by Juliana Gray
“I can’t imagine what you mean,” Stefanie said.
Hatherfield bestowed a fond glance on the top of her head. “My dear Stephen. Such ironic wit. Did you enjoy today’s proceedings, Mr. Wright?”
“I found them rather distasteful, in fact. That Northcote fellow ought to be hanged.”
Hatherfield smoothed his well-tailored sleeve. “Forbidden love is not to your taste, then? You’ve never felt the harsh shadow of society’s disapproval on your choice of companion?”
“I disapprove of adultery, Lord Hatherfield, and whatever the actual facts of the case, adultery itself is not in dispute.”
Hatherfield sighed and looked lyrically into Stefanie’s eyes. “One cannot choose whom one loves.”
“I beg to differ. One chooses what one bloody well decides to choose.” Mr. Wright’s voice matched his expression: as hard as marble.
“Ah, Mr. Wright. A man who can say that doesn’t know what it means to love.” He raised his chest for another sigh.
Stefanie cut it short. “What nonsense, Lord Hatherfield. I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean. And I really believe I must be going; Sir John will shortly require my assistance.” She peered through the crowd, as if expecting it to part and release her employer. Which, alas, it showed no signs of doing.
“Ah, work. What a ghastly word.” Hatherfield shook his head. “I suppose you arrived here today for a respite yourself, Mr. Wright?”
“On the contrary. I had business here this afternoon.”
“What sort of business?”
“I believe I’m conducting it right now, your lordship.”
“Oh? I can’t think what you mean. Are you speaking of the trial? Do you have a personal interest in our naughty dustman and his affairs? I urge you to discretion, as my dear Stephen is employed for the defense.”
“My interest is not with the dustman. But I believe I have taken enough of your valuable time, Lord Hatherfield. My questions have been answered to my satisfaction, or rather to my dissatisfaction.”
“Really?” Hatherfield spread his hands. “What question was that, Mr. Wright?”
“A certain rumor that had reached my ears. Of no consequence, really. I am not a man to be denied by mere trifles.” He lifted his hat. “Good day, your lordship. Good day, Mr. Thomas.”
He raked Stefanie over with his sharp black eyes, and melted into the crowd.
“What,” said Stefanie, turning to Hatherfield, her face flushed hot enough to boil water, “the bloody hell was that?”
“Oh, Mr. Wright? An old friend.”
“The way you were speaking to him. That tone of voice.” She looked at the carnation in his buttonhole. She hadn’t really noticed it before. How long had he been sporting such a thing? All winter? And his waistcoat. She thought it rather handsome, in fact, when she troubled herself to contemplate the clothes he was wearing, rather than the promising expanse of masculine bone and muscle that lay beneath.
But pink? With all those stripes?
Whatever did he mean by it?
“If you must know,” said Hatherfield, “my father, or rather my stepmother, owes Mr. Wright a rather large sum of money. I believe they found the means to put him off for a few months, but he likes to turn up now and again, to make sure I haven’t forgotten the obligation.”
“But it’s not your obligation, is it?”
“It will be, eventually, won’t it?” Hatherfield was gazing thoughtfully at the spot where Mr. Wright had disappeared a moment earlier.
An awful suspicion took hold of Stefanie’s heart. Hadn’t she wondered all these weeks about his scruples, about his refusal to engage her affection, to even speak of an understanding between them, even this morning when he had indisputably demonstrated his attraction to her? And he was a son with a father still living, in expectation but without possession yet of his inheritance.
She leaned an inch or two closer. “Hatherfield, look at me. Are you in need of funds?”
He turned to her with an expression of mild horror. “Good heavens, Stephen. What a question. Of course not.”
“Because . . . it doesn’t matter.” How could she phrase this, in a corridor full of people? She said, in a brusque voice, as if discussing the weather, “As it happens, I have a fortune.”
“A fortune? How clever of you. Of no concern to me, however. Did you happen to regard the expression on your client’s face, as the prosecution was listing his sins? They put the matter so tidily, I was tempted to string him up on the spot.”
