by Liz Carlyle
At the Satyr’s Club, Rothewell spent the early afternoon being entertained in one of the lounges by a nearly bare-bottomed lass named Periwinkle whose primary skill appeared to be—as the Duke of Warneham would later describe it to his wife—giggling and sipping the club’s cheap champagne whilst squirming about on Rothewell’s lap.
The duke looked around the tawdry room and felt his skin crawl. On the opposite end of the lounge, a pair of nightingales at the pianoforte were feigning refinement by singing a duet from a comic opera currently popular in the West End. A third was attempting to step through the dance which went with it, but having little success despite the crowd of men who cheered her on.
The establishment was a far cry from St. James’s bastions of upper-class masculinity, such as White’s Club. Here, the musty velvet draperies and poor lighting aside, one could plainly see the furniture was worn. The walls were hung with faded silk, and the carpets possessed several suspicious stains. The place reeked of sex and of sin—and of several less savory things. It was quite obviously designed for the sort of man who did not give a damn about ambience or class. The sort of man who preferred to sate his passions and drown his soul with life’s darker pleasures. A man like Rothewell.
“Thank you, no,” said Gareth when Periwinkle attempted to spread her assets around. “My wife would likely have my fingernails ripped out.”
This sentiment served merely to make Periwinkle laugh so hard some of the champagne went up her nose and she had to excuse herself.
“This really is perfectly disgusting,” Gareth complained to Rothewell, who had one arm slung carelessly along the back of the settee. “Half-naked girls dancing and singing—and the fully naked ones just a staircase away. Not to mention the whiff of opium I caught round by that back parlor.”
“Opium?” Languidly, Rothewell extracted a cheroot from its silver case.
“Oh, don’t come the innocent with me, Kieran!” Gareth snapped. “You cannot be at sea for as long as I was and not know the stench of that vile scourge. I did not know London had been so tainted by it.”
“Indeed?” Rothewell looked supremely bored.
“And in Limehouse, for God’s sake,” Gareth continued. “What kind of gentlemen come out here, anyway? I think, Kieran, that you should go home to your wife.”
Rothewell surveyed him from beneath heavily hooded eyes and drew on his cheroot. “You may be henpecked, old chap, but I don’t intend to be,” he finally replied. “Besides, who invited you to follow me here? I was trying to escape you and your damned moralizing.”
“So you are merely making a point? You wish to show your new wife who’s in charge? Is that it?”
Rothewell was quiet for a moment. “I’m beginning as I mean to go on,” he finally said. “I don’t wish my wife to harbor any fantasies. My marriage is not like yours, Gareth. It is not a love match.”
“No, and it never will be if you ‘mean to go on’ like this.” Gareth waved an arm about the room. “Why would you want this, Kieran, when you haven’t even attempted to make something better with her? Perhaps it isn’t to be—God knows I’m not naïve about such things—but you’ll never know if you don’t try. Instead, you are already trying to escape her.”
“Better? What will be better for her is never to be disappointed.” Rothewell had begun to tap one finger upon the back of the sofa. “Besides, women ask too many questions.”
The duke looked at him pointedly. “What kinds of questions? And what harm would it do you to simply answer them?”
Rothewell remained impassive. “I don’t have to answer your questions, either.”
The duke glowered at him. “You do not need to, Kieran,” he snapped. “I know the answers. You come here because this is what you think you deserve. And because you wish to be numbed by the wretched excess of it.”
Abruptly, Rothewell jerked to his feet. “Bugger off, Gareth,” he said, heading toward the door.
The duke sighed, and rose. “Always so eloquent! Where are you going now?”
“To Soho,” the baron snapped. “To play cards. And don’t follow me, damn you. I don’t want a bloody nursemaid.”
But Rothewell was to find no peace in Soho, either. There was an especially pernicious gaming hell he favored beneath a tobacconist’s shop just off Carlisle Street. The dark little hole of a place was run by a retired blackleg with no ears by the name of Straight—which he wasn’t—whilst the shop upstairs fronted for a notorious fence from Seven Dials who dealt stolen watches and snuffboxes out the back.
