Chapter Twenty-Five
London, October 1817
T he front facade of the building reeked of ostentation. A flight of stone steps led to the main entrance—a thick, dark door with a polished handle. Andrew tilted his head to cast his gaze over the rest of the building—three stories that gleamed bone-white in the afternoon sun, with tall, arched windows that reflected the light. On the first story, to the left of the main doors, an enormous, bowed window looked out over St James’s Street, in which a foppish young man sat, his jacket an eye-wateringly bright shade of pink, one hand raised in a gesture that might have implied he was on the brink of sneezing, while he held an embroidered lace handkerchief aloft.
Sweet Lord —if this was what gentlemen were supposed to do with their time, it was a wonder they had not all gone insane.
“Welcome to White’s,” Andrew’s companion said.
Andrew fidgeted with his jacket, then fumbled at the top button. Why did the tailor have to make the thing so damnably tight?
“No, Radham, leave it,” his companion said. “You want to create a good first impression as you enter the club.”
Andrew eyed his companion. Adam Hawke, the Duke of Foxton, was an old schoolfellow—if a boy he’d known fleetingly at Eton could be called a schoolfellow . Foxton had been three years above Andrew and head of Godolphin House, issuing sanctions for transgressions among the more boisterous inmates, most of whom had grown up to be rakes such as Robert.
Robert…
“I don’t understand why the first thing I had to do upon entering London was purchase a new suit,” Andrew said.
“You’re in mourning, therefore are required to dress appropriately.”
“Robert wouldn’t have cared what I wore,” Andrew replied, “and spending further funds—of which the estate has very little—at Weston’s establishment doesn’t seem appropriate.”
“Ah, but surely by now you should understand that in Society, we do not do what is appropriate, we do what gives the appearance of propriety.”
“And indulging at White’s gives the appearance of propriety?” Andrew let out a snort. “Look at that dandy in the window, Foxton! What in the name of the Almighty does he think he’s doing?”
“Attempting to emulate Beau Brummell,” Foxton said. “Brummell made quite a name for himself occupying that window at all hours. Rumor has it he never wore the same jacket twice. Several aspiring leaders of men’s fashion have been seen posturing in that window since Brummell fled to France.”
“And do they aspire to the same levels of debt?” Andrew asked.
Foxton shrugged. “Following the heights of fashion is a costly exercise.”
“At least being in mourning excuses me from spending a fortune on such gawdy colors,” Andrew said, tugging at his cravat. “I intend to extract my money’s worth from this ridiculous attire.”
“If it’s funds you’re concerned about, Radham, I’ve already said I’ll stand your ledger, given that you’re my guest. But I cannot guarantee congenial company here, though I’ll wager you’ll have a marginally less miserable time than you would with your father in Grosvenor Place.”
Which was true. The death of his favorite son had turned Andrew’s father into a bitter shell of a man, content to nightly imbibe brandy and wallow in self-pity about how the legacy of the earldom was doomed.
An earldom Andrew had wanted nothing to do with and considered himself free of, until Robert had chosen to destroy everything by indulging in his selfish desires.
Then a bolt of shame twisted Andrew’s gut. Robert had lost his life.
Whereas I’ve only lost my freedom.
Which perhaps was worse. But it was not the done thing to voice such an opinion aloud, particularly given that the members of White’s would consider inheriting a viscountcy and becoming heir apparent to an earldom something to celebrate.
Foxton led the way up the steps, and the door opened to reveal a liveried footman, who issued a deep bow.
“Welcome back, Your Grace.” He settled his gaze on Andrew. “And your friend…?”
“Viscount Radham,” Foxton said.
The footman’s eyes widened, then his mouth twitched into a smile. “You are most welcome, Lord Radham. Please, come inside.”
“I’ll have my usual, please, Grantchester,” Foxton said. “And my friend will have the same.”
“Of course, gentlemen. Your table will be ready for you to take luncheon at your leisure, Your Grace.” The footman nodded toward Andrew. “Lord Radham, you are most welcome.”
“Yes, yes, you’ve already said that,” Foxton said, waving his hand at the man. “Just show us to the dining room.”
“Very good, Your Grace.”
The footman bowed again, then led them into a high-ceilinged room adorned with a thick, deep-red carpet, ornate gilded carvings, and an enormous chandelier suspended from the ceiling that cast droplets of light about the room in myriad colors.
