by Cari Hislop
Pulling on his overcoat, Geoffrey felt like snake trying to squeeze back into a freshly shed skin. Everything felt wrong. His swordstick in hand he stood on the front steps and gulped in the foul London air. Would she ever miss him half as much as he already missed her? He wanted to rush back inside, gather her close in his arms and never let her go. Thumping his swordstick against the step in frustration he cursed himself and his worthless life. He didn’t deserve his tolerant friend. He drew a ragged breath through clenched teeth as the memory of their dance whirled through his head. How many women had he held in his arms over the years? He must have bed hundreds, but he’d never known any woman to shudder with pleasure from his nearness, not even before he’d lost his looks. A tidal wave of unrelievable need for the woman he’d left behind in the ballroom crashed through his body nearly knocking him to his knees. He gripped his swordstick and waited for the wave to recede. He couldn’t return home to empty rooms devoid of kindness or loving arms. Stepping into the night he let his feet carrying him away to the familiar darkness of an old haunt.
Two hours later Geoffrey sat slumped in a chair glaring at his youthful opponent. The card game had failed to banish her smile, the need to hold her or the oppressive knowledge that he’d ruined his life. He could barely remember the numbers on his cards from one minute to the next as impotent rage simmered under his skin. Looking across the green felt table top at the blonde young man, Geoffrey could only see his angel’s son in twenty years time gambling the roof from over her head. Around the table stood a crowd of emotional vultures watching with fiendish delight as the Duke of Lyndhurst ruined yet again another life. As the young man scribbled on a scrap of paper the remaining possessions he’d recently inherited, the spectators wagered in hushed tones how many minutes before the Devil’s Corpse lost his temper. All the signs were promising it would be soon. As the cards were set on the table the young man blanched. He sat staring with dawning horror as Geoffrey snapped at the spectators, “Leave us!” The vultures moved away to howls and clucks as the winners gestured for their money and the losers reluctantly opened their pocket books.
Geoffrey leaned forward and snarled, “Do you have dependents?”
“Mamma…five sisters…”
“Six females depend upon you and you’ve just lost their home and any hope of happiness? How does that make you feel?”
“I…I…terrible…”
“You’ll feel even more terrible if you have to take the King’s shilling to feed yourself. Of course that would leave your mother and sisters without protection. I hope for their sake you have a large hearted relation with deep pockets. If not they’ll soon be hungry. Do you know how hard it is for a gently bred female to find employment other than prostitution?” The young man blanched a pasty yellow. “There are always alternatives of course, like the river. Are your sisters pretty?”
“Passably…why?” Geoffrey’s frigid stare made the young man break into a sweat and claw at his cravat.
“It so happens I have in the past accepted payment in kind. A man’s daughter or sister in lieu of his vouchers. How does the thought of your prettiest sister lying naked in my bed make you feel?”
The young blonde man flushed puce green and lost his dinner. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and stood up on shaking legs. “I’ll see you in hell first!”
“You’ll find me lolling in the flames soon enough. Sit down, shut up and listen to me. I’m going to give you a choice. You don’t have the brains, skill or funds to be a gambler. You will either give me your word as a gentleman that you’ll never gamble again, or I’ll accept your vouchers and have you and your dependents thrown onto the street tonight. Make your choice.” The colour was flooding back into the young man’s cheeks as he comprehended his luck had finally turned.
“I give you my word as a gentleman that I’ll never gamble again.” He held out his hand. “Can I have my vouchers?”
The young man didn’t appear to realise the seriousness of the situation he’d just escaped. Geoffrey jumped up and grabbed the youth’s cravat. The young man was once again green as Geoffrey held the boy’s eyes. “Listen to me you thoughtless little worm. If I ever hear you’ve gambled a farthing, and make no mistake I’ll hear, I’ll hunt you down and shoot you like a dog. Do you understand? I won’t wait for dawn.”
Colour receded once again from the young man’s face. “Yes Your Grace.”
“Get out of my sight, before I kill you for ruining my evening.” Geoffrey scrunched up the vouchers and threw them across the table and watched as the young man grabbed them and escape as quickly as his shaking legs could carry him. Geoffrey’s satisfaction in his good deed was forgotten as the burning ache lit a painful fire in his chest. Feeling ill, he decided he’d go home and try not to think of the one woman he couldn’t win, inherit, demand or purchase. Taking a hackney cab was less dangerous than walking, but the ill smelling cab only reminded him that his house would be equally lonely, joyless and fetid.