Rothewell still wasn’t sure what had happened to Eddie Straight’s ears—and didn’t really want to know—but he knew the hell drew just the right sort of crowd if a man wished to avoid the petty yammerings of the beau monde. Save for the occasional young buck on a lark, the ton never darkened doors like Straight’s. And since it was a good way to get a shiv in the back, no one at Straight’s ever asked a man questions, either.
Rothewell found himself a trio of disreputable cohorts—East End sharpers whose tricks he already knew—who were in want of a fourth for their table. Then, whilst tossing off the better part of a decanter of brandy, he proceeded to throw away some two or three hundred pounds over the course of a few hours. He did not care enough to actually keep count. And that, he knew, was fatal.
The mantel clock struck midnight. Rothewell tossed down his hand and stabbed out his cheroot. “Gentlemen,” he said, using the term liberally, “fortune has forsaken me tonight.”
“That may be,” said Pettinger, the chap holding the bank. “But there were some remarkable rumors going round Lufton’s earlier this evening.”
“What sort of rumors?” demanded one of the other men.
“Rumors which suggested that Rothewell had had some very good fortune yesterday,” he chortled. “If Valigny is to be believed.”
Rothewell felt his jaw twitch. “Valigny is almost never to be believed, Pettinger,” he snapped. “You’ve played cards with him often enough to know that.”
Pettinger laughed. “Very true! But tell us, Rothewell, was he lying this time?”
Rothewell rose abruptly. He did not like the suggestion in Pettinger’s tone. “You may congratulate me, gentlemen,” he replied. “I have had the honor of making Valigny’s daughter my wife. Now if you will excuse me, I believe I shall try my hand at the dice.”
Rothewell bowed to the sharpers and retreated to the hazard table.
“Gawd save ’im,” he heard one say as he departed. “The chit must be a reg’lar gorgon.”
It was a fair assumption, Rothewell admitted to himself. And it was like vinegar to his stinging wounds—the ones Gareth had already inflicted. People were already speculating about his wife, he grudgingly admitted, when the fault lay not with her, but with him. A reasonable man—a man wed under convivial and happy circumstances—would have been at home with his bride.
At the hazard table, Rothewell found himself leaning into the action as if he cared, but placing minimal bets unthinkingly. Inside, he was seething—at himself, and at Valigny. That goddamned jumped up Frog had spies everywhere.
Who else, he wondered, was busy leaping to unfair assumptions about Camille? It was the one thing, illogically, which he had not considered when stalking out of the house this morning. He had not wished to bring that down upon her. She would have trouble enough as it was, he expected, before their marriage was over. And then, if the story of Valigny’s card game ever got out…good Lord. Camille would be utterly humiliated. And all of it—all of it—would be partly his fault.
He was jolted from his contemplations by a nudging elbow. “Stamp ’em, Rothewell,” said the young man impatiently, shoving the dice box into his hand. “You’re casting.”
Pettinger, who had followed him to the table, promptly laid a hundred pounds against him. Someone across the table gave a low whistle.
“Gentlemen?” Rothewell lifted his eyebrows. “Anyone else have so little faith in me?”
The remaining be
ts were laid and finished. Rothewell promptly tossed out double fours.
“Eight!” said the man at the head of the table. “That’s the main.”
Rothewell hesitated. He had the sense luck wasn’t with him tonight. But now it was too late to pass. With a flick of his wrist, he sent the dice smacking against the opposite rail.
“Bloody hell!” someone uttered. “Eleven!”
Rothewell groaned, and many of the spectators with him. The throw meant an automatic loss for him. At least his punishment had not been drawn-out, and his death had been swift. What more could a man hope for in the end?
Rothewell passed the dice box, and wished the next fellow luck. After that, he watched and bet haphazardly for a time, but his heart was not in it. He began to drink more earnestly. Oh, he’d been drinking all evening. But now it felt more like a plan than a pastime.
