Chapter Thirty-One
Two more days and I can be reunited with her.
About bloody time.
London had never held any pleasure for Charles, and right now he utterly was sick of the place.
Sick of the buildings crammed against each other, sick of the bright colors and sharp voices of Society’s finest all trying to outdo each other in ostentation, sick of the endless noise, even at night in a place that never seemed to take rest, and most of all…
Most of all, he was heartily sick of being separated from his wife.
But soon he could hold her in his arms again—not to mention indulge in giving her a taste of pleasure.
“Well! You’re looking a little less like a thundercloud today, sir.”
Fuck off, John.
The valet grinned. Charles drew in a lungful of air and glanced at his surroundings.
At least Hyde Park gave him some respite from all the brickwork, though there was no relief from the people who, with their gaudy silks and bright waistcoats, visited the park to be seen rather than enjoy the little haven of greenery that made a passable attempt at resembling the countryside.
At least he could be thankful for having a limited acquaintance, which meant that few people stopped him to engage in inane conversation about the inclement weather that London had been suffering now winter was upon them, or the latest gossip about the prince regent’s mistresses.
In fact, the only soul Charles recognized—the Duke of Foxton—was too occupied with the painted ladies adorning each perfectly tailored arm to give him more than a cursory nod.
A volley of childish squeals filled the air, followed by a cacophony of quacks, splashing water, and a nursemaid’s high-pitched admonishments.
A young girl raced away from the edge of the Serpentine, toward a tree, yelling with laughter.
Charles caught sight of a second child, a boy of five or six, swinging from a branch of the tree, then the boy released his hold and fell to the ground, landing in a heap beside a rhododendron.
A lady dressed in bright-blue silk let out a cry and approached the child.
Charles winced, in anticipation of the child receiving a beating, but instead, the lady scooped the boy into her arms, and they filled the air with their laughter.
“For shame!” a female voice huffed as a couple passed by. “But I suppose it’s not unexpected, given her tomboyish nature. Earl Thorpe is to be pitied for marrying that misfit.”
“He doesn’t look all that pitiful, my dear,” the woman’s companion said in the muted voice of the henpecked husband.
A tall man approached the lady and joined in the laughter, then he picked up the girl and placed her on his shoulders.
Charles found himself smiling at the little family—father, mother, son, and daughter—indulging in the simple, natural pleasure of a little tomfoolery.
He knew Thorpe by sight, having seen him at Oxford, though they’d never moved in the same circles.
He’d seemed a stuffy fellow, overly fastidious about decorum.
But marriage to a misfit must have transformed Thorpe—lucky bastard, able to appreciate, and be part of, the happiness of a child who was given free rein to express joy in merely being alive.
Perhaps that was what Mrs. Brougham meant when she’d said Charles was a different man to his father—that he had the chance to bring light and happiness to Penham…
Now that Charles had married his own little misfit.
He thrust his hands into his pockets and followed the path toward the park gates. Not long now and he’d be on his way back to her.
“I say! Devereaux!”
He glanced along the street to see his banker striding toward him.
“I thought it was you. What are you doing in London still? Now the papers have been signed, I assumed you’d be anxious to return to the country.”
“Lord Devereaux leaves tomorrow, Mr. Coutts,” John said. “He’s just taking the air today.”
“Quite right, given that this has been the only fine day all week.” Coutts gestured along the road. “Care to join me? My club’s not far. I was going that way for a brandy with Mr. Drummond.”
Charles shook his head.
“I’ll stand your drinks if that’s your concern. I can afford to be generous.”
Since when has a banker exhibited generosity?
John let out a snort, and the banker stared at Charles’s hands.
“I take it you harbor a degree of cynicism when it comes to recognizing the generosity of men in my profession,” he said, “but a banker can afford to be generous toward a client who has just deposited ten thousand in his account. Your man would, of course, also be welcome as my guest. The other members are hardly likely to object, given that my bank’s issued loans to most of them, including the chair of the membership committee. ”
Charles raised his eyebrows and glanced at John.
“Come, come, Devereaux,” Coutts said. “Your man is eager for you to accept on his behalf. Stranger things have happened at White’s.
