Chapter 11
“This is your evening off, isn’t it, Hooves?”
The butler paused in the act of clearing the tea tray and glanced up at Christian with trepidation. “Yes, Your Grace. Do you wish me to defer it? Do you need me?”
“No, no, of course not. You work hard; I shan’t get in the way of your free time. I was only going to ask what you would do with it.”
Hooves relaxed a little. “I plan to visit my mother, Your Grace. She lives only a little way off. I shall stay there tonight and travel back early in the morning. It is what I usually do. Nothing exciting, I’m sure. We play cards, eat a meal together, and talk. I am close to my mother.”
Christian sighed and continued to stare out the window. It was growing dark outside, so instead of seeing the grounds below, he only saw his own blurry reflection eyeing him mournfully.
“I share a house with my own mother, Hooves, and yet I don’t spend such quality time with her. I have a great deal to learn from you.”
“I’m sure that isn’t true, Your Grace. But if I may be so bold, is something wrong?”
Christian glanced over his shoulder. “What do you mean?”
Hooves hesitated, gloved fingers tightening on the handles of the tea tray. “You seem a little melancholy, Your Grace, but simultaneously full of energy. You have been restless since you returned from your outing earlier.”
“My outing,” Christian echoed.
That wretched gallery. That wretched woman.
He could still feel the softness of Thalia’s lips on his own. He could still taste the salt of her skin and feel her fingertips digging into his shoulders. She had wanted him too with a hunger that made him want to lift her into his arms, carry her away, and make her his.
Of course, such an intense desire could never last. They had been interrupted, and the moment was over. She regretted it; that was clear.
I had better not upset her. If she decides not to help me, I cannot say if I will ever find Laura by myself.
No, he would have to be exceptionally careful. If not, he would pay the price. And yet the memory of that damned kiss lingered in his mind like an itch he could not quite scratch.
It was no good. He could remain in the house, kicking his heels by the fire.
“Your Grace?” Hooves prompted.
Christian turned to find the butler eyeing him with trepidation. “Before you go,” he managed, “I wonder if you could do one last thing for me.”
“Anything, Your Grace.”
“Could you fetch my coat and hat? I am going out tonight. Warn the footmen, and tell my mother not to wait up for me. I will be back exceptionally late.”
I’m going to get an itch scratched.
A membership in one of the main clubs in London was a must for any enterprising young gentleman. Christian had a membership at White’s, and one or two other notable places.
However, those clubs were all about connections. One went there to be seen, much like ladies promenaded in the Park. They were the proper places.
And then, of course, there were the other clubs. There were hosts of them, with more popping up every other day, it seemed.
For example, there was this place. Maeve Hartley’s, it was called, or Hartley’s for short. Run by the most dashing widow Christian had ever seen, it was a wild ride of a club.
The music was generally too loud to converse easily, which meant that everybody shouted.
There was dancing, but not the kind that would be permitted at Almack’s.
There was gambling—high-stakes gambling—and cards and dice and all sorts of shocking games.
Too much drink was served and generally not enough food, and the servants were always insolent.
Another difference between Hartley’s and other, more respectable gentlemen’s clubs was, quite simply, the presence of ladies.
Once again, these were not the sort of ladies who would be permitted at Almack’s.
Now, Hartley’s was not a brothel or any such unsavory place. Any ladies who attended arrived of their own volition. Some did require a few little trinkets in exchange for their favors, but most sought something a little more permanent.
Maeve Hartley herself met Christian at the door.
She was a short, fat woman who boasted of never having been beautiful yet snared the richest merchant in all of England.
This part, as far as Christian could tell, was true.
She had a handsome face, round and pleasant, but it was her mind that had secured her one of the most profitable clubs in London.
He hardly dared think of how much money the place made.
A fortune was lost at the card-tables every single night, and cards were not the only games played.
“Your Grace!” she exclaimed with unabashed delight. “How wonderful to see you. I was starting to think that you had forsaken us for that dreadful Tabitha Sundry’s new place. I hear it’s truly awful.”
“Oh, have you? I heard that her dice games stripped a lord’s son of his fortune and handed it to a merchant only last night,” Christian responded with a grin, letting a blank-faced footman take his coat and hat.