A few of the diners looked up and acknowledged Foxton with a nod. They cast curious glances toward Andrew, then resumed their attention on their luncheon.
After the footman had helped him into a chair and disappeared to fetch their drinks, Andrew leaned across the table to his companion.
“He seemed very congenial. I thought you told me they were very particular here about guests—even those with titles.”
“Ah, but you are Viscount Radham,” Foxton said. “Your predecessor left a legacy of debts to rival Brummell’s. I’ll wager Grantchester is at this moment informing the secretary of your presence here.”
Andrew moved to stand, but Foxton raised his hand.
“Never fear, my friend. The secretary wouldn’t be so vulgar as to discuss commerce while you’re taking luncheon.”
Nevertheless, Andrew watched the footman as he returned with two glasses of dark liquid. “Luncheon will be served in five minutes, gentlemen,” he said, eyeing Andrew.
“To your good health, Radham,” Foxton said, raising his glass after the footman disappeared once more.
“I say, Foxton!” a voice cried. “I never thought to see you here.”
Foxton narrowed his eyes and set his glass aside, and Andrew turned to the owner of the voice—a portly man with thinning gray hair and the kind of complexion that, though ruddy, signified sickness born of overindulgence.
“I thought you’d been exiled to the country,” Foxton said.
“Something of an exaggeration, dear boy.” The man paused by their table and raised an eyebrow as he cast his rancid gaze on Andrew.
An odor of stale liquor reached Andrew’s nostrils, and he lifted his glass to his lips to smother the stench. The newcomer’s jacket might have been fashionable some ten years before, but such an excess of frills was beyond even Mr. Weston’s style of tailoring. Most likely the jacket itself was several years old, given the fraying ends of the cuffs.
“Retirement, then,” Foxton said. “But out of necessity.”
“By choice , dear boy,” came the reply.
“And…the duchess?” Foxton asked.
The man grimaced. “My wife is in poor sprits.”
The duchess? Good heavens—surely this fellow wasn’t a duke ?
The man resumed his attention on Andrew. “Who’s this fellow, then? A new member?”
Not if Andrew could help it—there seemed little merit in wasting funds merely to be granted the right to spend one’s time in the company of dandies. Respite from women, Foxton had said—a haven of peace where a gentleman could indulge in the company of his peers without the incessant chatter and demands of the fairer sex. Assuming, of course, he could afford the membership dues.
Which the porcine newcomer couldn’t, judging by his appearance.
“Lord Radham is my guest,” Foxton said.
“Radham, eh? So you must be the brother. Damned foolish business that was, if you ask me.”
“What business?” Andrew asked.
“Radham making such an arse of himself in the park—and taking the delicious Danielle with him.”
“Danielle?”
“Mrs. Delacroix. I mean, if a man is foolish enough to risk his neck racing carriages in London, that’s his lookout, but to risk the neck of the finest doxy in Mayfair—well, that’s just plain selfish.”
“Selfish?” Andrew asked.
“Danielle was the best fuck in town.”
A ripple of coughs threaded through the dining room.
“Though she was a little grasping,” the man continued. “Cost me a bloody fortune, she did.”
“I say, Dunton,” Foxton said, “that’s not the done thing to—”
Andrew pushed his chair back and rose. “ What did you say, Foxton?”
“I said it was not the done thing—”
“No, I mean this… man here. Is he…”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Foxton said in a tone that meant he was anything but. “I quite forgot. Radham, this is the Duke of Dunton.”
Dunton inclined his head in a bow. “At your service, I—”
“ You! ” Andrew cried. He cast his gaze over the man once more—the huge belly that strained against the buttons of his waistcoat, thick hands with swollen fingers adorned with rings that glittered malevolently in the afternoon light, the wisps of unkempt, thinning hair framing his fleshy face, and his eyes…
Cold, pale-blue eyes, gleaming with inebriation and self-satisfaction.
“What are you doing here, Dunton ?” Andrew asked.
“Taking luncheon.”
“Who’s standing your ledger this time?” Foxton asked, a lick of cold amusement in his tone.
Dunton huffed with indignation. “Sir Heath Moss, if you must know. At least a man has some friends he can rely on.”
