Chapter Eleven
Adrian’s faithful evening porter welcomed him home with a bow. Mr. William then carefully relieved Adrian of his cloak, hat, and gloves.
The old man was a comforting sight.
When Adrian had leased this property after returning from the war, Mr. William had specifically requested to join his household. As his father’s widow had no objection, Adrian agreed.
Given that Adrian had left his father’s home to join Harbury’s household before he reached his majority, the older man’s loyalty touched him.
He was surprised, in fact, to learn that any of his father’s staff held him in affection. Most had left after having been compelled by his father to testify against his mother.
“All well?” Adrian asked.
“Very good, my lord.” The porter cleared his throat. “Although I should tell you that the Duke of Harbury arrived an hour or so ago. I told him, of course, that you were out for the evening but…” His voice trailed off.
“A little worse for wear, is he?”
The porter inclined head.
Adrian sighed. Better and better. “Have someone make up a bed in the spare room and leave him to me.”
A spark of approval lit the porter’s eye. He started to back away.
“One more thing before you go…”
He handed Mr. William the package Mrs. Dove-Lyon had given him with the instructions to have a brew prepared in the morning.
“…or better yet, midday.” If anything, he needed a good night’s sleep.
“You may place your trust in me,” Mr. William replied. He bowed and then set off in the direction of the staff quarters.
Adrian trudged through the hall, reluctantly trawling through events of the evening in his mind. After finding out that the Blackbird had come to Bessie in search of a husband, he’d made the rash decision to flee the Lyon’s Den and never return.
Bessie had known just how intriguing he’d find the Blackbird. She’d known, too, that the Blackbird would refuse to see him again. She’d used the young woman to make her point—that using others as a salve for his pain insulted both the ladies and his own honor.
He felt betrayed.
Worst still, he knew Bessie had been right. He’d been shirking his duties while seeking comfort for an affliction better treated in more practical ways. Words alone would never have made him realize just how far he’d strayed from his own standards and ideals.
The Blackbird had also made accusations, some of which had come uncomfortably close to being true as well. She’d accused him of treating women with thoughtlessness and scorn.
Scorn? No. But thoughtlessness…?
Perhaps. However unintentional.
He’d had to be extraordinarily careful.
Whispers had followed him as a child—something only to be expected when one’s parents had been as infamous for their rows as they had been for their mutual infidelities, eventually culminating in a spectacular trial followed by a Parliamentary divorce.
And while he’d made no effort to court public opinion, he had taken pains for his liaisons to remain private. He’d believed having Bessie plan his assignations protected himself from scrutiny and his lovers from mistaken attachment.
Had he been deceiving himself?
As Bessie’s lesson had made plain, he’d centered every decision, of late, solely on his comfort. Yes. In fact, he had become so self-indulgent he’d sunk to merely using women.
His jaw tightened.
Much the way his father had used his mother and as many women as would permit him to take his pleasure. At least before he wed Caroline.
Damnation.
Bessie had made him feel guilty. His guilt rested like oil on top of more deeply disturbing waters.
It didn’t matter that he suffered intermittent and embarrassing attacks.
It didn’t matter that Bessie had tricked him.
It didn’t even matter that—for a moment just before the Blackbird had made him beg—he’d felt a yearning to simply hold the lady close.
To know her secrets.
To give up some of his own.
But his sister Emily—not his own petty frustrations, confusions, and needs—was what mattered. Emily’s debut drew closer every day.
He and Emily had been born to the same mother with—he rubbed his thigh—the loss of a babe in-between.
But Emily, from the age of four, had been raised by her stepmama, Caroline, who’d earned the ton’s respect not only by taking on his infamous father as a young woman, but by smoothing that man’s rough edges while he lived and by refusing to take a lover despite a swarm of lovesick swains since his death.
Caroline’s excellent reputation ensured that Adrian’s sister would not be watched with suspicion. But Emily was still a D’Acre. And the offspring of an infamous mother. Unless Adrian put more effort into securing a place of respect among the ton, Emily’s future success was at risk.
He must find a way to prove he was, one, completely unlike his parents in character or in habit, and two, no longer the rebellious young man who bought a commission against his father’s wishes.
But how was he going to achieve redemption when it was all he could do to inure himself to banal pleasantries and never knew when an attack could quite literally make his skin crawl?
Adrian opened the parlor door and quickly stepped aside as a red-eyed Harbury stumbled backwards into the hall.
