‘That is because you are relatively young, and unaware of all the ways life can trample one.’
‘I am fairly aware of the ways life can trample one. I am, after all, friends with you.’ Marcus’ slight mischievous smile had James laughing in spite of himself. ‘And do you wish to hear the unassailable logic I have marshalled in order to make my statement?’
‘I fear I have no polite way to avoid it.’
‘You see? You are worried about politeness. So many great changes have already been wrought.’ Marcus picked up his cup, idly running his finger around the rim and handle. ‘Now listen.’
‘I am not inclined to be commanded.’
‘Then leave, and be lost forever.’
‘I enjoy this new sense of the dramatic in you, Bennington.’ James smiled, taking another sip of coffee. ‘Understood. Continue.’
‘From what you have told me of your previous conversation with the lady, she raised three strong objections in opposition to your union.’
‘Yes. I remember it intimately.’
‘They would be your financial state, your undesirable reputation, and your lack of interest in pursuing a more permanent, stable arrangement.’ Marcus looked at James with a slight pursing of his lips. ‘At least one of those conditions has changed.’
‘Yes. It has been so altered as to now resemble its opposite. I… I know, despite our lack of preparation, that she is the woman my soul calls to.’ James looked down at his coffee cup with a wry smile. ‘Forgive me. Horribly poetic. But I look at the man I was before, and the man I am after knowing her as I do, and I may as well be looking at a different person.’
‘Loath as I am to halt the course of love, Staunton, but you have known the woman for less than a week.’
‘Not true. She has known me, and loved me, for far longer than that.’
‘And that is very commendable, but it does not change my original disquiet.’ Marcus leaned forward. ‘She knows you, but you do not know her.’
‘You would be surprised at what we have managed to discuss in such a short period of time--quite apart from our views on matrimony.’ James sighed happily. ‘Politics, religion, pastimes, the correct amount of children to have… we are either completely attuned, as a single soul in two bodies, or excitingly different. I believe that her bad habits will be nothing but charming oddities to me, and vice versa.’
‘How on earth you have managed to discuss such sensitive subjects in such a powerfully short amount of time, I am at a complete loss.’ Marcus took a sip of coffee, his brow furrowed. ‘But I suppose, in the absence of alternative evidence, I am constrained to believe you.’
‘I have always been an honest man, Bennington. Unless angry husbands are involved.’ James looked at his friend, irritated. ‘You might do me the kindness of believing me.’
‘I do believe you. But I am also trying to ensure your future happiness, which means a keen awareness of the practical considerations inherent in your current situation.’ Marcus took another, longer sip of coffee. ‘I am trying to smooth the tangled threads into a readable pattern.’
‘I have never seen you quite so poetic. Or quite so courageous in my company.’ James smiled. ‘The last time I saw you so very comfortable was in the Cappadene Club, being pulled into a room in a cloud of perfumed air.’
Marcus, to James’ surprise, looked down. The man appeared to be blushing.
What had occurred at the Cappadene Club? Something too scandalous to relate, even to a man as knowledgeably debauched as himself? Or had something stranger and more powerful happened--a storm of sentiment, a sudden shaking asunder of everything one thought one knew…
… Well, it would have to wait. James was damned if there was enough time to resolve two enormous emotional messes. His own, for the moment, would have to take precedence.
‘If you are now clear enough in your own heart as to the truthfulness of my sentiments, and Catherine’s mirrored fondness for me, you may begin to furnish me with a plan.’
‘I wouldn’t go so far as to call it a plan, Staunton.’ Marcus put down his coffee cup, his face losing its momentary pensiveness. ‘But I have been withholding information. Information that could help.’
‘Bennington. If you have been concealing the woman’s surname from me, I am going to drag you out of here and--’
‘Lord, no. How would I know who she is? Ever since I began associating with you, respectable families have avoided me like the plague.’ Marcus laughed gently. ‘It concerns the lady’s other argument against the match. Your funds.’
‘Oh Lord. Funds, funds, funds.’ James sipped his coffee, rolling his eyes. ‘Everyone has suddenly become an accountant.’
