A Different Hunger

by Lila Richards

  A Different Hunger

  By: Lila Richards

  ISBN – 978-1-877546-40-2

  All rights reserved

  Copyright © May 2010, Lila Richards

  Cover Art Copyright © May 2010, Brightling Spur

  Bluewood Publishing Ltd

  Christchurch, 8441, New Zealand

  www.bluewoodpublishing.com

  Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

  No part of this e-book may be reproduced or shared by any electronic or mechanical means, including but not limited to printing, file sharing, and email, without prior written permission from Bluewood Publishing Ltd.

  Smashword Edition – License Notes

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  DEDICATION

  With special thanks to Roy for his help with editing, his invaluable comments, his humour, and above all for his continued faith in me and my creations.

  ONE

  A dank fog swirled through the London streets, dimming the glare of the gaslights to a sickly glimmer, lending an air of menace to the classical grandeur of Covent Garden Market. But the Honourable Rufus de Hunte was oblivious to such intimations of foreboding. Thrusting his hands deeper into the pockets of his greatcoat, he hurried past the market’s Grecian columns and the soaring glass roofs that seemed to cower behind the eddying murk. All that mattered to Rufus was reaching the lodging house at 42B Garrick Street where his beloved Charlotte would be waiting for him. For the first time since they’d met (was it only three months ago?) she had invited him to visit her at night. His heart was beating so hard he could scarcely breathe, thinking of what might ensue.

  Reaching Charlotte’s lodgings, he raced up the stairs to the first floor, knocked on the door of her apartment and entered without waiting for her to let him in. Whenever she was expecting him she left the door unlatched.

  A puzzled frown furrowed his brow. The sitting room was in near darkness, the only light coming from the coals glowing in the fireplace. He could just make out Charlotte’s form in the gloom. She sat by the window in a low chair, hunched over and rocking back and forth. Rufus called her name softly. He felt a prickle of unease when she failed to look up. Moving closer, he peered into the shadows and saw she had her hands covering her face, and she was shivering although the room was quite warm. He hurried to her side and bent over her.

  “Charlotte, dearest, what is it? What’s wrong?”

  When at last she raised her head a little, he saw that her eyes were red and swollen with weeping. He took her hands in his and uncovered her face. Even in the half-light, he could see her face was badly bruised, with dried blood congealed around a split in her lip and more bruises on her arms. Shocked, he put his arm around her shoulder and drew her to him, stroking her hair gently.

  “Charlotte, who did this to you?”

  She shook her head, but said nothing.

  “Only tell me who did this, darling, and I’ll see that he’s punished. And I’ll take you somewhere safe so he can’t hurt you again…”

  “No!” Her voice was barely audible, and thickened by her cut and swollen mouth, but he could hear the urgency in it. “Rufus, you must leave. I’ll be all right. Please, just go.”

  “I can’t leave you like this. Let me take you to a doctor, at least.”

  She looked up at him with fearful, pleading eyes, and shook her head once more. “No! Please, just go, I beg you.”

  “But…”

  “You heard the lady,” came a harsh voice from across the room. “Why don’t you just do as she says?”

  Rufus looked up, startled, to see a black-haired man of perhaps forty years glowering at him from the bedroom doorway. His well-fitted clothes looked expensive, but his powerful build and large hands suggested a man more used to physical pursuits than theatres and soirees. Rufus got to his feet and faced the angry man.

  “And who might you be?” he demanded, unconsciously assuming the haughty voice his father used to repress impertinence.

  “I’m her husband, that’s who. The question I want answered is who the devil are you? When a man goes away on business, he doesn’t expect to return to find himself supplanted in his own home by—” Winter cast a scornful glance at Rufus, “—some young whippersnapper still wet behind the ears.”

  For a long moment, Rufus could do nothing but stare at him in disbelief. Then, his heart suddenly hammering in his breast, he turned to Charlotte. Before he could speak, she looked up at him, tears now trickling down her cheeks, the bruises livid on her ashen face.

  “I’m sorry, Rufus,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

  “You see?” Her husband’s voice exuded a savage satisfaction. “And don’t go thinking you’re the first, because you aren’t, not by a long chalk.”

  Rufus forced himself to speak with what calm he could muster. “Is this true, Charlotte?” His voice sounded strange and disembodied.

  Charlotte, cowering in her chair, whispered, “Yes. I’m sorry, Rufus, truly I am. I didn’t mean to… I only wanted…”

  But Rufus had already turned away from her to face her husband.

  “Please accept my deepest apologies, sir.” His voice was stiff with pain and embarrassment. “I had no idea, or I should never have…”

  “Hah! You’re not the first to say that, either.”

  “But—” Rufus found himself saying, “—to beat her like that? Surely…”

  “A man’s entitled to take measures to keep his wife in line – entitled to it by law. I should have done it long ago. Maybe then she wouldn’t have taken to bestowing her favours on the likes of you the moment my back’s turned.” Scowling, Winter took a step forward, his beefy fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.