Maeve pulled a face. “Ugh. All the women there have the pox, I heard.”
“Good gracious. Well, Tabitha Sundry speaks well of you.”
“She does not. I know exactly what she says. She says that my card tables are rigged and that the house always wins. Well, you play a hand or two tonight, Your Grace, and you tell me whether it’s rigged.”
“I’m not here for cards,” Christian admitted. “I am here for company.”
A brief, crafty look crossed Maeve’s face. “Ah, then you are in luck. My cousin is visiting.”
“Your cousin?” Christian repeated incredulously. “My dear Mrs. Hartley, I certainly hope you aren’t taking me for a gull.”
“I’d be a fool to do that. No, she really is my cousin.
Her name is Charlotte Linnux, but we all call her Lottie.
Captain Linnux is off in India, and I don’t believe they even write these days.
She’s lonely,” Maeve added pointedly. “But none of my guests tonight have caught her interest. Shall I introduce you, or will you manage it yourself?”
She gestured to the fireplace where a woman sat alone, feet up on her fender, a large glass of wine cradled in her hand. As Christian watched, a mustached young man loped towards her, leaning over and whispering a few words. A sharp reply came. He flinched and pulled back.
“I shall introduce myself,” Christian decided with a smirk.
Maeve nodded knowingly and turned to greet the next guest stepping through the door.
The parlor was set aside as a quiet spot. Ladies and gentlemen sat side by side, talking in low voices. A couple of drunken fools slept off their over-intoxication.
The drawing room and ballroom were where the gambling happened, along with the drinking and the japes. Nobody sat in the parlor if they wanted a good time.
“Mrs. Linnux, I assume?” Christian murmured, approaching the woman in the chair.
She glanced up at him, and he was immediately struck by how young she looked.
A closer inspection put her at about twenty-five, but she had the misfortune of appearing a few years younger.
With golden hair, round blue eyes, and a doll-like face, Mrs. Linnux would easily have broken hearts by the handful in London.
He suspected that her cousin and her own poor status had prevented her from slaying gentlemen in London. Like many beautiful but poor young women, she had probably grabbed at the first man who offered her marriage and called it love. A red-coat captain, for example.
“I don’t mean to disturb you,” he said softly. “May I sit?”
She eyed him for a long moment. “Very well,” she said.
He settled down, propping up his feet just as she was.
“I am the Duke of Thornhill,” he said comfortably. “But in here, I am Christian.”
She gave a wry smile and sipped her wine. “And I am Lottie.”
“A fine name. Are you staying with your cousin for long?”
“It seems so. I have no money, you see. My husband will not support me and occupies himself with his mistress in India.”
“I am sorry to hear that.”
She shrugged. “It does not matter. What of you, Christian? No wife? I don’t care to keep company with married men.”
“I am not married.”
“Very wise. Avoid it if you can.”
She leaned forward, revealing a stack of letters in her lap. She tossed one idly into the fire and watched it burn.
“Shall I fetch you another glass of wine, Lottie?” Christian asked softly, watching her carefully. She was very beautiful. He might enjoy her company for a while if she were amenable.
She glanced up at him, meeting his eyes, and for one moment he was entirely sure that she wore spectacles. The firelight made her hair glint red.
He blinked, flinching, and at once her hair returned to its golden color. Somehow, it seemed rather bland compared to red.
“No, thank you,” she replied, frowning, and he realized that he had been staring. “You are looking at me as if you have seen a ghost.”
“It’s nothing. For a moment there, I simply… I simply thought you looked like an acquaintance of mine. There are some similarities around the nose and mouth. You are the same age, I think.”
She chewed on the nail of her pinky. “Is she pretty, your friend?”
“I… I believe so.”
“You don’t sound certain.”
“It is not a euphemism. We really are friends. Acquaintances, perhaps.”
“Mm-hm. And yet you see her in my face. Does she have golden hair?”
“I… No.”
Lottie ran her tongue over her teeth and returned her gaze to the fire. “Interesting,” she murmured.
Christian flinched, beginning to feel ill at ease.