Foxton let out a snort. “I suppose when a man’s exhausted his credit with every tradesman in town he must resort to his friends—what few he has remaining.”
“Careful, Foxton, or you’ll be mistaken for a tradesman yourself with all this talk of funds,” Dunton said. “If I were you, Radham, I’d choose your friends wisely. Half the election committee at White’s are personal friends of mine.”
“And how would you define a friend , Dunton?” Andrew asked. “Someone from whom you take what you want before casting them aside? Much like a woman?”
Dunton frowned, his weak eyes glazing with confusion. “A man is a fool if he considers a woman to be his friend. Women are to be enjoyed then cast aside.”
“Such as innocent maidens? Debutantes?”
Andrew caught a flicker of recognition in Dunton’s eyes before the man shook his head and let out a laugh. “I say, Foxton, I’d think carefully if you wish to sponsor this fellow’s membership. You wouldn’t want your reputation tarnished by association.”
“A man’s reputation is almost impervious to ruination, no matter what he does,” Andrew said. “Even yours , Dunton.”
“I say, Radham, there’s a time and a place,” Foxton said. “Do you know Dunton?”
“Only by reputation.”
Dunton laughed. “Gossip, more like, if there was a woman involved.”
“Not any woman,” Andrew replied, bile rising in his gut. “Miss Juliette Howard.”
“Oh, you mean a whore .”
“Miss Howard is no whore!” Andrew cried, and another volley of coughs rippled through the dining room.
“Radham,” Foxton warned, rising to his feet. “Dunton, perhaps the two of you should settle your disagreement elsewhere.”
“It’s no disagreement,” Andrew said. “This fellow here debauched a young woman then abandoned her.”
“Now, old chap, I’ve never—”
“She bore your child!” Andrew cried.
Tutting filled the air, and a voice muttered, “For shame!”
“For shame indeed,” Andrew said, and Dunton curled his lip in a sneer.
“I think they’re referring to you , old chap. Disturbing our peace—it’s simply not done.”
“But violating a respectable young woman is?” Andrew said. “Then you’re hypocrites—all of you!”
“Ha!” Dunton replied. “Violating, eh?” He leaned toward Andrew and lowered his voice. “That little slut was only too eager to spread her legs for me. Begged for it, she did, offering her cunny in the hope it would earn her my hand.”
“Why you…” Andrew began, but the footman approached and raised a white-gloved hand.
“Gentlemen, if you please,” he said. “I am compelled to remind you to observe club rules. You must desist or I shall be required to remove you from the premises.”
“I trust you’re not referring to my behavior,” Dunton said. “I was merely passing on my way to luncheon when this bounder insulted me.”
“Sit down, Radham,” Foxton said. “There’s nothing to be gained from this.”
“Other than personal satisfaction,” Andrew snarled.
“Drunken beast!” Dunton said, gesturing toward Andrew’s glass. “Brandy at luncheon—I should have known. Your brother was just the same, and much good did it do him. If you wish to accuse me of debauchery, I suggest you look to your own house. Who knows how many bastards your brother has littered over the countryside? As to that Howard whore…”
Andrew fisted his hands as his stomach churned at the stench of sweat and stale liquor. Then Dunton lowered his voice to a whisper.
“How does it feel to know that I got there first? Who knows? With your brother’s reputation, I’d not be surprised if he dipped into that well himself. Next time you fuck her, think on that—think on how she squealed like a sow in heat as I took her from behind.”
Dunton stepped back, a broad grin creasing his fleshy face, triumph glittering in his eyes, and a swell of anger coiled in Andrew’s chest—an over-wound spring.
“I wish you joy of her,” Dunton said. “Many a man has had to content himself with my leavings, and you can at least console yourself with the thought that I broke her in nicely for you. At very little cost to myself, I’ll add. She might not be the best fuck in town, but she was the cheapest.”
The spring snapped. With a roar of rage, Andrew lunged forward and slammed his fist into Dunton’s face.
“Vile bastard!” he cried as pain exploded in his knuckles. He drew back his arm and again struck Dunton, who toppled backward and crumpled to the floor. Andrew flew toward him, both fists raised, and landed another punch in the man’s gut while Dunton curled up and wailed.
But before Andrew could secure another blow, he was pulled back and found himself restrained by two footmen.