Standing outside his own front door the rage came to a boil. The burning ache was swamped by a degrading sensation of filth, as if he’d just climbed out of the Thames. Stepping inside, he threw his hat into the old man’s hands and stomped up the stairs still wearing his coat. Stamping his stick at his side, his stomach churned as each step refreshed his memory. Countless unhappy faces crowded his brain. He stood for a few moments with his hand on his bedchamber door handle terrified of what he’d find inside. Gathering his courage he jerked it open. Falling back against the door he stared at the Queen Anne bed in disgust. Not a single woman he’d bedded in the last fourteen years had either wanted or enjoyed his company. How many women had he taken in lieu of vouchers before he’d tired of it, five? If his friend knew all the things he’d done she’d never speak to him again. He’d be banished from her sunlight, cast back into the darkness of his own company. The consequences of his past deeds stung his eyes as he lost his own dinner onto the floor. Vile pleasures born of selfish boredom would cost him the one person who might have cared whether he lived or died.
The room blurred as his rage exploded. He couldn’t hear his deep choking sobs, or feel the pain in his arms as he tore apart the room. When he regained his senses he found himself in a mess. Everything that could be destroyed with his hands or his swordstick was covered with feathers from the mattress, shredded garments and torn pages from Clarissa. Smaller pieces of furniture lay in pieces ready to be thrown on a fire. The only things left intact were the large heavy wardrobe, ancient bedstead and the ruby encrusted jewellery he’d shoved into his overcoat pocket. Tearing the ruby ring off his finger he winced in disgust as it joined the rest of his rubies. Wiping his face on his sleeve he yanked open his bedchamber door to find his servants cowering outside with fear filled faces.
“Prepare me the guest chamber; I won’t use this room again.” His voice was flat. “Tomorrow morning, take everything from this room. Chop it up and burn it in the garden. If it won’t burn, throw it in the Thames. I want a bath and if I’m not red when I climb out of the water you’ll all be sacked.” Feet were running before he could shout for them to hurry. Alone again with his abhorrent memories, Geoffrey crushed an overwhelming impulse to rush back to his friend. The room blurred again; he didn’t deserve sunlight or kindness and if she knew all the things he’d done she’d never smile at him again.
Chapter 7
After two agonising weeks Tolerance sent a third note enquiring after her friend’s health and wondered if messages sent to the Lyndhurst townhouse were finding their way to wherever the Duke actually lived, but the waiting finally came to an end. As she sorted her morning post into piles, time seemed to stop as she read her name and directions in a strange elegant scribble. She didn’t recognise the seal stamped in the globule of red wax. With shaking hands she picked up her letter-knife and carefully severed the seal from the paper. The ivory knife fell forgotten to the floor as she held the half open paper to her nose and inhaled a familiar musty scent. She blinked ba
ck tears of relief and held her breath as she unfolded the letter.
My tolerant friend,
Thank you for thinking of me. I’ve not been well. I’ve seen a dozen mountebanks, quacks and doctors, but they all say they can find nothing wrong with me. They think I’m going mad and I fear they’re right. I wish I was worthy to request a private interview, but I’m not. If you give me permission I’ll send you a letter detailing my symptoms in the hope you may know someone who can help me. I’ve instructed a servant to await your reply.
Sincerely,
Lyndhurst
Tolerance hurriedly set the letter to one side and grabbed a pen and paper, splashing ink all over her desk in her haste. The sooner he received it, the sooner he’d come. She didn’t bother to seal it as she folded the paper in four and wrote his name in large letters before running to the front door and pulling it open herself.
“Young man, who do you work for?”
“Lyndhurst Ma’am.”
“Take this to your Master at once.” He was running before she could dig a coin out of her pocket. Shutting the door she gave instructions that she was home to no one but the Duke of Lyndhurst and that if he called he was to be brought directly to her study. She ignored their raised eyebrows and rushed back upstairs to change. Whispers travelled room to room; the virtuous Widow Spencer was about to succumb to an ugly rake-hell.
Wearing her favourite blue day dress, her long pale hair neatly pulled back into a knot, she was staring out her study’s window at the rain counting backwards from three thousand when she heard the front door open and close. Her heart started pounding as she lost count. Smoothing her skirts, she licked her lips and turned to face the door as she heard the footman knock before opening. “The Duke of Lyndhurst to see you Madam.” She stepped forward to greet her friend, but halted in shock. She’d seen that look before; he was dying. Blinking back tears she blindly made her way to his side and held out her hand. He hesitated before kissing her fingers as the door closed firmly with a loud click.
“You should be in bed! If I’d known you were this ill…”
“Sleep is hell. I woke up at five and thankfully remained awake. Are you sure you wish to receive me like this? I could write a letter…”
“No, don’t go! I mean, please stay. Let me help you.”
“I don’t deserve your kindness.” He leaned on her as she helped him to a chair near her desk.