  Rufus felt the cold stab of fear, and a shard of anger pierced his heart at the thought of Charlotte’s deception. How could she betray his love with such callousness? How dared she use him so? His first instinct was to leave. Let the two of them deal with the situation between them. But in the same instant, he knew he could not just leave her to bear the brunt of her husband’s fury. God alone knew what the brute might do to her, and she didn’t deserve that, no matter how she had treated him.

  “I’m truly sorry for what’s happened,” he said, “and I would never have entered the relationship had I known. But I cannot allow you to ill-treat a lady.” He turned to Charlotte and took her by the arm. “Come, Charlotte, I’ll take you to safety.”

  “Oh, no you don’t,” declared Winter, lunging forward and grabbing Rufus’s arm in a painful grip. “You don’t go playing around with my wife and slide out of it that easily, not this time. I’ve had my fill of cuckoos in my nest, and I won’t stand for it any longer. I demand satisfaction.”

  Rufus whirled to face him, eyes blazing with anger. “You mean a fight? Why, certainly I’ll meet you, for what good it will do. What I won’t do is allow you to vent your anger on a defenceless woman.”

  Winter took in Rufus’s slim build and air of refinement, his lip curling in an expression of contempt. “You wouldn’t last two minutes with me, and where’s the satisfaction in that? No, no, a duel is what I propose,
pistols at dawn.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Duelling’s illegal.”

  Winter gave a derisive guffaw. “You may be a great gentleman, but you’ve taken liberties with what’s mine, and that’s a matter that touches my honour. I’ll have satisfaction of you if it’s the last thing I do. My second will call on you tomorrow morning. And you needn’t bother to leave your card – my wife will give me the details soon enough.” He flung a contemptuous glance at Charlotte, still cowering in her chair, weeping softly. “Now get out before I change my mind and give you a good beating here and now, like the dog you are.”

  Rufus gave a stiff bow. “Very well, then, have your second call on me.”

  * * * *

  By the time Rufus reached his rooms, the rain had drenched him to the skin. He stripped off his clothes, tossed them into a corner to be dealt with later, then pulled on his dressing gown, wrapping the quilted brocade about him like a cloak of invisibility. He fetched a bottle of brandy and a glass from where he had left them on his desk, took them to his bedside table and poured out a large measure. It was some moments before he could master his shaking enough to drink without spilling brandy on himself. Finally, with several mouthfuls of the fiery spirit inside him, he grew calm enough to realise he was shivering as much with cold as with anger. Swallowing the rest of the brandy, he crawled into his bed and pulled the bedclothes around him before pouring another and gulping it down.

  He lay down and waited for the brandy to do its work, but the turmoil in his mind made relaxation impossible. Each time he closed his eyes, he saw again Charlotte’s battered face staring up at him, her husband’s fists clenching and unclenching, his heavy features reddened and twisted with righteous fury. He had no doubts about the man’s ability to extract his name and address from his poor wife, or his determination to pursue his chosen the path of vengeance. Rufus shuddered as he thought of the likely outcome. He was competent enough with a fowling piece, having hunted game on his father’s estate since boyhood, but a pistol was a very different matter, and he’d never had reason to use one. Still, if Winter made good his threat, he must somehow manage to go through with it – there was simply no question of backing down – and for that he’d need a second.

  If he went to his friends, George and Harry, they’d most likely laugh at his naivety. They’d already warned him against falling in love with Charlotte Winter, the lovely, golden-haired opera singer. Only two nights ago George had told him, in the tone of one explaining the obvious to a particularly dense child, “I know she’s a beauty, Rufus, but you don’t fall in love with the likes of the Covent Garden Nightingale. Take my word for it – she’ll only break your heart.” And knowing he’d proved right would only serve to complete his humiliation. As for his father…a shudder rippled through Rufus at the thought of the reception he’d receive from that irascible gentleman. If his mother were still alive, she’d understand him; he was tolerably certain his father would not.

  Damn Charlotte Winter! Damn her to hell for deceiving him with her sweet face and her soft eyes, for making him love her, for making him believe she was free to love him. God knew, he could scarcely blame her for wanting to be shot of her brute of a husband, but why hadn’t she just confided in him? She must have known he’d do anything in his power to help her. Then the thought struck him that she might not even have wanted his help. After all, hadn’t her husband said it wasn’t her first affair? If that were true – and she certainly hadn’t denied it – she must have had previous opportunities to escape an unhappy marriage, if she’d wanted to. No, the more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that he was just the latest in a string of pawns used in her attempt to find respite from her miserable marriage. She might well have convinced herself she loved him – and however many had preceded him – but all they were, really, was a means to a rather pathetic end. What a damned fool he’d been!

  Yet was it so foolish to want to love and be loved? Must he settle – as so many of his peers seemed to do – for a string of meaningless liaisons that, much as they might provide pleasure at the time, could never satisfy his longing for something deeper, until he married some lady acceptable to his father as a means to continue the family line, a sort of back-up should something unthinkable happen to his elder brother Humphrey’s family? Was it so wrong, this hunger for someone to want him for who he was, and not just for his social status and his family’s wealth – or, like poor Charlotte, to replace what she should have had from her husband?

