Chapter Twenty-Four
Why today, of all days, when Nicolas’s temple throbbed, and he craved the dark, did the sun choose to beat down on London?
And why was he allowing Davenport to drag him to St. James’s Street when he’d prefer to be tucked beneath his blankets?
One could argue that at least White’s was better than The Lyon’s Den.
That is if one was inclined to have an opinion, which would take far more energy than Nicolas currently had.
Served him right for downing a decanter of brandy when he hadn’t imbibed in years.
He sunk into the carriage squabs, placed his hat over his face, and closed his eyes.
“I dare say, mate, you smell like a tavern floor,” Davenport said.
“You would know,” Nicolas said from beneath his hat.
Davenport chuckled. “By God, Wentworth, are you soused?”
“Could you stop shouting?”
Davenport lifted the makeshift sunshade and peered down at Nicolas. His lips twisted into his insufferable smirk. “I’m not shouting,” he shouted.
Bright light singed Nicolas’s pupils, stabbing pain shot from his eyeballs to his brain, and Davenport’s voice rang and echoed.
“Smart arse.” Nicolas grabbed his hat and laid it once more across his face.
“Chit problems?” Davenport asked as he settled onto the opposite seat.
Nicolas harrumphed. Last night, when he wanted to talk, Davenport hadn’t been around, and today, his head ached too much to form coherent phrases.
“So be it. I’ll just let you stew in cheap ale and misery,” Davenport said.
Nicolas would inform the viscount he’d pickled himself in his expensive brandy another time. However, he suspected Davenport would discover the empty decanter sooner rather than later.
The carriage halted, and Nicolas’s world spun in a dizzying whirl.
“We’re here,” Davenport yelled loud enough to wake the dead.
There was a silver lining to last night’s overindulgence.
Nicolas had promised the lord above that if he didn’t die from the hot coppers, he’d never imbibe again.
To all that was holy, he had no intention of breaking his promise.
He plopped his hat on his head and reluctantly followed Davenport out of the carriage.
The three-story stone building, five bays wide, dominated Nicolas’s ale-stunted view.
Using his palm to shield his eyes, he regarded the cast iron balcony and second-floor pilasters so large they could have been forged by Roman gods.
Sunlight dappled over the decorative oval relief plaques wreathed with garlands.
In the center of the ground floor of the impressive building was the infamous bow window, where men won and lost fortunes.
Having a father who had wagered away their family fortune meant gambling held even less appeal than liquor, so Nicolas scowled at the symbolic window. White’s.
Still glowering, he followed Davenport into the establishment, half-heartedly murmuring brain-piercing hellos to the men he recognized. Of course, Davenport bellowed greetings to everyone.
Nicolas had the oddest sensation that the blokes they passed were snickering at him.
Could they tell he was jug-bitten? Did they know of his obsession with a hell-on carriage wheels pugilist?
Or that he’d been caught in the arms of a cossetted brat who had tricked him into marriage after she’d tossed him into the streets like a piece of rubbish?
Perhaps they’d heard that his father had gambled away the family holdings?
Did they know his sister had aligned herself with an unpopular cause?
He sighed. Why would any of these men give two shites about him? How arrogant to even think they might. The hot coppers must make one exceedingly paranoid.
He followed Davenport to a large round table. A dozen or so of their peers sat around it, holding lit cheroots and cups of warm drink. Thick cigar smoke wound around Nicolas, filling his nostrils and lungs. He coughed, and his stomach soured. He should have waited in the carriage.
“Excuse me, gents.” Davenport tipped his hat to the men. “I will be back in a moment to discuss our business.” He winked as if he’d just shared some sort of secret and then led Nicolas away from the large group.
What in the blazes was Davenport up to this time?
Since Nicolas’s brain was processing slowly, it took him a moment to realize that the “business” Davenport had referenced probably had something to do with the infamous betting book housed at White’s.
He’d been paranoid for no reason. A spark of pride poked through his doldrums. At least he had nothing to do with any wager other than the unfortunate one the widow had forced him to take part in.
He experienced a moment of affinity for his old chum since Davenport took pity on him and picked a small table tucked into a quiet, dark, corner.
Nicolas removed his tailcoat and gloves and sunk into the leather chair. “See here,” he whispered. “Be careful with that damnable book. If you need me to read you the details, I will.”
Davenport’s eyes widened, probably because he feared someone might overhear Nicolas’s offer to read to him.
