Chapter 3
The sound of Almack's reached Keaton's hearing before the carriage came to a halt outside.
Certainly before Uncle Edric patted his shoulder and said; “We are here, Keaton, my boy. To your left.”
Keaton had caught the strains of the musicians within the building, tuning their instruments even over the clatter of carriage wheels on cobbles and the jingle and clop of a team of horses. He often wondered how everyone was not aware of the things he was.
He felt the shifting of the carriage on its metal springs as his uncle disembarked ahead of him, felt the air stir against his cheek as the door was opened.
With the familiarity of practice, Keaton reached for the door frame and put his foot on the first step.
His cane came next, finding the ground precisely where he expected it to be. Then he was stepping onto the pavement.
Anyone watching would not even know he was blind. Keaton would put money on that. But now he was stepping into an unfamiliar place and a deluge of noise, which meant becoming utterly reliant on his Uncle’s guidance.
How tiresome…
“I see your face, Keaton. I know you do not wish to be here, but it really is for your own good. This is where your peers come to see and be seen. This is where a future wife will be found and an heir to Westvale.”
“Hang Westvale!” Keaton snapped sotto voce as his uncle guided his hand to his shoulder.
He immediately regretted it.
“Sorry, Uncle,” he exhaled roughly. “I know you care deeply about Westvale as your brother's legacy. I did not mean that. I… I am just on edge.”
“Understandable,” Edric said, slightly testily. “I would doubtless be the same in your condition, but we must rise above these tribulations.”
Tribulation was truly an understatement. To lose his sight on the same evening that his life had finally begun, when he had finally taken control of the Dukedom...
Keaton had little memory of that fateful incident a decade past, except for the tinge of gunpowder smoke and a hazy voice.
A man’s voice calling out for a Joe, or Joseph, he had since deduced.
And something he hadn’t told even his uncle.
When he had awoken, there had been a signet ring clutched in his hand.
Where it had come from, he did not know, but he felt it was connected to the name and the man who had spoken that name.
Keaton forced a tight, tense smile.
“Lead the way, Uncle. Let the dog see the rabbit, eh?”
Edric snorted at his nephew's self-deprecating humor and stepped off. Keaton felt the motion and stepped with him. His cane explored the ground in front of him, and his hand told him where his uncle was in relation to himself. Sounds from all around gave a mental image of the position of others.
From ahead came a growing din. The sound that only a large gathering of people could make. Overlaid atop it was the gentle stirrings of a string quartet.
Almack's Assembly rooms lay before him in all its dark glory, and a ball that he could not fully participate in but would, instead, stand to one side, pretending to appreciate the music while making polite small talk with members of the ton.
Members I have little respect for and no desire to socialize with. But as Uncle Edric says often, I am a custodian of Westvale. I must put it above myself.
He allowed himself to be guided through the Assembly Rooms, exchanging pleasantries with lords and ladies whose names he made a mental note of.
He linked those names to the sound of their voices and the scent of their perfumes and colognes.
It was a useful parlor trick for a blind man to be able to name someone before they had been formally introduced or before they had even spoken.
He would do his duty for an hour, then excuse himself. Thorne would be waiting just beyond the gardens, and he could finally steal away to speak with him in private.
Another quandary for a blind man was the inability to read.
Keaton knew that Uncle Edric would read any correspondence to him and regularly did.
But Edric did not approve of Mr. Aloysius Thorne, nor the task he was undertaking on behalf of the grizzled Duke of Westvale.
To him, there was little difference between a moment spent dwelling on vengeance and a moment spent dwelling on grief.
After the last ten years spent chasing answers that never came, perhaps his uncle was right.
“May I introduce Her Grace, the Duchess of Exeter,” Edric was saying.
Keaton forced his mind back to the present and away from the mysterious male voice calling out for Joe. Joseph? Jones? Who was the man, and who was he calling out to?
“Your Grace,” a female voice greeted him.
Keaton turned his head in the direction of the voice, gauged its proximity, and anticipated the outstretched hand. He took it smoothly, guessing its location correctly. Bowed, then kissed it.
