Chapter Eighteen
In the house in Cavendish Square, Jonathan woke early after a more than troubled sleep.
His dreams had been shot through with dramatic images of Miss Farrington’s drunken father laughing in his face, and of himself standing up to fight a duel with the old man.
He fired his pistol to miss, and Anthony Farrington threw a handful of cards, all aces, up into the air.
As Jonathan followed their floating descent, he found himself transported to the top of the stairs at Luxborough, staring down them as his father tumbled head over heels towards their foot.
This last had caused him to waken sweating and tangled in his bedclothes at some ungodly time of the morning.
After which it had taken forever to get back to sleep, only to waken what seemed like minutes later to find it was morning, gasping for breath and drenched in sweat again.
Damn that whole family of Farringtons, Walter included.
Damn that drunken old man who didn’t know when to stop gambling and damn his far-too-pretty and determined daughter.
And damn his own father for what he’d tried to do.
He was not going to waste another thought on any of them.
He’d do just what he wanted and ignore the lot of them.
Dim light was filtering in around the heavily curtained windows, indicating the earliness of the day. Determined to recapture his sleep, he rolled over onto his left side, only to discover he was so fully awake and alert that sleep could not have been further off. So damn them all for that too.
Ten minutes tossing and turning produced no improvement, so he got out of bed and rang for Arnold, who arrived within minutes, immaculate as usual and not looking in the least bit surprised that his tousle-haired master had called for him at such an early hour.
“Water for a bath,” Jonathan snapped, not at all in the mood for small talk with his man, and stomped over to the window in just his night rail.
Arnold hurried to draw the curtains back for his master. “I’ll have the maids bring up the water, my lord.” And he was gone.
His bedroom, being at the front of the house, gave onto the square, which was already filling up with early morning vendors and delivery boys. He didn’t very often see it at this end of the day, although he did on occasion stumble home just as a new day was beginning, more than ready for his bed.
Despite the early hour, he supposed food had to reach the square’s many large houses in time for breakfast. A couple of disreputable coves had taken up residence on one of the benches in the gardens, near the guano-spattered statue of the old duke.
One of them was smoking a pipe and the other had a ferocious looking, battle-scarred dog on a piece of string.
Jonathan had always been interested in what went on around him, and these two fascinated him enough for him to watch them the entire time it took for the maids to fill his bath.
Clearly they had mischief in mind, even if it was only casing one of his neighbors’ houses for their next robbery.
If he remembered, he’d send word round to Bow Street after breakfast.
Having spent an unconscionably long time in the bath, letting his night time troubles wash away as the water cooled, and then taken a leisurely breakfast, Jonathan forgot all about reporting the two disreputables to the law and chose instead to walk round to Gentleman Jackson’s in Bond Street for some therapeutic sparring which went on far longer than he’d intended. Always a good way to clear one’s head.
It was well after noon when he finally wandered his way around to White’s, which was where he encountered Walter in the company of his younger brother, Robert, just back from taking the waters in Bath.
Since childhood, Robert had suffered from an irritating skin affliction, and Bath was a regular haunt of his.
He swore the waters soothed his many itches and sore spots and, to be honest, he was indeed looking better than the last time Jonathan had laid eyes on him.
“Why, Dunster!” Robert exclaimed, his thin face suffused in smiles.
“Didn’t think to see you here, not after you’ve married my cousin Verity.
Thought you’d be honeymooning somewhere.
” He chuckled. “I remember her well—a pretty little thing with all that red hair.” Due to his malady, his parents had never sent him off to school like Walter and Jonathan, so perhaps he’d had more opportunity to see his cousin.
“Shall I call tomorrow? I’d love to see her again and do a spot of reminiscing. ”
Walter had the grace to redden. Had he not informed his brother of Verity’s exile to Luxborough?
“She’s at Luxborough,” Jonathan said, in a vain attempt not to sound curt. He had a nasty suspicion he’d failed.
“By herself?” Robert’s voice rose a notch in surprise. “In Oxfordshire? Not here in Town with you? I mean, you’re not there with her? Going to follow her down, perhaps?” He raised his thin eyebrows.
“Luxborough was still in Oxfordshire last time I was there,” Jonathan snapped, ignoring the rest of Robert’s words.
Walter swallowed. “Forgot to mention your little tiff.”
Jonathan fixed him with a hard stare. “So I gather.”
Robert frowned. “But you’ve only been married a week. How on earth do a bride and groom fall out in so short a time? Especially when the bride’s such a lovely girl.”
Now wishing he’d stayed away from White’s, Jonathan shrugged, hoping this young sprig would take the hint. “I would rather not discuss my private life, if you don’t mind.” He glanced around at the hallowed interior, aware that several heads had turned in their direction. “Particularly not here.”
Robert’s turn to blush. “Of course. I understand.” But by the look on his face, understanding was far away. And of course, he was probably fond of the memories he must have of Verity.
Damn it. Jonathan really didn’t want to have to think about her.