“I think not.” Davenport deposited his hat, gloves, and tailcoat on his chair and excused himself, leaving Nicolas to stew in last night’s expensive brandy and today’s misery.
Since there were no women around, Nicolas could act like an ill-bred churl. He closed his eyes and folded over, resting his forehead on the table.
Sometime later, someone tapped him on the shoulder, jolting him from his brief slumber.
“Are you alive?” Davenport asked.
Nicolas wiped the saliva from his cheek and sat up. “Barely.”
Davenport handed him a cup of coffee and sat across from him.
As Nicolas sipped at the life-affirming drink, the throbbing in his head eased. Not completely, but enough for Nicolas to remember that Josie had a gambit of her own to overcome.
“Do you think Josephine will withstand the scrutiny today?” he asked.
Davenport tapped the rim of his coffee cup as he regarded Nicolas with a serious expression. “I think Josephine is one hell of a gal, Nick, old chap.”
Nicolas wholeheartedly agreed. Holding his warm cup to his temple, he nodded.
“Do you want to tell me what has you so rattled that you are in a katzenjammer today?” Davenport asked. “Because as much as I enjoy watching my mates stumble about after a night of drowning themselves in devil’s water, I’m not enjoying your pathetic arse as much as I should be.”
Then he should stop taunting Nicolas with the over-loud voice and the smart-arse looks.
Nicolas perused the room to ensure no one was paying attention to them. Either coffee had cured his paranoia, or no one was interested in two blokes talking in the corner.
He leaned across the table to whisper, “Last night, Lydia and her parents tricked me. Despite my better judgment, I went for a walk with her. We had a chaperone one minute, but she was gone the next. Lydia grabbed me, and I was in her arms when her parents and a group of onlookers appeared out of nowhere. Now, Small is claiming I must marry her.”
Davenport’s brow furrowed. “What the bloody hell?”
“I know.” Nicolas placed his empty cup on the table. “And Small seems to be under some misguided notion that I’ve come into a considerable fortune. What would make him think that?”
Davenport’s jaw clenched.
“And meanwhile, I’ve developed feelings for…” Nicolas rubbed his temple and moaned. “Hell, what does it matter?”
Davenport glared at something over Nicolas’s shoulder. “Speak of the devil.”
Hell no. It couldn’t be. Nicolas slowly turned. His glance confirmed his fear. His future father-in-law glowered at Nicolas before his gaze slid to Davenport. His curling finger beckoned.
“Bloody hell,” Nicolas said. “I have no desire to speak with him. Did he follow us here?”
Frowning, Davenport placed his cup on the table. He grabbed folded foolscap and a pencil that appeared to be covered with teeth marks from his tailcoat pocket and then stood. “I believe he wants to speak to me.”
Grateful that the baron didn’t want to talk to him, Nicolas let out a chuckle filled with disgust and void of humor.
“While you are at it, can you get me out of this muddle of a marriage?” The truth was there was nothing Davenport could do to help him.
Nicolas was completely and utterly fucked, and they both knew it.
Davenport approached the baron. Small clapped him on the back as if they were old friends. Davenport stiffened. Then, the two men exited the room.
Nicolas rested his head back on the table and closed his eyes.
Since they’d spent the morning at White’s, Nicolas assumed he’d been spared from the original plan of visiting The Lyon’s Den.
No such luck because instead of pulling up in front of Greenpark House, the carriage drove down Cleveland Row and halted a few buildings away from the blue house of doom.
Although not nearly as grand as White’s, the double-bow windows and iron balcony on the second floor added a touch of charm to the five-story building.
“No.” Nicolas slid his head from side to side. “Never again. I’ll wait here.”
“We can’t return home while the ladies are in the middle of their party. Mother will skin us alive,” Davenport said. “Besides, I need to take care of some business.”
More business? “Seeing a man about a horse?” Nicolas asked.
“Not that it’s any of your concern, but yes.” Davenport flashed his perfect white teeth.
Since they were here, obviously, Davenport hadn’t gotten his fill of wagering while at White’s.
Nicolas grunted, fought his way out of his tailcoat, and rolled it into a ball.
Once Davenport exited the carriage, Nicolas stretched out on the squabs, shoved his coat under his head, and closed his eyes.
Nicolas awoke hours later, his mouth so dry he was unable to produce saliva. The once-blazing sun emitted a soft glow as it dipped behind the horizon. The coachman and footman were nowhere to be found.