. Good God, man, I don’t even recognize you.”
Chatham sneered. “Then we are alike in that regard, are we not? You have crawled so deep inside your wife’s … charms that I am surprised you do not wear her as a hat.”
Rage thundered through him, exploding in his chest at the insolent vulgarity coming out of Chatham’s mouth. Even as he spoke the last word, Lucien’s fist rammed into his jaw with a satisfying crack. The sheer force of the facer caused the viscount to reel back, thudding against the far wall. It was far from enough for Lucien’s liking.
Unfortunately, the commotion drew attention from a pair of outsized bruisers positioned just inside the doors of the gaming room, clearly employees of the club. “No fighting, milords,” the taller one said, his accent purely east Londoner. “Reaver’s rules. Iffen ye wants a brawl, take it elsewhere.”
Lucien’s gaze remained locked on Chatham, who continued to stare back at him with deadly calm. “That can be arranged,” he said softly. “Gentleman Jackson’s. If you would care to reclaim what remains of your manhood.”
Chatham snorted. “Haven’t had any complaints in that regard. Besides which, I have no intention of wasting yet more of my time with you.” With that, he shoved himself away from the wall and headed for the stairs.
Following closely on his heels, Lucien gave the bastard a verbal jab he hoped would penetrate the fog of drunkenness keeping the old Benedict Chatham imprisoned, provided that man still existed, which was questionable. “Yes, I’m sure Mrs. Knightley would not bother to complain about you. Likely she would have cut you off long ago if she were not getting her money’s worth.”
Chatham flinched visibly and halted three steps short of the marble floor. Lucien thought he had him then, but the man shook his head, loosened his suddenly tight fists, and continued on as though he did not want to tear Lucien limb from limb. Fortunately, it was obvious he did, and it would only take a bit more prodding to send him over the edge.
The majordomo reappeared as if by magic, holding out Chatham’s hat and walking stick. “Shaw. You have impeccable timing, my good man,” Chatham said with false joviality, taking the items from the dark-skinned servant. “Have my horse brought ’round, would you?”
“Mine as well,” Lucien murmured.
Shaw bowed and replied, “Right away, my lords.”
Apparently determined to ignore Lucien’s presence, Chatham wasted no time in crossing to the door and stepping out onto the cobblestones. But Lucien did not give up so easily. “I suppose one could understand your wretched lies about me,” he mused, keeping pace. “Considering the disgrace of your ‘arrangement’ with Mrs. Knightley, you would have to find some way of deflecting attention away from yourself.”
The other man said nothing, but his hand twisted on the knob of his walking stick. It tapped against the cobblestones in an uneven rhythm. Tap. Tap-tap. Tap-ta-tap.
“However,” Lucien said softly, drawing closer to Chatham’s side so he could not possibly ignore him. “When it is my wife who bears the consequences of such brazenly false rumors, I’m afraid I must answer with some forcefulness.”
Finally, Chatham raised a brow and looked at Lucien. “Pardon me, was Mrs. Knightley not your mistress?” The sarcasm made Lucien want to choke the bastard. “Oh, but I would have sworn she was. She does have rather startling fondness for your … let me see. Ah, yes, ‘vigor,’ I believe she called it. Difficult to gain such appreciation for goods one hasn’t yet sampled.”
His eyes narrowed on the man, who nonchalantly donned his hat and gave it a tap with his cane. Damn it, he needed to shut Chatham up for good, and that meant reminding the insolent wastrel of the secrets Chatham, himself, did not want revealed. Lucien drew within inches, his voice going low. “She was my mistress. Was. But at least I was never her whore.”
The attack he had been waiting for came with sudden, bruising force. Chatham’s cane sailed into his gut with a sickening whump, bending him in half for a moment as he struggled to breathe. But the heir to the Marquess of Rutherford didn’t stop there. He followed Lucien’s stumbling trail, slamming his fist into his ribs with first his right, then his left. Blast, the man’s reflexes were quick for someone constantly in his cups.
It did not last long. Chatham was frayed, thin, and weakened, his mind faster than most men, but slowed and dulled from its customary sharpness by too much drink and too little dignity. Lucien backed away and studied his adversary, slowly circling, letting the grinding pain of the blows to his midsection absorb and echo until it became background. Chatham’s eyes were a turquoise blaze, his jaw reddened by Lucien’s earlier hit. He clearly wanted to fight. But he was breathing heavily, his shoulders slumping, his cane rattling to the ground. Pathetic.
“You bloody hypocrite,” Chatham spat, his full hatred of Lucien twisting his features. “The wife you claim to defend married you because you groped her before the entire ton and ruined her chances at a better match. Do not preach to me of honor. You have none.”
Lucien stopped, watching as pieces of his old friend—albeit warped by bitterness and dissolution—reassembled in front of him. No more cold disaffection. No more casual sarcasm. Just pure, wild fury.
“It doesn’t matter, does it?” Chatham raved. “Lucien Wyatt always gets what he wants. Ballocks. I could toss you into a pile of horse shit, and you’d come out with the fucking crown jewels.” He threw his arms wide, shaking his head up at the gray sky in wonderment. “It’s a bloody miracle!”