She’d been blighting his day since he’d woken up, her determined, no, cross if he was honest, face popping up in the most inappropriate of places.
On that punch bag at Gentleman Jackson’s for a start.
That had quite put him off and he’d elected to head into the ring in which he’d given his opponent quite a pasting.
Drat the woman. Was there nowhere he could get away from her?
Perhaps he should return home, but he didn’t relish a night alone at the mercy of his dreams. And he couldn’t go round to Lady Delamere’s because he’d informed her a few days ago that their relationship was at an end.
He could, of course, go to a gambling house and win some money.
Or lose it. He didn’t care which. What did it matter to a man with his enormous income?
He turned away from the Farrington brothers.
An arm went around his shoulders from behind and a strong stench of tobacco smoke, sweat and brandy washed over him.
“Dunster!”
He turned his head to find Thomas Teesdale, that infernal fellow who’d not only helped in his downfall, if one could call marriage a downfall, but had also made his life a misery in his first year at Eton.
The last person he wanted to see. “Bit of a turn up for the books, eh?” Teesdale was steering him further into the club and unless he physically shook the man off, Jonathan was stuck.
He caught a glimpse of Walter and Robert following, matching worried expressions on their faces.
None of them cared for Teesdale, Walter for the same reason as Jonathan.
They reached a group of leather-covered easy chairs and Teesdale virtually threw Jonathan down onto a double seater and flopped down beside him, taking up most of the seat.
By the looks of him, and the smell, he’d already been here a while.
Possibly all day, or at least since he’d risen, which had probably been no earlier than midday.
The fact that he himself was normally in a similar state of inebriation escaped Jonathan as his whole being recoiled in disgust from the man.
For himself, he’d drunk only a tankard of beer down a side street near Gentleman Jackson’s along with a meal of some tasty bread and cheese, so he felt virtually sober.
For once. And this was having the effect of making him feel unusually virtuous.
Not that one could feel any other way when compared with Teesdale. The man was a blackguard.
Walter and Robert settled into two further seats, and Walter, his expression wary, waved to one of the waiters. “Four glasses of brandy.”
“How’s married life?” Teesdale turned his large, florid face to Jonathan’s, too close for comfort.
A blast of unpleasant breath turned Jonathan’s stomach.
Yes, he was more than glad that Miss Farrington…
his wife…no, Verity, had not been given away in payment of a debt to this fellow, whom he felt certain would have fleeced her drunken father in a far from honest manner.
The man was a cheat at cards, but he always avoided playing with Jonathan who’d not been able to catch him at it.
Even if he wasn’t enjoying being married to the far-too-determined Verity himself, he was not such an oaf as to wish her on someone of Teesdale’s ilk.
“As you might imagine,” Jonathan replied, willing Walter and Robert to keep silent.
They did.
“Was most amused to discover you decided to marry the chit,” Teesdale said, with a knowing leer. “Although I have to admit to also being surprised, as I never took you for the sort to actually marry any of your women. Especially not a chit won in a card game.”
Any sort of cutting reply eluded Jonathan for the moment, which in itself was unusual, and probably lucky.
Not so Walter. He leaned forwards, his face screwed up in anger. “I say, don’t you go referring to my cousin as a chit. I won’t stand to have her insulted.”
“And she’s my friend,” Robert put in. “Some respect, please.”
Teesdale’s heavy eyebrows rose and a sly leer slid over his large, ugly face. “Your cousin, is she? And her father was happy to pimp her for his debts? I think I might hazard a guess and suggest he is not a gentleman.” His lip curled and he laughed.
Jonathan resisted the impulse to head butt him, a move he’d learned elsewhere than at Gentleman Jackson’s, but it was difficult. Who knew but he might be doing the blackguard a favor, as a broken nose might improve his appearance.
Instead he fixed his coldest, hardest, and most haughty stare on Teesdale. “I’ll thank you not to talk of my wife in such terms.” His voice was an icy blade.
Teesdale, like most bullies, was not a brave man, and here he was outflanked by three to one.
Under the collected stares of Jonathan, Walter, and Robert, he wilted.
“I see Bunbury over there. I have a matter I need to discuss with him.” And he was gone, stalking away across the room to where no doubt Bunbury would be surprised to see him.
Jonathan chuckled.
“Can’t abide that fellow,” Walter said. “Surprised you didn’t call him out.”
“I nearly did,” Robert put in, glaring after the object of their ire.
Jonathan shook his head. “Not worth it. He’s so far below my notice I couldn’t care less what he says. A nobody.”
“A bloody rude nobody,” Walter said. “I’d go for swords if I were you. The fellow was as ham-fisted as a girl when we did fencing at school, but I hear he’s a crack shot and rumor has it he’s killed a man in a duel before now. Hushed up, of course.”
Robert sniggered. “Still ham fisted now, but probably with girls this time.”
All three of them laughed, and over on the far side of the room Teesdale glanced over his shoulder at them, unable to miss their mirth. His unpleasant face set in a heavy frown.
Good.