“Rubbish! If you were a black cat crossing my path I’d think you an omen of good luck, even if you were a starving stray with fleas. You don’t have fleas do you?”
“No, though I do resemble a starving stray.”
“Well that’s a piece of good luck. There are few things more maddening than needing to scratch in the middle of a visit and I’ve always had a weakness for strays.”
“That is lucky…at least for me.”
Tolerance covered her sadness by lightly feeling his forehead and then his pulse. “You’re definitely alive Your Grace. That’s a good sign. Have you any unmentionable symptoms you felt honour bound not to mention to the doctor?”
“No. I’ve used…” He flushed dark red. “…shields since I was twenty-two, except with…virgins.”
Tolerance coughed over her embarrassment. “I see, but there may have been a virgin who wasn’t a virgin.”
“No.”
“And before you were twenty-two?”
“There was only Lady Pelham, like a thousand other young fools. It was a miracle I didn’t end up with the pox.”
“Has your apothecary been selling you large bottles of laudanum or any other tinctures?” She pressed the back of her hand to his gaunt cheek to reassure herself he really was sitting in front of her staring at her like he was seeing a heavenly vision. “Your Grace?”
Chapter 8
Geoffrey’s eyes were forcibly recalled from her lips back to her eyes. “Have you been taking any tinctures my Lord? Some quacks sell poison labelled ‘The Elixir of Life’.”
“None of them helped. Would you…I mean I’d be honoured if you’d use my Christian name. My name is Geoffrey.” She looked stunned, as if he’d given her a diamond necklace. “You don’t have to if it makes you uncomfortable.”
“Why can’t you sleep Geoffrey?”
He’d never heard his name spoken with tender concern. He almost forgot why he’d come. “There’s a dull burning ache in my chest that continues night and day and it’s not from eating the wrong foods either. Those damn fool doctors wanted to bleed me dry.” He clutched at the area over his heart. “It gnaws when I sleep. It gnaws when I wake from the nightmares…”
“When did the ache start?”
“After I left you at the ball. The truth is I’ve become a worthless worm…” His chest constricted making him gasp for breath at the pain. He abruptly stood folding his arms and turning walked away to hide his distress. “I shouldn’t have come, but I can’t bear much more and I don’t know what to do. Knowing my presence will ruin you makes me feel worse.”
“Do you feel unclean on the inside?”
He turned around and stared at her in relief. “I’ve had three baths this morning. I scrubbed my skin raw and I still feel like someone’s dumped a chamber pot over my head. What is it?”
“I’m afraid you’re suffering from a very bad case of guilt.”
“Guilt?” He shook his head in disbelief. “This can’t be guilt; it’s killing me.”
She stood up and touched his arm. “I can help you, but you’ll have to tell me what you’ve done.”
His mouth fell open as he stared at her in horror. “No. Never!”
“Let me help you.”
Geoffrey squirmed as temptation battled his empty heart. He’d do almost anything to end the abhorrent sensations, but if she knew… He could see no choice, but death. He turned away from her to hide his distress. “You’d hate me.”
“I’m not going to hate you Geoffrey.”
“You will. I hate me! There’s no point confessing my sins if it means I’ll die a friendless wretch.” He started for the door, but she rushed past him and flung herself against obstructing his exit.
“Sit down!” Geoffrey froze in surprise. He hadn’t been ordered to do anything by anyone in years. “You’ll have to remove me physically and then I’ll order my servants to drag you back in here and man the door until I feel you’re not going to do anything rash.” His affronted pride was forgotten as it sank in that she cared if he lived or died. He took a deep breath and stared into kind determined eyes. To move her he’d have to touch her. If he touched her he’d pull her into his arms and kiss her. If he kissed her she’d have to be saved by her servants and he’d be thrown out of her life. Averting his eyes from her defiant concern he returned to his seat, covered his face with his hands and listened as her chair creaked as she pulled it up to her desk. A drawer was opened, closed and then a soft scraping revealed she was reshaping a quill pen. “Geoffrey…?”
“Yes?” The word was a sigh of misery.
“What have you done?”
“There isn’t much I haven’t done at least once for the hell of it.”
The quill pen was dipped into the inkwell. “Have you ever planned and carried out a murder?”
“No, though ten or so years ago I lost an angel. I tried to drink away the memory, but I was so angry I may have murdered hundreds of irritating people, I don’t remember.”
“Have you ever killed anyone in a duel?”
“Yes.”
“What was his name?”
Geoffrey looked up with horror, “What do you need names for?”
“I’ll tell you when we’ve finished.”
The calmness of her reply was disorienting. “Perry, Bascombe, Darling…what are you doing?” The panic in his voice made him cringe as her pen scratched across the paper.