“Hey! What do you mean by moving the wall?” Harbury demanded. He blinked up from his bent-over position holding onto his knees. “You! Where the devil have you been?”
Adrian cocked a brow. “Bad night?”
“The worst! Beyond description.”
Adrian grunted in response. “I heard your name being bandied about around the betting book at the Lyon’s Den.” He folded his arms. “Got some poor young lady expelled from Almack’s, did you?”
“Yes.” Harbury ran a hand through his already considerably disheveled sandy-brown mop.
“I told you to stay away from that place,” Adrian said. “You never listen.”
“Had to go. Promised my sister to be there every week until the Harbury ball. Sarah wouldn’t host for me otherwise.” Harbury rested his head against the wainscoting. “Tonight was nothing short of disaster. You don’t know the half.”
Adrian glanced longingly up the stairs. Lord knew he needed a good scrub. The Blackbird’s scent had been driving him mad ever since they parted.
“I’m doomed,” Harbury muttered dramatically.
Adrian clapped Harbury on the shoulder. “Go back into the parlor. We’ll have a dram while your bed’s prepared for you.”
“What?” Harbury’s head whipped up, sending him swaying on his feet. Then he looked around the hall as if surprised to find himself in a different room than the one he’d just occupied. He took an unsteady step. “I don’t need to sleep here. I’m fine.”
“I think not.” Adrian softened his voice. “I’ll not send you back out there as you are. You convinced your father to take me in once, remember. Allow me to return the favor in a much smaller way.”
“Here. Home. Doesn’t much matter where I am, does it?
” Harbury shrugged, pulling a long, miserable face.
“No matter what I do, my death march is scheduled to begin at the fashionable hour tomorrow. Er, rather, today.” He counted on his fingers.
“Rotten Row. Hyde Park. With half the ton to witness my humiliation.”
“Death march?”
He groaned again. “I’ve agreed to court the chit in good faith.”
“The chit?”
“The silly chit who hadn’t the sense to stomp my foot. Instead, she let me drag her onto a waltz—”
“Let you? Lord, Edgar William, you can be such an ass.”
Harbury scowled. “Told you not to call me that anymore. I am Harbury now.”
“Are you?” Adrian asked with feigned incredulity. “Well, an ass by any other name…”
Adrian trailed off, expecting a response, but the drunken duke in question had stopped paying attention and was staring off at a far corner of the ceiling, brow crinkled in concentration.
“Now that I think about it, this is her fault,” Harbury said.
This should be interesting. “How is that?”
“We depend on women to keep us honest, to hold us to universal rules. She did not play her proper part.”
Adrian winced. What would the Blackbird have to say to such a philosophy?
“Come, now, Harbury. How can women be responsible for the standards we make up for them?”
“No. No!” Harbury pointed unsteadily. “I had nothing to do with making the rule we broke! Those dammed Patroness laid down the waltzing regulations.”
“And this proves your point?”
“Yes.” Harbury nodded. “Without women to hold us to standards, we’re no better than beasts.”
“Come along, then, you pompous beast.”
Adrian took Harbury by the arm and then led him into the parlor. He settled his old friend down with a drink.
“You should do something about the walls, Adrian.”
“Why? I only lease the place.”
“Dark as the devil in here. No wonder you’re always moping around.”
“Pot. Kettle. Avant, black-browes.”
Harbury squinted, clearly confused.
“Never mind. We’ll get to decorating advice later. Besides, I’m not the one moping. Explain to me how you came to inopportune the young lady.”
“Very well. If you must know, I’d just spotted Vivianne.” Harbury pursed his lips, then gave a harsh sigh. “So, you see, I needed to turn my mind to someone else.”
Ah. Vivianne, the infamous love of Harbury’s life.
Adrian should have known. “Couldn’t you have chosen another young lady? One who’d been approved to waltz?”
Again, Harbury shrugged. “The chit was closest lady at hand. And don’t start in about Viv. I know what you are going to say.”
“If you already know—”
“The heart wants what the heart wants.”
Adrian shook his head. “Grown men don’t indulge senseless infatuations with their older sister’s former governess.”
“What I feel is not an infatuation, but love! True love.” Harbury threw up his hands. “There will never be anyone else for me.”
Adrian resisted rolling his eyes. He’d heard the speech too many times to count. Every time he gave it, Harbury’s eyes took on a tell-tale red hue, hinting at imminent tears. Damned loved-sick prick.