“Stop!” Foxton cried. “That’s not how we settle our differences.”
“Then what do we do?” Andrew replied. “Tut loudly at each other? Stand each other a round of drinks then agree we’ll say no more on the matter? Cordially shake hands while the sin goes unpunished?”
“Yes,” Foxton said. “It’s called being a gentleman.”
“If that’s the case, then I want no part of it.”
“You’re no gentleman,” Dunton said. “You’re…” He broke off in a fit of coughing, spattering droplets of blood on his jacket. “Damn you, Radham—that’ll have to be cleaned.”
“Is that all you care for? Your damned jacket ?” Andrew stepped forward, but the footman tightened his grip.
“That’s enough, sir,” he said. “This behavior is not to be tolerated.” He turned to Foxton. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but if you do not show this man out, I’ll have to evict him.”
“Then evict me!” Andrew said. “If you’d rather protect creatures such as Dunton, then I have no wish to set foot inside this cursed building again!”
“Very well, sir. You give us no choice.” The footmen tightened their grips, then marched Andrew toward the main doors.
“I can see myself out,” Andrew said, but the expressions of satisfaction on the footmen’s faces told him that they’d relish the opportunity to forcibly throw an undesirable out of their establishment. The door opened, and Andrew found himself pushed down the steps, where he lost his footing and fell to the pavement just as a man and woman approached, arm in arm.
“Well, really!” the man said, raising his eyebrows. The lady said nothing, until Foxton appeared at the top of the steps and a sheen of desire colored her expression.
“Oh, Your Grace,” she said, and her husband frowned. Ignoring them, Foxton helped Andrew up and brushed the dust off his jacket. Then he steered Andrew along the pavement, leaving the couple open mouthed at the foot of the steps.
“There goes luncheon,” Foxton said, sighing.
“Sorry about that,” Andrew said.
Foxton snorted. “No matter. I’ll wager there’s several fathers who’d applaud you for giving the fellow a shiner. But you’ll never be able to show your face at White’s again.”
“You think I care?”
“And…Miss Howard?”
“It matters not,” Andrew said. “I doubt I’ll see her again.”
Foxton shook his head. “Look for the source of a man’s misery and you’ll always find a woman,” he said. “When a man drives himself to ruination, invariably a doxy sits at the root of it. Women are not to be trusted—instead they are to be enjoyed. In that, if nothing else, I find myself in agreement with Dunton.”
“That’s rather a bleak view of the female sex.”
“But realistic, Radham. It’s a lesson you must learn if you are to survive. You’re not a country parson anymore. You’re a gentleman about town—a viscount, heir to an earldom.”
“And?”
“And therefore, dear chap, you are prey in the eyes of every woman you encounter. There is only one way to survive. You must become the predator.”
“And if I have no wish to become a predator?”
“Then you must remove yourself from Town. What did you come here for, other than to settle your affairs with your lawyers? Did you hope to see this Miss Howard?”
Andrew flinched. Perhaps he had hoped to see Etty. Where else would she have fled to if she intended to go “home”? But since he’d arrived there had been no sign of her—though London was a big place, and Etty was hardly likely to be parading around, given her status as a fallen woman. He’d been a fool to think he’d stumble over her the moment he set foot in Town.
“No,” he said quietly. “I doubt I’ll see her again.”
“All the better for you,” Foxton said. “If you want my advice, settle your affairs, then leave London. Contrary to popular opinion, gentlemen with titles don’t spend the entirety of their time at White’s, or with their mistresses—at least, gentlemen in your financial position don’t. With a title comes responsibility and, in your case, a neglected estate in need of restoration. What better way for a man to purge a woman from his soul than by devoting himself to his duty? And as a vicar…”
“Vicar no more,” Andrew said bitterly.
“As a former vicar, then, you should at least have a better understanding of duty than most men thrust into your position.”
Andrew sighed. His friend was right. He’d viewed his title as akin to a slave collar, binding him to a life of servitude. He’d lost everything else. But with the estate came a building, grounds, in need of restoration—not to mention servants and tenants in need of a lord to care for them. Radham Hall was no different to his church at Sandcombe, and the souls dependent on the estate were no different to the parishioners.
They were now his flock.
There was one thing that even the most brokenhearted man could commit himself to. And that was his duty.