‘I can help you if you are serious.’ Marcus looked at him with a little more gravity. ‘What is your current financial state, Staunton?’
‘Not critical. Not flowering. I maintain myself well on my income, but my lands could be more productive. And this season’s races have left me with holes in need of filling.’ James sighed. ‘Not precisely what Catherine is in need of, given her family’s apparent instability.’
‘Yes. Strange conduct of the family as well, to make the daughter work.’ Marcus shook his head. ‘I believe I would begin digging ditches, if it meant saving my daughter from trade.’
‘Quite. It angers me beyond measure.’ James paused. ‘It angers me more that I am in no current position to help her.’
‘Well.’ Marcus awkwardly ran his finger around the rim of his coffee cup. ‘That could change.’
‘How? Do you have a good tip on a horse?’
‘No.’ Marcus paused. ‘Would you like to know the current state of my finances?’
James leaned forward, not knowing where on earth this could possibly go. ‘I suppose.’
Marcus told him. As he began detailing his various investments, land holdings and new factories in the North, James’ eyebrows reached as high as they could go. With the revelations of overseas interests, including two shipping routes and an innovative new way of spinning cotton, his mouth fell open.
‘Well.’ He shakily exhaled. ‘I shall have to start being less high-handed with you.’
‘You are a duke. You are allowed to be high-handed with everyone.’ Marcus shrugged. ‘I always quite enjoyed it. You know so much more than me.’
‘About women, and wine, and the best sort of coat to buy.’ James leaned forward, his voice lowering. ‘You are one of the richest men in--’
‘Yes. I know. There’s no need to go on about it.’
‘But you could have men killed! You could start wars, or change the political landscape of the country, or--or--’
‘Or clear your debts, and allow you to begin your life with the lady you have fallen in love with.’
James paused. He looked at Marcus warily, unsure as to when the man would start laughing, before speaking in a tone of hushed horror.
‘I could not possibly accept such a favour.’
‘But I would like very much to perform such a favour.’ Marcus tentatively smiled. ‘You have given me so much.’
‘I’ve given you a passing knowledge of all of London’s most outrageous dens of iniquity.’
‘Useful knowledge for a gentleman. But you have given me more than that.’ Marcus looked down, evidently choosing his words carefully. ‘More than I can say.’
James furrowed his brow. The man was dashed irritating; mysterious when he should be clear, and vice versa. He was about to ask Marcus what on earth he meant, confused beyond measure, when he noticed a flash of bright colour peeking over the top of the man’s waistcoat pocket.
It was far too lurid to be a handkerchief. A proud, deep scarlet--where had he seen that colour before?
Had one of the light-skirts at the Cappadene Club been wearing it? Yes. That had been the scarlet of her skirts, as she had smilingly pulled Marcus into her rooms.
James fought the urge to tell Marcus that falling for a woman of pleasure was a bad idea. A very, very bad ide
a. But as he opened his mouth, he thought of Catherine.
Would he still wish her to be his, if she had in fact been a discipline mistress?
Yes. Without question, and without restraint.
‘Look.’ An idea came to him, hanging temptingly in the air. ‘Don’t clear my debts. I can clear them myself, in time. But here is what you can do.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Buy The Cappadene Club. Or buy a stake in it.’ James was thinking rapidly, the idea unfurling into a plan. ‘Give a share to me as well. Don’t pay my debts and leave me a bloated parasite--make me work. We can work together. Lord knows the Club needs it.’
‘Buy the Club?’ A light had appeared in Marcus’ eyes. ‘Would they be amenable to it? The owners?’
‘The owner, whoever he is, seems absent. He would probably welcome the lifting of the load. He could keep a share, of course.’ James tapped his fingers on the table, working through the possible flaws. ‘That… that could work. Could work very well indeed.’
‘Would you be able to keep up with the work?’
‘The work of a pleasure-house? Who would be better-suited to the business of debauchery than me?’ James paused. ‘Of course, Catherine could raise moral objections. But she strikes me as someone who is swayed by logic rather than morality.’