Did you know that Viscount de Blanchard brought a doxy into the clubroom in a gentleman’s garb claiming that she was his nephew?
Most members would have called out a gentleman for having the audacity to bring a woman through the front door of White’s.
But I’m not an advocate of dueling, and I came to the conclusion that the poor woman deserved a little reward for having to endure De Blanchard’s company. ”
“Does de Blanchard bank with you, Mr. Coutts?” John asked.
The banker shook his head. “While it’s my business to make a profit from issuing loans, and the greater the risk of repayment, the higher the premium”—he glanced at Charles—“I’m an astute enough businessman to understand that some risks are simply not worth taking when the probability of repayment is slightly less than the probability of Sir Heath Moss joining a monastery.
Forgive me, I trust neither gentleman is a friend of yours. ”
Quite the opposite.
John conveyed Charles’s response, and Coutts chuckled. “That settles it. You must join me for a brandy to wish you a safe journey back to your wife.”
White’s was only a short walk from the entrance to Hyde Park, as was Foxton’s London residence.
Unsurprisingly, Foxton himself was settled in a corner of the clubroom, glass in hand, surrounded by sycophantic young men eager to ingratiate themselves with a duke.
Doubtless he was rarely required to pay for a round of drinks in the clubroom.
The duke glanced up as Charles entered, raised his glass in salute, then resumed his conversation. Coutts led Charles and John to a quiet corner away from the rest of the members.
“My very superior usual please, Samuel,” he said to an approaching footman, “and the same for my two friends.”
The footman raised his eyebrows, gave a conspiratorial wink, then bowed and slipped away.
“I have a special bottle of Hennessy set aside here,” Mr. Coutts said.
“Very Superior Old Pale—some newfangled style. The name’s something of an affectation, but it’s smoother on the palate, so in that respect it lives up to its overly grand description.
It was produced at the request of the regent himself, though I daresay he’d have me incarcerated in the Tower if he knew I’d got my hands on a bottle.
I trust it will make your entering White’s with me worth your while. ”
Not if it’s like all other brandy in that it tastes like horse’s piss.
John quirked his mouth into a smile and the banker laughed.
“I may not understand your gestures, Devereaux, but I take it your cynicism is coming to the fore again? If the brandy’s not to your taste, I’m sure your man will drink yours for you.”
The footman returned with three glasses on a salver. He bowed with reverence, as if he carried the regent’s jewels, then watched as the three men took up their glasses and took sips.
The liquid burst with flavor on Charles’s tongue, giving none of the harshness of strong liquor. He closed his eyes to savor the taste, then swallowed, letting it slip down his throat, radiating warmth through his body.
Devil’s breeches, that was good.
Coutts raised his glass in salute, then leaned back in his chair as the three men fell into a companionable silence—preferable to the inane chatter of Society any day, and certainly preferable to whatever conversation Foxton was indulging in with his friends.
“Well, well, well!” a voice said. “You’re the last man I expected to see here.”
Charles glanced up to see Sir Heath Moss.
If ever a man epitomized the theory that beauty on the outside was matched with a black heart within, it was the man standing before him.
“Don’t trouble yourself to get up,” Sir Heath said. “I’ve no intention of joining you. I’m not a man to fraternize with tradesmen.”
Coutts curled his lips in a smile. “Is that because you’re in debt to most of them?” he said. “I flatter myself in not being among your numerous creditors. Mr. Drummond is to be pitied—you bank with him, I believe?”
“I say, old chap,” Sir Heath said, his eyes glittering with spite.
“Commerce is hardly an appropriate subject for a gentlemen’s clubroom.
But one can hardly expect you to engage in appropriate conversation, given the company you’re keeping.
Perhaps the club secretary should hear of this. He’s a personal friend of mine.”
“And a client of mine,” Coutts said, sounding bored. “Which reminds me, the coupon on his bond is due for payment.”
Sir Heath’s expression hardened, then he glanced at John. “I suppose fraternizing with tradesmen is the lesser sin compared to fraternizing with those whose place is below stairs.”
Coutts’s knuckles whitened as he tightened his grip on his brandy glass. “My late wife was of humble origins.”