“Luckily, he has Sir John to defend him, or he would be at the mercy of the instant judgment of men like yourself,” she said acidly.
Hatherfield looked away again, into the distance. “Yes. How good of him.”
“Without a fair defense for all, our system of justice is nothing.”
“Indeed. Do you have your note ready?”
Someone crashed into Stefanie’s back, began to swear, and caught the expression on Hatherfield’s face. “I beg your pardon, sirs!” he said, white-faced, and hurried away.
Stefanie tried to speak softly. “The note to my sister?”
“Yes. I shall endeavor to deliver it this week.” He was still looking away. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
“This week? Why not tonight?”
“Because I have also received an interesting communication of my own on the matter. Something that rather changes the rules of the game entirely.”
He said the words so calmly, it took Stefanie a second or two to understand his meaning. Her blood jumped in her veins. She had to restrain herself from dropping the papers again and grasping his arm. “A message! What sort of message? From my sister?”
He slid a square card from his pocket and handed it to her.
The Duke of Olympia
requests the honor of your attendance
Wednesday, the twenty-first of February
at eight o’clock in the evening
to celebrate the Engagement of his Niece
Her Royal Highness,
the Princess Emilie of Holstein-Schweinwald-Huhnhof
to His Grace, the Duke of Ashland
She looked up. “Oh, Hatherfield! Do you think . . .”
“You’re not going.”
“The devil I’m not!”
“We will discuss this elsewhere.”
“But . . .”
“Elsewhere, Stephen.” His voice went dark.
Sir John broke through the crowd at that instant. “Good Lord, what a crush. Like one of your stepmother’s damned parties, Hatherfield. Is my carriage ready?”
“Yes, sir,” said Stefanie.
“Excellent.” He struck out in the direction of the doorway, without even bothering to ascertain whether the two of them were following him. He lifted his wig from his head and thrust it into his briefcase. An attendant swung open the door before him just in time to avoid being steamrolled. “You will join us for dinner in Cadogan Square, of course, won’t you, Hatherfield?” he said, over his shoulder.
“Of course.” He shook Sir John’s hand. “Good afternoon, sir. Your usual fine performance in court today, defending the indefensible.”
“Why, thank you, sir,” said Sir John, with genuine pleasure. He paused, and Stefanie could have sworn that his jowls made a disapproving waggle. “Is that a pink carnation in your buttonhole, Lord Hatherfield? In February?”
The marquess looked down, smiled, and adjusted the flower. “Why, yes, Sir John. Yes, it is.”
By the time Hatherfield arrived back at his rooms, Nelson had already laid out his soap and razor and dinner dress. He shaved and dressed and sleeked his hair neatly back. His scrubbed face gazed back at him from the mirror. How he had once hated that face. As a young man on the brink of adulthood, he had often longed to take that razor in his hand and slash away at all that perfection, all that symmetry and beauty. Surely a few good scars would do the trick.
He was glad, now, that he had not. He had this to give Stefanie, at leas
t. Surely his beautiful face would compensate, in some small way, for the rot within.
Before leaving the room, he removed a set of papers from the false back of his shaving mirror and stared at them thoughtfully. There were fourteen in total. They had begun arriving at the end of November, written in an ornate and foreign hand, unsigned. The message was roughly the same, every time. The last one, delivered the previous Monday, read: You and your pretty friend made a fine couple out ride in the park yesterday. The chestnut who bore your friend has being poison and is now dying. Good day.
A knock on the door.
“Nelson, I am not to be disturbed. I shall call you when I require your assistance.”
“Sir, it’s your father.”
Hatherfield sighed and shuffled the papers together. “Tell him I’m out.”
The door swung open. “I heard that, you dog.”
“Father.” Hatherfield slipped the papers into his bureau drawer and turned wearily to the doorway, where his father stood in dinner dress, hair sleek and collar blinding. “I see you’ve returned to town. Have the charms of the country grown flat already?”
“I had business, and your mother wished to consult with her dressmaker.”
