Part 9 (1/2)
”Near Wrenthorpe?”
She didn't reply.
The philosopher didn't seem to notice. He looked away from her, down at the water where Samuel prowled about the sh.o.r.e, barking at the two male swans squawking and hissing at each other.
”Is Lady Kesseley, is she-” He paused, considering his words. ”Is she very happy?”
Henrietta returned the teacup. ”Thank you for the chocolate, but I have to go.”
”Of course,” he replied. ”I hear the snap of societal rules like twigs under our feet.”
Samuel seemed more sedate on the way home, his head bowed, somehow sensing that at any moment, Henrietta might break down in the street, weeping to the girl selling oranges.
Everything was lost. She had to go home. No one wanted her in London. But someone most certainly wanted Henrietta at home-to be his wife. Now it loomed like some inevitable fate.
How could she marry Mr. Van Heerlen knowing the heady excitement of losing herself in Edward's lips, drifting in his arms, coming the closest to perfect she had ever been? Did she have to pretend for the rest of her life that Mr. Van Heerlen's kisses fulfilled her? Could she pretend love in the intimacy of their marriage bed? Ladies had for years. Perhaps men were easily deceived, but she couldn't see how. Kesseley would never be so naive.
For several minutes, she stood outside the house on Curzon Street, trying to get the courage to walk back into the disaster. Perhaps Kesseley and his mama were away, and she could make a beeline for her chamber without having to talk with anyone.
Unfortunately, Lady Kesseley stood in the hall, waiting, as if she had seen Henrietta coming.
”Miss Watson, when I said you could go to the park, I did not mean alone! This is not Norfolk. There are dangerous men in the park who could-”
Henrietta held up her hand, stopping her. ”I'm going home. Tomorrow. I won't be in the way anymore. I'm sorry for everything. P-please have Boxly arrange a post.” Typically Henrietta would have been horrified to break down in tears before Lady Kesseley, but by this point, she had no pride left and just trudged up the stairs, letting the tears trickle down like rain.
Samuel followed her. And when she fell on her little alcove bed, he crawled in beside her, causing the bed to sag. He licked her face, making hurt, whimpering dog sounds. She hugged the old hound, crying into his brown fur until she finally found the sweet refuge of sleep.
Kesseley walked down to New Bond Street, his body a boiling stew of anger, frustration, hurt and other emotions he couldn't separate. How could he have been so stupid, so foolish, so blind?
What magic did she have over him? This was beyond hope. Henrietta was an obsession he was powerless against. Perhaps he was like his father in that respect, even though it pained him to admit he shared anything in common with that monster. Except, unlike his father's dissipation, Kesseley's pursuits and habits only hurt himself.
So Kesseley was headed to Boodles, if just to sit there and keep himself safe from her.
Activity pulsed about him on the streets. Everywhere people crammed together, yet strangely solitary, rarely acknowledging each other as they hurried on. Barefooted children darted through the crowds, dogs at their heels. Over them all, the bell of the m.u.f.fin man rang out, and the coa.r.s.e voices of the pie vendors sang out their offerings Kesseley had always hated London, but today, the city felt as if it folded him into its dark, filthy arms.
To spite Henrietta, he veered off onto Cork Street and glanced in the window of Schweitzer and Davidson. A gaggle of dandies lounged inside. Was this what she wanted? Some thoughtless tulip who cared more for the lay of his coat than the ragged child crouched on the pavement under the window?
He reached into his pocket and gave the poor waif a coin.
To h.e.l.l with her.
Thoughts in this vein kept him occupied all the way down St. James to the great white bay window of Boodle's.
The door swung open, and two fas.h.i.+onably dressed bucks leaped onto the pavement, each holding ducks, their faces alight with secretive mischievousness. Tucking the ducks under their coats, they ran down the street on a seemingly urgent mission. Kesseley watched them leave, then stepped inside.
The porter leaped from around his desk and grabbed Kesseley's arm. ”Deliveries are made in the back!” He spun Kesseley around to the door.
”Wait!” Kesseley dug in his heels, refusing to be moved. The porter's face flushed with panic. He snapped his fingers three times, and his menacing, overgrown a.s.sistant appeared from behind a false door.
”You need some help?” the a.s.sistant growled.
Just then a tall, gawky fellow with bright red hair and freckles ran into the entrance hall, a duck tucked in the crook of his elbow. Ronald Buckweathers! Kesseley's old mate from Trinity.