He soon gave up hazard altogether and took his brandy to a dark and empty corner where he could sulk and smoke alone. But restlessness and dissatisfaction still pricked at him like a sharp needle. Gareth had been wrong, he realized. It wasn’t Camille he was trying to escape. It was himself.
When the brandy was half-gone and the crowd twice as thick, Rothewell gave up all pretense of contentment. Tonight, for whatever reason, he simply did not belong here. Even half-sotted, he found nothing in this place to tempt him. He shoved his glass away with the back of his hand and prepared to rise.
“Rothewell!”
He looked up to see a lean, elegant figure waving as he slipped through the crowd toward his table. Rothewell cursed beneath his breath. Good God. He really was not in the mood for this.
George Kemble was looking extraordinarily well—but then he always did. “You, here at Eddie’s?” Kemble flapped his hand at the thick cloud of smoke. “A little too refined for your tastes, I should have said.”
Rothewell scowled at the insult but didn’t bother to throttle him as he might have with a lesser man. Kemble was a friend of his sister’s—and, he supposed, of his. Though the last time they’d seen one another, Kemble had stolen his phaeton and his two best horses on a whim.
“I ought to choke the breath of life from you, Kem,” he said. “But today, old chap, is your lucky day. I haven’t enough ambition in me to kill anyone.”
Kemble lifted both eyebrows and pulled out a chair. “Well, they do say marriage tames a man,” he said, sitting down uninvited. “But a great, strapping stallion such as yourself? Rothewell, you disappoint. And you look at death’s door, by the way.”
“Queue up, damn you, if you mean to complain about it.” Rothewell shoved his glass away. “It’ll be a dashed long wait.”
Kemble feigned a chiding expression. “I do hope you’ve not taken up the Chinese vice, dear boy,” he said. “The Satyr’s Club is rife with it.”
“I’m ill-humored, not witless.” Rothewell pushed the brandy bottle toward him. “Here. Have the rest of this swill. It will occupy your tongue.”
Kemble wrinkled his nose. “Surely you jest? I wouldn’t even drink Eddie’s water if I saw it running out the pipe with my own two eyes. But everyone knows you haven’t any standards.” He scowled at the label. “My God. You really are sick. This is tolerable Frog water.”
“Then drink it, and be quiet,” he said. “What are you doing in here anyway?”
Kemble’s smile was muted. “Never ask such things, old boy,” he answered, wagging a finger. “That way you’ll never be an accessory after the fact.”
Rothewell snorted. “A friend of Straight’s, are you?”
“Since we were young hooligans running loose in Whitechapel.” Kemble pulled the cork and filled the empty glass. “Want to know how Eddie lost his ears?”
Rothewell blanched. “God, no.”
Kemble’s face fell. “It’s a delightfully gruesome story,” he said, sighing. “Oh, well. I can always rag you about your marriage to Valigny’s daughter. Poor, poor girl. Really, Rothewell. He’s nothing but Continental trash.”
“Just keep it up,” said Rothewell, rising, “and I’ll drag you out back to that thieves’ den they call an alley and beat the living hell out of you—and remember, Kem, I know your little tricks. Your shivs and your brass knuckle covers and the like. And I outweigh you by about five stone. Yes, by God, the mere notion of pummeling something has my blood stirring again after all.”
“So glad to have been of service!” Kem chortled, downing the glass. “Well, must run! I’ve a thousand things to do.”
“Or a thousand things to fence,” said Rothewell.
“Tut, tut!” said Kemble. “One mustn’t fling about unsubstantiated rumors. I have my good name to think about.”
“Yes,” said Rothewell dryly, “and I’m the new church-warden.”
With one last flashing grin, Kemble melted into the teeming crowd. Rothewell left his dark corner as he’d entered it—alone and deeply frustrated. He waded into the morass of human foolishness in hope of finding a servant who might go and fetch his greatcoat, his steps so steady few would have guessed how much he’d had to drink.
