Part 25 (1/2)
What happened was going to blaze through London like a windblown fire. It didn't matter what truly happened. Kesseley had carried a sobbing, disarrayed Lady Sara in his arms through London. The truth would be whatever London wanted it to be. He would be put on the sacrificial altar for that specious truth.
Kesseley felt a fat, warm hand behind his wet collar.
”My future son-in-law is a fine man,” the duke said to the guests. ”My daughter is safe, thanks to him.”
Kesseley started to speak, then shut his mouth. What he needed to say couldn't be aired in front of London.
”We need to talk, son,” the duke said, still smiling at the guests while pulling Kesseley into the chamber across the hall. It was devoid of art, just a draped bed and wall sconces. By the wooden carved mantel, two fabric-covered chairs were pulled up by the fire. The duke gestured to one, uncaring that Kesseley was soaked and muddy. He took the other, his plump legs hanging off the edges. He reached for the silver snuffbox beside the chair and took a pinch, then offered it to Kesseley.
”What happened?” he asked.
Kesseley declined the snuff, then retold the story. It seemed so absurd in retrospect. The duke ingested it with no expression.
”You're a fine man. You protected my family. I'll be honored to call you my son. We can make the announcement at my ball. You will marry at our estate, of course. I have some land I want to show you. It came from my mother's line and it ain't entailed. Not far from Norfolk. 10,000 acres. Good tenants, the old kind that ain't afraid to work. I'm giving it to you. You can farm as you see fit, then pa.s.s to any younger sons.”
”Your Grace, I'm not sure-”
The duke held up a flat palm and rose to stand by the fire. ”You're young and I know your father died too soon. I'm not the only gentleman in England that admired how you put Wrenthorpe to rights. But let me give you some advice-”
”I'm not sure I want to marry your daughter. I mean, I'm not sure I want to get married this year.”
The duke stared at him, his face coloring with rage. ”Today you carried my daughter from the park-muddy, bleeding, her dress torn, parading her through the streets in an open landau for all London to see! Then you tell me this wild story that she was attacked by a swan!”
Kesseley stood. ”It's the truth. And if you must know, she threw herself in the water for me to save her. I am being entrapped.”
”d.a.m.n it, man, you're an earl. Show some honor to your name and duty.”
Kesseley flinched. The duke's words stung him. Duty and honor. Words his father hadn't understood. Words he lived his life by.
Or had.
The old man continued, ”The Duke of Houghton was made by William the Conqueror. My estate expands 20,000 acres in four counties. I got a dozen members in the House of Commons that do as I say. When Prince George has a question, he comes to me. When Lord Liverpool needs to get something done, he comes to me. I'll be d.a.m.ned if you will make a fool of me and my family. Perhaps you've never had the importance of family duty and honor instilled in you.”
Kesseley couldn't breathe. His lungs felt weighed down.
Isn't that what you wanted, d.a.m.n it? Accept it. You've finally severed yourself from Henrietta.
”Oh G.o.d,” he cried.
The duke put a hand on his shoulder. ”Son, we all come to this moment. It's in the choice between what you want and what your name and duty demand that makes the man. Now you just make some handsome sons and vote the right way. Everyone will turn a blind eye when you dabble. Just like they do for me. Just like they did for your papa.”
Chapter Eighteen.
Three hours later, Kesseley sat in evening clothes in a dim, smoke-filled gambling h.e.l.l on Soho Square, playing Vingt-et-un. Vingt-et-un. He kept his playing hand on the table with the other one around a golden-haired courtesan whose name he didn't know. She sat on his knee and held his drink. He had already gulped down three gin-laced drinks, but they weren't strong enough to burn out the anger, fear and dread writhing around like a worm in his gut. He kept his playing hand on the table with the other one around a golden-haired courtesan whose name he didn't know. She sat on his knee and held his drink. He had already gulped down three gin-laced drinks, but they weren't strong enough to burn out the anger, fear and dread writhing around like a worm in his gut.
He hated himself. He stared at the turned card under his thumb and felt the softness of the courtesan's thigh on his leg. This was all it was going to be. His fate. In his mind flashed Henrietta's chocolate eyes reflecting the sunlight dancing off the Ouse River. Now lost forever. He had finally shed his past. He should be happy. He nudged the courtesan, and she gave him another sip of the gin.