  Thinking of Charlotte’s husband sent a new rush of fear through Rufus that banished all thought of sleep. How could he sleep with the threat of a duel hanging over him? The thought occurred to him that he could simply go to Ravenswood, the family estate in Cumberland. Winter would be unlikely to pursue him that far; he doubted the man even knew of the estate’s existence, and he didn’t think he’d mentioned it to Charlotte. But no, he could not run away. He’d got himself into this mess, and he had to go through with it, come what might.

  Besides, whether he went or stayed, everyone he knew would soon enough be privy to the tale of his humiliation. He and Charlotte would become the subject of sniggering and gossip in the society pages, rousing her husband to even greater fury – if that were possible. Being killed in a duel with the man began to seem almost the least of the available evils. But what if he survived…? Duelling had been outlawed in England years since, so he’d inevitably face arrest, and perhaps even imprisonment, thus ensuring not only his own disgrace, but that of his family as well. The fact that Charlotte’s husband would also face prison was of little consolation to him, although it might deliver Charlotte from her husband’s cruelty. And if, by some fluke, he managed to kill Winter…God, that didn’t bear thinking about!

  Hunched, shivering, beneath the bedclothes, it seemed to Rufus that all paths seemed certain to lead to disaster. The worst of it was that, despite his anger at Charlotte’s duplicity, he felt equally angry with himself for having abandoned her to her husband instead of rescuing her. Even now, she might be suffering worse violence at his hands, violence any self-respecting lover would at least have tried to prevent. Tossed in a maelstrom of anger and self-recrimination, it seemed to Rufus he would never sleep again.

  Eventually, however, sheer exhaustion sent him into an uneasy slumber and dreams haunted by Charlotte’s bruised, tear-stained face and her husband’s threats of retribution.

  TWO

  Rufus awoke feeling even worse than when he had fallen asleep. His throat was raw, and his tongue felt like old newspaper. With a yawn, he groped around on his bedside table for his watch. Damn! He’d forgotten to remove it from his jacket last night. He sat up, rubbing burning, gritty eyes. His head felt as though a steam train were thundering through it, and when he stood up, the room seemed to spin around him as though he were in the hall of mirrors at a carnival. Steadying himself by means of the furniture, he made his way to the pile of damp clothing in the corner and retrieved his watch. He snapped the cover open to discover it was already past eleven o’clock. With a muttered curse, he stumbled to his dressing table to find a clean shirt and underclothes.

  There was, of course, no water in the jug on the washstand, so he was obliged to fetch some from the bathroom along the hall. It was only after he’d returned, and was splashing icy water on his face and torso, that he recalled Winter’s threat from the night before. His heart lurched and panic gripped him so that he had to clutch at the marble washstand to steady himself. Then he remembered Winter had said his second would call on him that morning. It was nearly mid-day, and no one had called yet. Even with the amount of brandy he’d drunk, he felt sure he’d have woken if someone had knocked on his door. Perhaps Winter had changed his mind. Could he really be that lucky? Rubbing his face with his only more-or-less clean towel, Rufus decided he had no wish to test the proposition. Besides, he hadn’t eaten since dinner the night before, and despite his lack of appetite, he couldn’t help feeling a full stomach might help him to conj
ure up a solution to his problems – or at least to face the inevitable with some degree of equanimity. Deciding to kill two birds with one stone – an unfortunate metaphor, but the best he could manage in his present condition – he tugged on his clothes, applied a perfunctory brush and comb to his damp hair, dug his wallet out of the pocket of his greatcoat, and set out for the Café Royal in Regent Street for breakfast.

  The rain had stopped overnight and the sun was making a feeble attempt to pierce a blanket of grey clouds, but the wind still had a sharp bite to it, and as Rufus threaded his way between the crowds of busy people he found himself wishing he had thought to wear a coat. However, a roaring fire greeted him at the Café Royal, and he found a table close to it and ordered bacon and eggs, toast and marmalade, and a pot of coffee. The sight of the appetising food aroused his hunger, and he settled down to work his way through it.

  Over an hour had elapsed by the time he emerged once more into the chill of Regent Street, and with a decent meal inside him he began to feel more sanguine about the likelihood of a visit from Winter’s second. He was tempted to stave off any potential meeting with the man by going to Hurst’s Club to read the newspapers, but thought better of it; although it seemed unlikely the second would track him down to his club, the last thing he wanted was to risk such a meeting where he was so well known. Instead, he picked up a copy of The Times at a newsstand and set off back to his rooms. With any luck, the dreaded visitor – if he had turned up at all – would have come and gone by now.

  The moment he stepped into the foyer of his lodging house, he realised someone had been there recently; he could still smell traces of pipe smoke. Still, the man who had produced it might have been visiting any one of the tenants. With a shrug, Rufus made his way up the stairs.