Glaring, Lucien tightened his jaw, saying nothing. Clearly, the man had built up a great many resentments, which wouldn’t matter if not for one thing: He knew of Lucien’s true motives for marrying Victoria. Lucien did not know how Chatham had divined such information, but he had. And with the younger lord eager to stir trouble, how long would it be before the entire ton learned the truth? How long before Victoria was made a laughingstock again, the object of pity and scorn? Because of him. He could not allow it. Such a result might have once seemed acceptable. But no longer—not when he could do something about it.
“Then, by all means, Chatham,” he said darkly. “Let us settle our differences. Tomorrow. Gentleman Jackson’s.”
“To what end?”
Lucien smiled. “A mutual understanding. Between gentlemen.”
Chatham crossed his arms, appearing skeptical. “A wager.”
“Aye,” he replied softly. “For the victor, a guarantee of silence. He need never fear certain, shall we say, unfortunate information will be shared by his opponent.”
“And the loser?”
“Shall take his chances.”
Lucien knew it was a gamble, this offer. While he could easily defeat Chatham in his current weakened state, trusting the man to keep his word after the fact was more than a risk—many would believe it foolhardy. Tannenbrook had said that very thing when Lucien had posed the idea. But James did not know Chatham the way Lucien did. The thin, pale shell known as the future Marquess of Rutherford was a sham, a carefully constructed lie born of misery and self-inflicted wounds. He should know—he’d been lost himself, once. The real man, the one Lucien remembered, was a bit wild, but fundamentally decent. If a thread of that man remained, and Lucien could reach him, then the agreement would hold. He hoped.
“Well,” Chatham said after a long pause. “Never let it be said I passed up an opportunity to beat you senseless. Gentleman Jackson’s it is.”
Lucien nodded, hearing the clop of hooves as their horses were led out of the mews
behind the club. For a moment, seeing Chatham’s sardonic expression, he doubted the wisdom of this plan. Perhaps he was wrong, and the viscount really was too far gone. But, then, Chatham dropped his gaze briefly, and when it returned, his eyes were serious. It was like looking at a ghost, seeing the Ben he remembered for the first time in a decade. “You should do whatever it takes to keep her, you know. Not that I care. But she seems a good sort.”
Swallowing hard at the unexpected statement from an even more unexpected source, Lucien turned away from his old friend. Not because the lad from the stables approached with his horse. Not even because Chatham was wrong. The problem was he was right. But it was far too late.
~~*
Chapter Twenty-Four
“A little off the chin, if you please. Devotion to detail is laudable, but I see no reason to frighten future generations.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Sir Thomas Lawrence upon viewing her son’s commissioned portrait for the first time.
It was entirely unacceptable.
Hands on hips, Victoria stepped back from the canvas and glared at the washed-out, translucent blue of Lucien’s waistcoat. Blast it, she needed her ultramarine pigment from the case that was still stored at Clyde-Lacey House. It was terribly expensive, prepared for her by a famed colorist who also served Sir Thomas Lawrence; otherwise, she would simply purchase more.
I may have to anyway, she thought, if things continue as they have been. Harrison still had not answered the letters she’d sent just after the wedding, one of which requested her supplies be delivered to Wyatt House. And it appeared Lucien was determined to follow through on his bid for revenge, even though his expression had been tormented when she had all but begged him to reconsider. Do you care for me at all? she wondered, gazing at the storm-cloud eyes she had painted with careful, adoring strokes. Do you? For, I love you with everything inside me. It seems you might feel the same, but you won’t say it. And part of you still hides from me.
She sighed. Those shadowy unknowns had made their way into the painting. They were there in the slight furrow of his brow, the flash of light in his eyes.
So many questions.
One thing, however, had become clear in the week since the Rutherford rout. Within the ton, their marriage was now regarded as a true love match, the object of admiration if not outright envy by all but the highest sticklers. Invitations had poured in at an ever-increasing rate. Furthermore, the vicious rumors regarding an association between Lucien and Mrs. Knightley had been neatly quashed by Lady Wallingham at one of her recent luncheons.
It was good to have a dragon on one’s side, she supposed. Just yesterday, a note from Lady Wallingham had suggested Lady Gattingford was considering hosting an end-of-season ball and inviting Victoria and Lucien. It seemed the project of neutralizing the scandal before most of the ton left London was a rousing success.
Soon, the scandal would no longer pose a threat, and Lucien would have nothing left to hold over her. Perhaps then her choices would prove easier. Is that really what’s stopping you? a voice whispered in her mind.
Bothersome voice. Go away.
You are allowing him to manage you the way he would a servant.
I can wait until after we have left London and the scandal is behind us.
You are afraid to lose him. But if you allow this to go on much longer, you will lose your brother. And perhaps yourself.
Standing motionless, she stared yet saw nothing, only heard the ring of truth in the words streaming through her head. Suddenly, her acquiescence to his demand seemed less like the sensible, safe path and more like cowardice. She had given Lucien his way, and it was destroying what little chance they had of making their marriage more than the devil’s bargain it had been at the beginning.
She eyed the unfinished portrait. At the very least, you must have your paints. This simply will not do.