Bucky had lost seventy-five pounds early on and had to quit. He'd since been standing against the tapestry-covered wall behind Kesseley, smoking, repeatedly asking when they were leaving for his cousin's ball. So eager to meet that ugly heiress of his dreams.
Kesseley's rowdy card partners included a lucky naval captain who entertained the table with stories of wild exploits on his frigate and several men with various handles to their name, including a handsome baronet who unexplainably annoyed Kesseley. He seemed amicable enough, smiling more than Bucky, yet something about the buck's close-set eyes made Kesseley feel he could never really see him eye to eye. The baronet had recently inherited 10,000 acres with a 7,000 pound a year income and a fine home in the Westmorland from a deceased uncle. Everyone knew this, because he proudly repeated it between naval stories, as if he had not said it just fifteen minutes prior. The others took pleasure in ribbing him. ”Was that 3,000 acres you say? Lake or land? How are you going to manage on just 2,000 a year income?”
Kesseley had a seven turned and ten showing on the table. The bet was three hundred pounds and a lot of face cards had been dealt. The baronet took a pinch of snuff, asked for a card then raised the bet another hundred pounds. He had something good. Kesseley fingered his cards-he was safe-but a rebellious recklessness urged him on.
The captain took a drag of his cheroot and blew it over Kesseley's shoulder. ”Look who's back in London?”
Kesseley followed the smoke, finding Sir Gilling edging through the crowd. He smirked when he saw Kesseley, arrogant even as the faint translucent blue bruises still marred his face. He drew back a chair at the faro table not four feet away from Kesseley to further show his indifference.
”He would do better to stick to games of luck than skill,” the captain said loud enough for his voice to drift to the other table.
The indentation under Sir Gilling's jaw pulsed. Otherwise he appeared not to hear.
”Lord Kesseley, the bet is four hundred. It's your decision,” the dealer reminded him. He had a jack turned.
Kesseley should stand, but something inside him didn't want to, even against the odds. ”Sweetheart, give me another sip,” he asked the courtesan. She lifted the gla.s.s to his lips. He swallowed it down, and then leaned back and stretched his arms. ”Another card, gentlemen.”
Devil take it, the last queen.
Kesseley laughed and turned over his seven.
Bucky gasped, ”What the h.e.l.l were you thinking!”
”That I couldn't feel my b.a.l.l.s anymore,” he said.
The men hooted and the naval captain waved his hand dismissively. ”Deal him out. Deal him out.”
Kesseley concurred, standing up, letting the courtesan slide down his leg. He turned to his friend. ”Bucky, let's go find this ugly heiress of yours.”
”Maybe Lord Kesseley should have taken lessons from his mother's companion,” the baronet said to the table. ”I had the delightful opportunity of getting beaten by that delicious morsel. I couldn't help but feel amorous every time she over trumped me.”
Kesseley's belly tightened. The veins over his temples hurt.
”Don't talk that way about Henrietta,” he whispered, keeping his back to the little prig else he would tear off his head.
Sir Gilling's head jerked around.
”Henrietta, is it?” The baronet laughed. ”It seems Miss Watson might be more than just his mother's companion. Maybe his little companion too. I tell you, if that little pocket Venus lived in my house, well, I daresay, I would never leave. She could play her little trumps in my bed.”
Kesseley's heel ground into the floor as he turned to the baronet. Fury heated his face.
The table went silent. When the b.u.g.g.e.r realized he might have swum out too far, he started stammering. ”I didn't mean-h.e.l.l, I was only funning.”
”I changed my mind,” Kesseley said slowly. ”Deal me in.”
The game moved fast. He didn't speak, keeping his mind on every card falling from the dealer's hand. Soon the baronet no longer possessed the cool face of a seasoned card player, but became a desperate man, perspiring, the cards shaking in his hand. He had to stay in the game just to try to win back the fortune he was losing.
Kesseley should have stopped, but he couldn't-some dark urge pushed him on. He continued to play, racing his own demons to some brink where everything became irreversible, all hope gone...the old Kesseley gone.