“Your Grace, thank you for the invitation this evening,” Keaton began smoothly.
“You are most welcome. May I call you Keaton? As we are of equal rank?”
“You may,” Keaton replied, not inquiring as to her name.
“And you may call me Margaret, if you are so inclined,” the Duchess of Exeter said.
Keaton inclined his head gravely.
“I must say, it is remarkable how well you hide it, if you don't mind my saying so,” the Duchess remarked.
“Hide what?” Keaton asked, already weary of the same old conversation.
“Why, your affliction of course!”
“Ah, yes. Thank you for reminding me. I had quite forgotten,” Keaton said archly, making a show of flapping about his cane, narrowly missing a passing waiter.
Edric cleared his throat suddenly as he made to smother the cane.
“That is to say, my nephew has worked hard to compensate. His hearing and sense of touch in particular are preternaturally sensitive since the accident.”
“Accident? What was the accident? And how could it have such a catastrophic effect?” the Duchess gasped a touch too theatrically.
Keaton knew enough about the workings of the ton to know that this conversation, between two high-ranking nobles, would not be taking place in a vacuum.
There would be a constellation of lesser-ranking gentry orbiting them.
Some would openly listen. Others pretend not to.
Few would actively ignore a conversation between Westvale and Exeter.
In addition, he could feel the changes in air currents that spoke of people standing still about them, heard the conversations reduce in volume, the better to eavesdrop.
“I have no memory of it. I woke one day to find myself blind. My uncle, Lord Swinthorpe here, quite possibly knows more about the circumstances than I. It was he who found me after all.”
He spoke loudly for the benefit of all who might be listening. A wave of murmurs radiated out from him like ripples from a stone dropped into a pond.
“A carriage accident,” Edric said, “resulting in a heavy blow to the head.”
“And that is precisely what you told me,” Keaton finished with a smile.
“Is there no hope for the restoration of your sight?” the Duchess asked with sickening sympathy.
“None, and I do not wish for it,” Keaton said abruptly. “Now, I would ask your availability for a dance, Your Grace, but I am unable to for obvious reasons.” He smirked, knowing his jest would cause some awkward embarrassment among his audience.
“I quite understand… Keaton,” the Duchess said faintly.
“I doubt that you do, Your Grace,” he replied icily.
He turned away, allowing Edric to guide him further into the Assembly Rooms.
“That was... almost uncouth,” Edric whispered, too low for any but Keaton to hear.
“I tire of explaining myself and being pitied,” Keaton replied.
“That is all too obvious, my boy. But think of your father and your legacy. That is the sacred vow I made to him. That I would ensure his son thought of Westvale and its future, first and foremost.”
Keaton suppressed a grimace, not knowing who might be looking directly at him to see the expression.
“I will try, Uncle. For the sake of father's memory.”
And he did try for the next hour. Edric guided him among the gathered members of the ton, and Keaton behaved as was expected.
A squire for all intents and purposes. He laughed when required and engaged in the tedium of banal conversation with his peers.
A combination of the effort this took and the constant babble assaulting his sensitive ears began to produce an all-too-familiar and unwelcome sensation.
There was a pressure behind his eyes, pressing against his forehead and promising to swell in intensity.
The music commenced, and he was vaguely aware of a swell of movement as ladies and gentlemen took to the dance floor.
“Uncle, why don't you partake of the dancing? I was hoping to seek the solace of a quiet back room for a moment to soothe my head,” Keaton began.
“I will escort you, of course,” Edric replied.
“Nonsense, old man. I am familiar with the layout of Almack's from my youth. All too familiar, as you and Father often remarked upon. There is a door over there,” he pointed with unerring accuracy, “leading to a corridor. Third on the left of that corridor is a pleasant smoking room with comfortable chairs. It will be quiet while the dancing is taking place.”
And a servant’s door in the corner of that room will lead me to the back of the building from where I can make my way to my meeting with Thorne.
Edric reluctantly agreed, seeing the determination in his nephew and knowing better than to challenge it.
Keaton made his way in the direction of the door, feeling a loose floorboard that told him he was heading in the right direction.