Hatherfield nodded at the duke’s tailcoat. “I’m afraid I’m already engaged.”
“How delightful it is to return to town after a two months’ absence, to be greeted by the usual excess of filial affection.”
Hatherfield braced his arms against the bureau and leaned back. “I daresay you’d shrink away, these days, if I dared to approach you with my corrupt embrace.”
“True.” The duke folded his arms. “I only came to see for myself whether you’ve returned to your senses and your duty.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I remain as I was in November.”
“I understand from a mutual friend that you have been making a public spectacle of yourself with that boy of yours.”
“I see.” Hatherfield lifted his hand and tapped his chin. “Allow me to hazard a guess. Had this business of yours anything to do with Mr. Wright and Her Grace’s gambling debt? Is your period of grace nearly at an end? I can only imagine how you contrived to fob him off in November.”
“Mr. Wright was kind enough to allow us additional time.”
“To convince me to marry his sister?”
“His sister!” The duke started.
Hatherfield turned to the shaving mirror and inspected the perfection of his white bow tie. “Didn’t you realize? I spotted it at an instant. Mr. Wright is the natural son of Lady Charlotte’s esteemed father. Which makes you and Her Grace . . . oh, what the devil is that word . . . something to do with chess . . . give me a moment, it’s on the tip of my tongue . . . oh yes. That’s it.” He turned and fixed his father with a stony glare. “Pawns.”
The Duke of Southam’s face flushed an extraordinary shade of pink. “Nonsense.”
“I will not be maneuvered into this marriage, Father. If you wish to dance at the end of Wright’s puppet strings, I won’t stop you. But I won’t be dragged into the damned show myself. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an engagement.”
“With that boy,” Southam spat.
“Yes. With that boy. How do I look, Father? As handsome as ever? Good. I should hate for my physical charms to fade, and leave me with nothing.” He struck out past Southam without pausing.
“Wait, Hatherfield . . .”
“Can’t, Father. I’m already late.” Hatherfield found his overcoat on the hall stand.
The duke hurried behind him. “Your mother and I are holding a party next week. In Belgrave Square. The twenty-first.”
“Isn’t that the same evening as that royal affair at Olympia’s?”
“Yes, it is. Your mother thinks . . .”
“Aha. Let me guess. Your Graces were not invited to the ball, were you?”
“Some damned mix-up, I’m sure. In any case, she wishes to hold a party of her own . . .”
Hatherfield threw back his head and laughed. “Oh God. I can picture it. Enraged, insulted, she decides she’ll show them up, she’ll call in every favor and ensure that Olympia’s party is a complete failure.”
“In any case, we—I—would very much like you to attend.”
Hatherfield buttoned the last button and turned. “Why?”
“What the devil does that mean? Because you’re my son. Our son.”
“Oh, rubbish. You can’t bear the sight of me.” Hatherfield spun his cane elegantly. “I prefer the company of my own choosing, as it happens.”
“Bring him, then! Bring your . . . your friend,” Southam said breathlessly. As if he were pleading.
Hatherfield paused. He peered curiously into his father’s eyes, which were wide and a bit too gleaming, a bit desperate. He said quietly, “What are you up to, Father?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all. A party, that’s all, a masquerade, and I would like for my son to attend, for once. People are talking about our estrangement, and I want the world to know that . . . that . . .” His wobbly old throat swallowed. “That there is no estrangement. That we accept you and . . . and what you are. As I said, your friend is welcome.”
“His name is Stephen. Stephen Thomas.”
“Mr. Thomas is welcome to accompany you.”
Hatherfield fingered his cane and regarded the duke’s face, the angry flush now faded to an unwholesome winter pallor. In his mind, the picture of his father was frozen in time, a duke at the height of his power, strong shouldered and firm jawed, his hair dark and thick and his eyes glinting with confidence. Who was this old man, and when had he draped himself over the Duke of Southam’s frame? The jowls swung low, the hair hung thin and white, the eyes crinkled with weary uncertainty. Even those doughty shoulders, which once seemed to brace the entirety of the British Empire, now sloped at a defeated angle.