‘A rare and coveted quality.’ Marcus smiled. ‘Of course, you still have to find her. And you have to speak to the head of the Cappadene Club.’
‘Lord knows who the head is. I’ll have to speak to the representative--the man with the moustache.’ James nodded, another idea dawning. ‘And….’
‘And what?’
‘And perhaps, if I am very winning indeed, he will help me find Catherine.’
The plan had seemed so very workable in the coffee-house, surrounded by chatter and merriment. In the hot, dimly-lit receiving room of the Cappadene Club, complete with overly stuffed furniture and an erotic carnival of paintings lining the walls, James wondered what on earth had possessed him.
Catherine. If he kept Catherine in mind, everything would be alright. Forcing himself to unclench his fists, he repeated the objectives of his meeting to himself as the maid from the previous evening went to find Mr. Weeks.
He had to find out Catherine’s surname. He had to organise a meeting between the two of them; something, anything. And given Marcus’ astonishing confession, he also had to tell Mr. Weeks that the Club could expect a stunning flowering of funds.
He stood as Arthur Weeks entered the room, bowing as politely as he could. The two men looked tensely at one another, memories of their last encounter uncomfortably present, before Arthur settled into his chair behind his desk.
‘I imagine you must be somewhat surprised to find me here.’ James attempted a smile, but failed.
‘Somewhat surprised? Given your previous experience at our establishment, Your Grace, I find myself exceedingly surprised to find you here.’ Arthur looked at James with a furrowed brow. ‘I assume you are here to… complain?’
‘I can hardly complain. The encounter reached an unexpected conclusion, but a satisfying one.’
‘Yes.’ Arthur’s moustache made it impossible to see if he were frowning, or smiling. ‘But it cannot be said that we gave you the experience you requested.’
‘If I recall, I believe I requested something new.’ James leaned back, sighing as he looked around the dark, floridly-decorated study. ‘And… and it was certainly that.’
There was a long, awkward moment of silence. Eventually, with a soft clearing of his throat, James decided that it was time to come to the crux of the matter.
‘I need to find her, Mr. Weeks.’
‘Then you have come to the wrong place. The lady completed the work she was commissioned to do, flawlessly, and will not need to return again for another year.’
‘If you think I’m going to wait a year for her, then… oh, Lord, you’d probably be right. I would wait for ten. More, even.’ James closed his eyes, slumped in his chair as visions of Catherine danced in his head. How had he become such a fool for love? ‘But I would certainly appreciate a shortening of the process.’
‘If you think I am going to give you the address of a young, unmarried woman who has never mentioned your name, even in passing, you are completely insane.’ Arthur looked at him levelly. ‘Put yourself in my position. It would be a betrayal of honour, and a great risk to the poor woman.’
‘I know. I know, I know, I know.’ James’ hands clenched into fists.
‘As a duke, you can demand me to give her address, but I sincerely suggest you do not.’
‘Despite my reputation, Mr. Weeks, I would not dream of it. Believe me.’ James shook his head. ‘Not least because you probably have bodyguards that could reduce me to a pulp.’
‘No.’ Arthur shook his head. ‘I’ve never needed bodyguards.’
‘A better class of clientèle?’
‘Oh, no.’ Arthur chuckled softly into his moustache. ‘Ten years as a prize-fighter.’
James looked at Arthur with a new appreciation. The man had to made of iron, to speak with such gentle authority.
He wasn’t made of iron. He, James Hildebrande, was made of coffee, regret, and a burning passion for a mathematician who considered him an undesirable reprobate.
No. Who considered him a desirable reprobate, but could not bring herself to take the risk to be with him.
‘All I want to do is see her. See her in a space where we can speak openly--where she is in no danger, and knows herself to be safe. Chaperoned, unchaperoned, inside, outside--somewhere. Anywhere.’ He sighed again, his heart aching. ‘But I do not know her address, and do not wish to ask anyone for fear of impugning the lady’s honour, and thus… I am trapped.’