He deserved better.
And so did she.
Removing her apron and folding it neatly, she placed it on the table behind her, then carefully draped a cloth over the unfinished canvas.
“Time enough for you later,” she murmured to the portrait. “Once I retrieve my ultramarine.”
After donning a lilac-hued, velvet spencer and matching bonnet, she hurried downstairs and found Billings tidying the sideboard in the morning room. Watery light shone through the windows, reflecting off the butler’s white head.
“Billings,” she said loudly from the doorway.
He turned. “Yes, my lady?”
“Could you please have the carriage brought ’round?”
“Certainly, my lady. Might I inquire as to your destination?”
Tugging on a pair of gray kid gloves, she answered, “Berkeley Square. I must retrieve some painting supplies from Clyde-Lacey House.”
Silence followed her response. She glanced up at Billings’ stooped form, surprised to see him frozen in place, much like a stag staring down a hunter. Well, she thought upon examining his wrinkled countenance, perhaps more akin to a hedgehog sighted by an owl. He appeared to be frightened into stillness, his brows lowered in consternation.
“Billings?”
He met her gaze.
“The carriage?”
He pressed his lips together briefly as though wishing to say something, but he remained motionless next to the sideboard.
Victoria did not relish reprimanding servants. She much preferred guiding them through praise and high expectation. But every now and then, Billings used his poor hearing as an excuse to ignore her, often when she asked after correspondence from her brothers or when she desired to use the carriage. She suspected Lucien had something to do with it, but the servants of Wyatt House never spoke a word against their employer.
She approached Billings, coming within two feet of him so she could be heard without shouting. She would not wish any of the other servants to witness her set-down of the butler. He needed to command respect in the household to maintain his authority.
But, honestly, enough was enough. It was well past time she wielded some authority of her own.
“Billings, I must say, it is extraordinary that you carry on your work in so competent a fashion, given these moments when you clearly have a great deal of trouble hearing me.”
The man’s spine stiffened and he grimaced. “Madam, I …”
“I said,” she continued crisply, “I would like you to have the carriage brought ’round to the front, as I will be visiting my brother’s home today. Please do so now.”
Several seconds of uncomfortable silence followed this pointed command, before he reluctantly replied, “My lady, if it were in my power to comply with your request, I would do so immediately. However, I cannot. I apologize most sincerely.”
She shook her head and frowned, the beginnings of anger stirring to life. “This is preposterous. Of course it is within your power. Simply tell the coachman I have need of the carriage. What is so impossible about that?”
Billings winced at her snappish tone and cleared his throat. “Perhaps if my lady were to choose another destination …?”
“Why should that make any difference?”
Silence. While the man’s face remained stony, his eyes were filled with apology and something else. Something that looked very much like pity.
Anger bloomed full-force as her suspicions were confirmed. Lucien had ordered the servants to prevent her visiting Harrison. As she recalled the distinct lack of correspondence since her wedding day, the scope of his possible machinations grew, along with the fire of her temper. Had Harrison written, only to have his letters intercepted? Had her letters been intercepted?
The answer came almost immediately, making her feel like the veriest dupe. Of course. Lucien would not leave such things to chance. Fury filled her like a hot, poisonous cloud, firing her skin from the inside out.
“Billings, I asked you a question,” she said distinctly.
His gaze was sympathetic as he reluctantly answered, “I have been o
rdered not to comply with any request to visit Clyde-Lacey House.”
“By my husband?” She knew the answer, but she wanted to hear him say it.
He swallowed. “I am not at liberty to say.”
Well, she thought bitterly, perhaps Billings could not say, but his reaction was all the confirmation she needed. No matter, she decided quickly. If her arrogant, insufferable husband thought he could dictate where she went and when, he had a thing or two to learn about his obedient, loving wife. And his lessons would begin right now.
“Did Lord Atherbourne forbid my visiting my modiste?” she asked tightly.
“No, my lady.”
She nodded and gave the butler a forced smile. “Then have the carriage brought ’round. I have a sudden desire to do some shopping.”
~~*
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Do not wrap your poor choices in gold thread and ruffles, and then expect me to offer praise. I may be old, but I am not blind.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to her modiste, upon being shown a dreadfully over-embellished pelisse.
A tall, redheaded woman in a dark green riding habit bumped Victoria’s shoulder as she strode through the narrow entrance of Bowman’s on Bond Street. The woman apologized for the collision, but Victoria hurried past her with little more than a nod.
She glanced around the small front room of the shop, seeing several ladies seated around a table, cooing over fashion plates. One of Mrs. Bowman’s assistants, a harried girl with flyaway blond hair escaping a chignon, brushed aside the blue curtain separating the dressing area. She carried several bolts of fabric.
Halfway to her destination, Victoria intercepted her to ask for Mrs. Bowman.
“She be in back, milady.” The girl’s lowly London accent was even thicker than Mrs. Garner’s, her eyes wide and startled. “Shall I fetch ’er for ye?”
Victoria nodded. “If you would.”
“Straight away.” The girl bobbed a curtsy and placed her colorful burden on a table near the front window before smiling uncertainly at Victoria and retreating once again behind the curtain.
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