Obviously something was up. The Duke of Southam did not retreat from his entrenched positions; he did not forgive or forget; he did not welcome prodigal sons back to the Belgrave Square fold. Hatherfield knew this. He knew there was a noose there somewhere, into which he was placing his neck.
But he had never yet known the noose from which he could not escape.
And those defeated shoulders. That wobbly neck.
“A masquerade, eh?” he said.
“Yes. Everybody loves a masquerade, apparently.”
Hatherfield fixed his hat more securely on his head. “Very well, Father. I’ll put it in my diary. And now, I’m afraid you really must excuse me. My engagement is a pressing one.”
He stood back, ushered his father through the door, and marched down the stairs to his hansom, which waited for him on the corner.
SIXTEEN
One week later
The westward traffic had already begun to thicken, and it was nearly five o’clock by the time the Marquess of Hatherfield’s black hansom turned around the corner of Southam Terrace, Hammersmith, and came to a stop before the first house. “Wait here,” he told the driver, and he leapt briskly to the beaten earth, where the pavement was marked out in stakes and long brown string. From within the buildings, in their various states of completion, came the echoing sound of hammers and shouts.
“Lord Hatherfield!” A rough-bearded man strode out the open door of the first house, tugging his cuffs down his frayed jacket sleeve. His gaze dropped for an instant to the carnation in Hatherfield’s buttonhole. “There you are. Hoped my message would catch up with you before the evening.”
“Mr. Brookside.” He shook his manager’s outstretched hand. “What seems to be the trouble? I left everything tight enough a few hours ago.”
“Well, that’s the thing, your lordship. Right and tight it was, until I came back after lunch when the new bricks was being delivered for the facing of numbers ten and twelve, sir.” He nodded down the street, where the neat redbrick facades gave way to open timber framing. A pair of workers sat smoking on the stoop, staring at the stacks of bricks in the yard.
>
Hatherfield frowned. “There was trouble with the bricks?”
“Oh, the bricks was sound enough, sir. Best quality bricks, just as you directed. But there was only half of them. Half of what we ordered last week.”
“Only half? Why? Some sort of shortage?”
Mr. Brookside’s whiskers twitched voluminously. “Come along inside, sir.”
Hatherfield followed the manager inside number two. The entrance hall was nearly finished, smelling of fresh paint and plaster; the electric chandelier sat in its wooden crate in the corner, waiting for hanging tomorrow. In a week or two, the house would be fully fitted up and furnished, pillows plumped and table laid, ready to serve as a model for prospective buyers. Just that morning, Hatherfield had inspected the plumbing in the bathroom and the W.C., had tested the hot and cold taps and the flush of the handsome wooden-seated commode, had gone into the boiler closet for a look at the newfangled beast squatting there with its dials and pipes. Central heating in every one of his houses, the most modern sanitary systems, electric wiring and refrigeration: He wanted his terrace to feature every possible convenience, every innovation for improved light and ventilation, for health and safety.
And, with luck, a flood of eager buyers on the half-finished doorsteps of Southam Terrace.
Mr. Brookside led the way into a small room off the kitchen, which was meant to serve as a pantry, and which currently did duty as a building office. “Your lordship,” he said, fingering a stack of papers, “may I ask a private question?”
“You may, and I shall choose whether or not to answer it.” Hatherfield crossed his arms and regarded Brookside’s nervous movements with curiosity. His manager was not ordinarily a nervous man; Hatherfield had hired him firstly for his reputation for honesty and fair dealing, and secondly for his air of unshakable self-assurance.
“Are you having financial troubles of any kind, sir?” Brookside’s gaze met his at last.
“None relevant to this project,” said Hatherfield.
“Funding all in place, that is?”
“Yes. Ample funding, between my own capital and the loans I’ve secured on the property.” Hatherfield removed his gloves. They’d turned on the central heating last week, and the contrast between the February chill outside and the warmth within caused his hands and arms and back to prickle with perspiration. “Why do you ask?”