‘Speak honestly, Your Grace.’ Arthur sat down. ‘Do you sincerely believe, in your heart of hearts, that the young woman has expressed an interest in you? A preference for you?’
James thought hard. Thought of the way Catherine had responded to him; not merely the carnal acts they had engaged in, but their moments of conversation. The eager brightness in her eyes, her ready display of her gifts, her humour, her wit… the way she had watched him when he was speaking, rapt, ready to take his malformed thought and turn it into something infinitely more elegant…
‘I do believe she prefers me. That… that she sees my interest, and shares it.’ He couldn’t speak to Arthur about the power of the sentiments he had felt; the ones he had expressed to Catherine. The way she had passionately wished that she and him were somewhere, anywhere else--that they were other people, free to pursue their love. ‘But I must convince her. Convince her that I can be trusted.’
‘And convince yourself that you are to be trusted.’
‘I know that I can trust myself.’ James looked at Arthur, more curious than irritated. ‘Why do you think I cannot trust myself?’
‘I am not an avid reader of the scandal sheets, Your Grace.’ Arthur looked down at the papers on his desk. ‘But your past behaviour does not give the impression of a man who trusts his own integrity.’
‘I see you developed quite a vocabulary during your prize-fighting career. You cannot have been very successful.’
‘On the contrary. I was so successful, I had a lot of time for reading.’ Arthur looked back up, a flash of steely irritation in his eyes. ‘Which you should probably remember, the next time you wish to make a needling comment.’
The two men stared at one another for a short, intense moment. James eventually looked down, swallowing as he tried to find the right words.
‘I apologise, Mr. Weeks. I… I would like your help. I need your help, in all honesty.’
‘I know you do.’ Arthur picked up his pen, pulling a sheet of paper towards himself. ‘And despite your manner, Your Grace, I see your sincerity.’
‘And--and I have a proposition for you, if it will help you see your way towards aiding my in my quest.’
Arthur’s pen stilled. ‘If you are a
bout to give me the name of a horse, or a boxer, you would be making a very grave mistake.’
‘No. Nothing so flimsy.’ James gathered his courage, speaking more stridently. ‘I--I have connections that you aid your Club. Quite possibly save it.’
‘It is not my Club, and it does not need saving.’
‘Given the mistakes made with my visit, and the fact that you appear to be working alone, I would say that it did.’ James knew he was being impudent, but hoped his words were accurate. ‘I can secure funds which would allow you to solidify. To grow.’
Arthur’s voice lowered. ‘I would need a number.’
James told him what Marcus had suggested. As he spoke, he was gratified to see Arthur’s eyebrows raise in much the same manner as his had done.
‘Well?’ He leaned forward. ‘Can we organise something? Arrange a meeting?’
‘We can arrange a parley.’ Arthur began writing, his script surprisingly elegant for a man of such solid appearance. ‘If the young lady accepts, of course.’
‘And if she doesn’t?’
Arthur frowned, pausing. ‘Then you can bugger off.’
Sunday afternoon at the Holt household was normally a somewhat dismal affair. Lydia, for all her exuberant colour, was the only one in her family with such an air of fun. Catherine had sat in her friend’s drawing room for an insufferable length of time, listening to the dirge-like conversations between Mrs. Holt and her other grey, ashen-faced daughters, before escaping to Lydia’s bedroom under the pretext of a sudden headache.
‘Good Lord. At least my family are as grave hypochondriacs as they are dullards.’ Lydia gave a soft, sad shake of her head as she moved to her wardrobe, looking through the array of bright garments with a look of inexpressible sorrow. ‘Although I have to say, Catherine, you were grave enough today to make up their number without problems.’
‘Now, now. Such harsh criticism.’ Catherine sat on her friend’s bed, looking dully out of the window. ‘I… I am trying my best.’
She was indeed trying her best. Alas, in the absence of James Hildebrande, trying to do anything but weep seemed like a completely useless endeavour.
Dukes of the Demi-Monde Page 6