Just then he felt a warmth pressing close beside him. He turned to see a blonde in a worn satin gown sidling up—one of Straight’s regulars, he assumed. Women who were paid to entertain the patrons and keep them at the tables. She was small with a coquettish face, but he couldn’t put a name to it.
“Lord Rothewell!” Eyes sparkling, she set her head to one side like a curious bird. “Do you remember me?”
He hesitated but a moment, uncertain. “Of course, my dear,” he lied. “How could a man forget?”
“I’ve a sudden wish to watch the faro table,” she said, slipping her hand round his elbow. “Perhaps such a handsome man needs a lady on his arm to bring him luck?”
Rothewell hadn’t the heart to tell her she was neither a lady nor apt to bring him anything but the clap. “Thank you, my dear, but no,” he said quietly. “I believe it is too late to salvage my evening.”
The blonde pressed herself against him. “We could go into the back, then?” she suggested. “Just a little something to make you forget your ill luck?”
It was the last straw for Rothewell. He lifted her arm from his waist and stepped away. Fleetingly, something like panic lit her face.
“I’m sorry,” he said firmly. “Not tonight.”
The expression—if it had existed—vanished. Without another word, she backed away, then melted into the crowded room.
Rothewell settled his business with Straight, found his greatcoat, then went up the steps to set briskly off in the direction of home. The walk back to Berkeley Square was scarcely a mile, but he wished sorely that he had had the sense to come out in his carriage.
The truth was, he abruptly realized, that wanted to see Camille—even though seeing her was like playing with fire. He just needed to reassure himself that…well, he did not know what. He had simply been struck by a sudden distaste for who and what he was, and with it came a strange, fierce longing to go home.
Home. Well. Perhaps he had one after all.
But at this hour, he was not apt to see Camille. She had likely been abed for hours. And he could not very well just barge into her bedchamber. What was he to say? I’m drunk and feeling sorry for myself? No. That was a weak and intolerable sentiment. Not even to himself would he admit such a thing.
Impatient, he stopped beneath a streetlamp to check the time. But his vest pocket held no watch. Nor did his coat pockets, he realized as he patted through them. How very odd. He never left home without his watch.
And then it struck him. The woman in the faded gown! Rothewell cursed violently. Hang upon his arm, indeed! The little strumpet had pawed him over as neatly as if he’d been some rustic farm boy newly come to town. At this very minute, his watch was likely going out the back door and down the alley. Bloody hell. With luck like his, it really was time for him to go home. A pilfered watch was the least of his worries.
The night was chilly, but fortified by his temper and
his brandy, Rothewell pressed on through the gaslit gloom of Soho, keeping to the less dodgy streets lined with their orderly, middle-class homes. To take his mind off Camille, he actually began to look at them. Neatly swept steps. Glossy black shutters. Flowers, sometimes in pots upon the stairs, or in boxes beneath the windows. A man began to notice odd things, he supposed, when time became a precious commodity.
Or perhaps he was simply drunker than he realized? No matter. As he looked at the houses, his mood began slowly to shift. Even in the dark, their narrow faces appeared oddly snug and inviting. Not like his house. Funny how he’d never seen it before.
Near the end of Portland Street, a front window was still lit in one of the houses. Despite the gloom, one could see that the tidy window boxes cascaded with yellow and purple pansies. Inexplicably, Rothewell hesitated, and stared up at the soft, welcoming light which spilled through the window. He could hear laughter, muffled yet cheerful. Through the sheer veil of drapery, one could see the silhouette of a seated woman, her hair up in what looked like a soft arrangement. She turned, and reached up with both arms. A man bent down to embrace her. For an instant, they clung to one another, the very picture of domesticity.
And then the man straightened up, and stepped back. Rothewell began to imagine what they might have been laughing about. Something delightfully mundane, he supposed. And now she was reminding him, perhaps, to take his tonic before going to bed. Or he might be offering to carry up her hot water. They likely had few servants, and worked from daylight to God only knew when. And yet he envied them. He envied them. They sounded happy. They had a long life together to look forward to.