He did not like the sensation. Generally, if he wished for companionship, he had no difficulty in getting ladies to like him.
A little charming conversation, a few smiles, and they fell willingly into his arms. A little dalliance, and the next morning they would go their separate ways in peace and perfect contentment.
Really, it was an ideal situation. Women like Lottie could not marry, and even if they could, they would likely not risk it again. And yet they wanted warmth and companionship without losing their reputations. Everybody got what they wanted.
And the very fact that Lottie had not dismissed him was a good sign. So why on earth did he keep thinking about Thalia and that lopsided smile of hers? A particular image came to mind of her squinting through her spectacles, peering up at a particularly bad painting of some mountains.
“You are smiling, Christian,” Lottie observed. “What are you thinking of?”
He hastily concocted a lie. “I was only thinking that your hair looked like spun gold in the firelight. Quite angelic.”
“Spun gold,” she repeated with amusement. “Angelic. Very lazy, my friend. Very lazy. Are you also going to tell me that I am beautiful with the air of bestowing such a compliment on me for the first time?”
He cleared his throat. “No.”
“Good. Tell me more about this friend of yours. This lady whose face you see in mine.”
“There is really nothing to tell,” he said shortly. “As I said, she is an acquaintance. She is not here. I wish to acquaint myself with you, Lottie, if you wish it.”
She studied him for a long moment, fingers drumming on the armrest.
“Perhaps you remind me of an old acquaintance, too,” she murmured. “How strange it is to find resemblance in the eyes of people we do not know.”
He wasn’t entirely sure how to respond to that.
Before he could string together a sentence, Lottie spoke again. “We should talk more privately.” She rose to her feet. “I have rooms upstairs, with a parlor. Come with me, and we shall talk away from this racket. If you like,” she added and reached out her hand.
Christian stared at her hand, a smooth, white, pretty little palm with long and elegant fingers. He felt Thalia’s fingertips press against the back of his neck and saw her eyes squeezed shut behind her crooked spectacles.
Dear God, what is happening to me?
Lottie’s hand dropped. “Oh, dear,” she murmured.
“I… I do not know what has come over me,” Christian stammered, his desire cooling.
“I think I might guess,” Lottie said, tilting her head. “This acquaintance of yours lingers on your mind, perhaps?”
“She is something of an irritation to me. I… I won’t go into details, but I require her help, and she requires mine, so we are stuck together.”
“How terrible. And yet you are not as horrified as you ought to be? Is it possible that you think of her a little more often than you should? Do you find yourself playing your conversations over in your mind? Interesting.”
He closed his eyes. He saw Thalia’s face, a wide grin curling her lips.
He heard her gasp in his ear, arms wound tight around his shoulders.
The tug of desire returned, and he realized with a small thrill of horror that he could go to bed with Lottie after all if he kept an image of Thalia in his mind.
But that would be fair to absolutely no one.
Opening his eyes, he met Lottie’s faintly amused gaze.
“I beg your pardon,” he sighed, “but I think that I should take my leave.”
“Yes,” Lottie agreed thoughtfully. “I think you should.”
“I am sorry if I have… if I have aroused any interest.”
She bit back a smile, glancing towards the fire.
“I have enjoyed our conversation, short though it was. I doubt that our paths will cross again, but if they do, I should like to meet this acquaintance of yours and judge whether she really does look like me. If she does, I shall take it as a great compliment. If she does not, then I must conclude that you are either a madman or a man in love.” She paused, considering. “Although both are often the same.”
“There is no need to use such a serious word,” Christian said firmly. “I am grateful for your company.”
She bobbed a neat little curtsey and flashed him a grin. “Likewise. It was a pleasure to meet you, Your Grace, and I mean that most sincerely. I wish you the best of luck.”
“And to you,” he responded.
He rose and turned, hurrying back towards the foyer. He faintly heard Maeve call out his name in something of a panic from across the room but managed to snatch his coat and hat from the footman before she pounced on him.
Not quite sure what to make of his jumbled thoughts and feelings, he tumbled out into the night, praying that cold air and a good night’s sleep would clear his head and cure him of this strange new ailment.