Bucky stopped when he saw his old friend, that toothy good-for-nothing smile Kesseley remembered spreading across his thin face.
”Well, h.e.l.l's tinker. It's about time you darkened these doors. Here, hold this, good man.” Bucky shoved his duck into the a.s.sistant's big hands. Then he gave Kesseley a big, back slapping embrace that turned into a brotherly sort of wrestling match causing them to collide with a portly gentleman who had just entered the club.
”Buckweathers! Contain yourself,” the man barked. ”Does your uncle know you are here?”
Bucky bowed, then rose quickly, giving Kesseley a sly punch on the shoulder. ”Your Grace, this is my old chum from Cambridge. The Earl of Kesseley. I sponsored him here two years ago.”
Kesseley bowed politely to the unknown duke. He was a pudgy fellow, his broad cloth coat barely able to cover his protruding belly. His face was schooled in a sour expression, but there was a bright twinkle in his eyes.
The fl.u.s.tered porter bowed like one of those prostrate holy men in the east. ”Your Grace, my profuse apologies.” Then he turned to Kesseley and Buckweathers and said, ”Perhaps I can show you to the undress dining room-”
The corpulent duke huffed indignantly. ”Don't put Lord Kesseley in the dirty room! What are you thinking, man?” He put his chubby arm possessively around Kesseley, as if to draw him into his confidence. ”I'm expanding my hops, you see. Been wanting to talk to you. I've read your articles in the Journal of Agriculture. Journal of Agriculture. Impressive. Very impressive. You have a fine mind.” Impressive. Very impressive. You have a fine mind.”
”Pardon?” Kesseley said, unsure of the ident.i.ty of his new friend.
”Houghton, the Duke of Houghton,” he said brusquely as an army of waiters hustled in, all donned in matching black breeches and coats. They made quick work of removing coats, hats and gloves. His Grace kept on talking about swine through the process.
Kesseley asked the duke several basic questions about curing methods and feed composition, trying to get an understanding of the duke's spread as the porter led them up the grand stone staircase, past the paintings of old race horses. The duke kept a hand behind Kesseley's neck, holding him captive, while Buckweathers tagged behind.
They pa.s.sed into the salon, a grand room, over a story high with ornate pilasters lining the buff walls. Above them, paintings of scantily clad Grecian beauties looked down from the molded ceiling. By the dark marble fireplace, a young buck stood on a chair, holding a large leather-bound book and a ridiculous peac.o.c.k's plume. Below him, young bloods in handsome coats and s.h.i.+ny boots bounced about like excited little girls, waving their arms in the air, shouting numbers. ”I've got Sir Giles stealing her at one thousand,” one voice rung above the others.
”I believe this is about your daughter, Lady Sara, Your Grace,” Buckweathers said.
”I wish one of them would steal her,” Houghton replied, then lifted a bushy brow in Kesseley's direction. ”You wouldn't want to marry my daughter?”
Kesseley opened his mouth to reply, but the Houghton waved his hand, silencing him. ”No, it won't take. She don't like men with sense. I'm destined to support a worthless poet.”
They entered the oval dining room lined with gilt mirrors and girandoles. Only a few tables were occupied in the late morning. The porter selected a gleaming round mahogany table, and the footmen ran forward with linens and tea.
The porter bowed again before Houghton. ”Your Grace, what would be your pleasure-”
”Beefsteak, we all want beefsteak and ale.” The duke ordered for everyone.
”Very good,” the porter agreed and left to pa.s.s along the gentlemen's order.
Someone in the salon raised the stakes to five thousand for Lady Sara's hand, and a great cheer went up and echoed in the dining room. The duke shook his head.
”Why don't you just tell her she can't marry that poet?” Buckweathers suggested.
”Lady Sara is as clever as her mama,” the duke said. ”You try to talk to them, they smile all prettily. Yes, Papa. Whatever you say, Papa. Yes, Papa. Whatever you say, Papa. Then run off with a poet. Right now, my daughter is in the park with her Then run off with a poet. Right now, my daughter is in the park with her dearest friends. dearest friends.” He let out a disbelieving snort, then leaned forward, tapping his temple. ”I'll tell you what it is. We've found that Fairfax lady's novels hidden in her room. Never let your ladies read gothic novels. It gives them strange ideas.”