His cane touched a stone pillar exactly where he expected it, and he adjusted his path accordingly.
Then, something went wrong.
His first warning was a scent, wafting into his nostrils from close at hand, as though a lady had stood just the other side of the pillar. It was floral and delicate, achingly feminine, communicating beauty and vulnerability. He took in a deep breath instinctively, letting the scent fill his head.
Then his hand touched soft fabric. A shoulder. Someone was backing towards him. In his mind’s eye, he saw a woman backing around the pillar as though using it as a hiding place, not paying attention to someone rounding it from the other side.
“Oh my!” came a feminine gasp, and the shoulder was snatched away.
Keaton's instinct was to keep his hand outstretched in order to feel what was in front of him. But he realized that the woman, whoever she was, had spun at his touch. Had he kept his hand outstretched, he would now be most certainly caressing one of her breasts. His face colored at the thought.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
“The Duke of Westvale, madame,” he replied drily, “may I suggest that you not walk backwards in such a crowded place. It is a veritable recipe for disaster.”
“I was not walking backwards!” she squeaked in defence. “May I ask why you were sneaking up on me?”
“I was not sneaking up on you.” He gestured beyond her. “Merely seeking the door.”
“I… apologize,” the woman said after a moment. “You took me by surprise, that’s all.”
Keaton heard the startlement leave her voice, draining away to leave embarrassment.
His irritation took longer to disperse. He did not like being publicly reminded of his blindness or having it highlighted by another.
He was also keen to be out of the Assembly Room before he was cornered into any more conversations.
His head was beginning to pound, and he desired nothing more than to hear an update on the progress of his investigation by Aloysius Thorne.
This contretemps with a stranger was delaying him and worsening his headache.
“Your apology is noted. In the future, kindly be more aware of where you are going,” he uttered with a wry voice as he made to move away.
But he had become disoriented by the incident, and after two steps, found his progress halted by a small chair.
He stumbled, cane clattering against the wrought iron legs.
Worse, it came to him then that when he had gestured for the door earlier, his loss of bearings had likely had him gesturing into nothingness, hence giving away his lack of sight.
He flushed hard, gritting his teeth and hoping no one was seated nearby.
“Wait a moment, sir,” came the woman’s meek voice just then, “I am sorry but... are you blind?”
“No, dear, I am simply quite foxed on the fine punch Lady Exeter is serving at the front.”
She didn’t answer.
After a beat, he turned his head toward her, irritated. “Is it not obvious?”
She hesitated. “Not to me, I’m afraid. To your credit, I shouldn't think it is obvious to anyone who doesn’t already know. You are very sure in your movements.”
“Have you been living under a rock that you do not know of the Blind Duke?” he almost scoffed.
He felt a soft hand touch his arm and angrily shook it off.
“Are you blind, madame? I do not need to be steered like a wayward cow. If you would be so kind as to walk to the door, I will follow.”
He knew he was being churlish, but the instinct by most people to take his hand and yank him along was one that maddened him. A blind person did not want to be steered into the unknown but to find their own way, with a hand on the shoulder or the arm of a guide—just under their own power.
How does she not know of the Blind Duke of Westvale, anyway? Surely all of these jackanapes know the story and gossip about it. If I were so supercilious, I’d be of half a mind to believe this entire circus at Almack's was put together at my behest…
“I suppose I have not,” came the offended reply. “And if so, that is hardly my fault. Nor is it my fault that I do not know how you prefer to be guided. Perhaps I should just return to the dancing and leave His Grace to his own devices?”
Keaton gaped at the notion that she would leave a blind man floundering. There was a fierce edge to her words that showed a fiery disposition. His hand settled on her shoulder, and he felt her soft skin, fine bones, and was once again overwhelmed by her perfume.
“I would rather you didn't,” he finally muttered in defeat.
“And I would not be so cruel, though one might say your rudeness deserves it. Here is the door.”
Keaton heard a door being opened and stepped through. He was about to ask for the name of his positively delightful guide when he heard the door close behind him with a clap that was almost a slam.
Remarkable.