~~~~
They were safe.
It was all he could do not to send Crusader galloping off down the street in relief. The weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders and he had his life back, if only temporarily. No wife, no baby, no responsibility, nothing. It was wonderful! It was liberating! It was ... strange. And with every stride that Crusader put behind them, Gareth grew more and more confused, not knowing whether to celebrate his newfound freedom — as was his first impulse — or drown the weird and underlying sense of loss that went with it in a bottle of whiskey. Normally, he would've rejoiced. But now ... now, as his anger began to abate (maybe it really was his fault they'd lost the money; after all, he had been the one to put it in the pocket) and Crusader carried him farther and farther away from his wife and daughter, he wasn't so sure. He felt empty, confused, and almost a little lost without them.
What the devil was the matter with him?
He slowed the horse to a walk. The wind flung a sheet of rain into his face as he turned the corner and made his way through Hanover Square. He pulled his tricorn low, watching the water spout from its peaked front in a little stream that splashed the pommel of the saddle and raced down the dark, drenched leather. Steam, and the strong scent of horse, rose from Crusader's wet hide as the big hunter moved easily beneath him. What a godawful, hellish night.
He went south, uncertain where to go, what to do. He was wet, miserable, and cold, and his momentary relief (he could not quite call it euphoria) at having no one to worry about save himself was already fading. He tried to resurrect it. No use. He considered going to his club on St. James but decided on second thought that that might not be such a good idea. Soaked, unshaven, and looking like the worst sort of riff-raff, he was in no shape to rub elbows with the elegant gentlemen at White's. Besides, he had no money.
No money.
Fear snaked through him, and for the first time, the extreme gravity of the situation hit him.
He had no money!
What was he going to do?
He could ask his friends if they could lend him something, but that idea came with its own dead ends. For one thing, he had no idea where any of the Den members were. For another, most of them weren't in any better a financial state than he was, save Perry, who — unlike the others — had come into his inheritance and therefore had blunt to burn.
Perry. Yes, he'd seek him out. Good old Perry would help him.
He turned Crusader down St. James toward White's. The street was wet and shiny with rain, the windows of the various clubs glowing a warm and welcoming gold through the sheets of water pouring out of the black sky. He looked at them wistfully. How he longed to go inside his own, to shed his drenched clothes and spend the night drying out before the fire, but he wouldn't be caught dead inside, looking the way he did. It was embarrassing enough just to have to walk up the steps to inquire after his friend.
The answer, when it came, was grim. No, Lord Brookhampton was not there; he had left an hour before with a group of his friends. Gareth knew just what friends Perry must've left with. He swore and continued on, soaked and miserable and never needing those friends as much as he needed them now.
He went straight to Brookhampton House, where Perry's mother told him her son was abed, then slammed the door in his face. He went to his other friends' town houses, and was given a similar reception by their mothers, who had listened too much to Perry's, bore grudges against him, or just plain thought him a bad influence on their darling sons.
By one in the morning, he was shivering and hungry. By two, he was getting a sore throat. He continued on, numb with fatigue and growing despair. By three, exhaustion had caught up with him, and he began to wander aimlessly. He rode to Grosvenor Square, back to Hanover Square, up and down Pall Mall and Piccadilly endless times. No Cokeham, no Chilcot, no Audlett, nobody. Huddled against the cold rain, he turned Crusader north once more, the horse's hoofbeats echoing against the dark and silent buildings that lined Albemarle Street. A young urchin slid out of the shadows begging for a penny, and Gareth, feeling as miserable as the lad looked, reached into his pocket for a coin, forgetting that it was long since empty. The boy cursed him furiously, spit at Crusader's feet and fled back into the rainy night. Gareth was alone once more.
With no other recourse, he let the big hunter carry him back to the mews near Bruton Street. The building was damp and cold, but at least it was shelter from the rain that sheeted down outside. Shivering, he pulled the wet saddle from Crusader's steaming back, rubbed him down with a few handfuls of straw, and, carrying the saddle, stumbled wearily to a corner, where he tossed the tack to the stone floor and stood contemplating it for a moment, so tired that he could not muster a single coherent thought from the jumble of meaninglessness they'd all become.
In a stupor of fatigue, he scraped and kicked a few bits of old straw together over the uneven floor. Then he lowered himself to the cold damp stone, pulling his drenched surtout up over his shoulders and resting his head against the saddle. Beneath him, the stone reeked of horse manure and felt like a slab of ice. Trails of cold water still drizzled from his hair and down his neck. He had never been so miserable in his life.
Exhaustion eventually won out. His eyes drifted shut and Lord Gareth de Montforte fell into a deep and troubled sleep.
The Wild One Page 46
