Chapter 10
Charles
My balls ache as I ride Erebus into the heart of London. Seeing Cynthia there, watching her face tinge with red as she sat across from me… It’s almost too much to bear. How long will we both stay locked in this torment?
Growling under my breath, I maneuver my stallion around a man stooping down to gather something that had fallen to the ground. Though I’m sure, rationally, there is the normal number of people crowding the streets, it feels as if that amount has grown, multiplied overnight.
The thought is rather absurd, to be sure, yet here I am, pulling hard on the reins so as to not trample yet another person in my way. It’s as if Heaven itself conspires to keep me from my task.
My heart pounds in my chest as I finally arrive at White’s.
As the servant takes Erebus from me, I hop to the ground and brush off my clothes, taking a moment to control my emotions before coming in.
I can’t play my hand yet. I can’t show the desperation I feel sliding through my veins at every throbbing pulse.
So far, only a few men sit in their chairs, taking in the papers. A soft, near-silent hum envelops me as I nod to the porter, grab my own paper, and sit off to the side where I can watch and listen. Not many converse, but there’s still time yet.
The small muscles in my jaw jump as I grind my teeth together, pretending as if I’m reading. Nothing new. No announcements I haven’t already seen. No missives that might give me some insight into the man set to marry my obsession.
Glancing over at the bow window, I do my best to smother my groan as Arlo Mathews, Duke of Dunton, takes his place in so prominent an area.
If only there were a way to rid London of such a cad.
In all honesty, I should be grateful it’s Henhaven who’s asked for Cynthia’s hand and not this arrogant arsehole.
No doubt he would have already compromised her and forced a wedding, leaving me with no other recourse but to either find a way to steal her from him, or see him in a grave.
Honestly, my heart shouldn’t leap at so dastardly a thought.
Too bad I never saw him on the battlefield.
He wouldn’t survive it long enough to mar London with his odious presence.
As I keep pretending to flip through the pages, Henhaven’s name comes up nearby. I angle my ear, desperate to hear what’s being said. Unfortunately, the party is just out of reach. A heavy sigh slips from my lips as I tuck the paper under my arm and make my way over.
Chase Taylor, Duke of Hartham, looks up at me, his expression guarded as I come near. Goose-flesh prickle over my arms as I get closer, noting the hesitation in his gaze and speech. It’s as if he wishes to be far from me, but that’s absurd. I never did anything to the lad.
Though between the two of us, I should be the injured party. It is his stepmother who’s now married to my brother. It’s his common, low-born stepmother who’s now at the head seat of the Barrington family while my Cynthia is forced to wed another.
Not that I should really hold him accountable for the Duchess of Whiteport’s actions. It’s not as if she knew about the feud happening between Lewis and me. I can’t blame her for wanting to marry another duke after her horrific ordeal.
It still doesn’t help the sting I feel in my chest whenever I’m around them.
Which, honestly, is blessed little at this point.
If I were to reside in their company for much longer, I fear I might say something I shouldn’t.
As it is, this lad might have information I need, and so I shove my anger to the side and approach.
“Norhaven,” he says with a stiff nod as he stands closer to Grayson Hunt, Duke of Hardon, brother to Benedict’s wayward wife.
“Hartham. Hardon. Care if I join you both?”
Grayson, of course, spreads his hands wide, greeting me as an old friend. Chase, however, still gives me a wide berth.
“Norhaven,” Grayson cries out as he shakes my hand. “It’s been a bit since I’ve seen you. Where have you been hiding?”
“To hide,” I chuckle, “would mean that I didn’t care to be seen. I believe we’ve just been running in separate circles as of late.”
“True,” he muses, rubbing his chin with his hand. “But more to the fact, I haven’t seen you at a certain establishment. One far more enticing than this one?”
At his question, Chase straightens his shoulders and looks off in the distance, but his jaw jumps as Grayson keeps talking. Perhaps it’s something to do with the Rose and Thorne? Not that I care whether he visits the whipping house. I cannot judge a man for something I indulge in as well.
“Forgive me, Grayson. I’ve been occupied elsewhere. Tell me, I heard Henhaven’s name mentioned. Seemed like an intriguing conversation.”
Chase narrows his eyes. “What is it to you?”
“Come now, Chase,” Grayson laughs. “What has you in such a mood? You were jolly not five minutes ago.”
“I fear it must be the change in my humors,” he replies, keeping his tone low and even.
“Yes,” Grayson confirms. “We were just talking about Henhaven. We are at odds in Parliament. In a friendly way, of course.”
“But of course,” I murmur. “Tell me, is he as odd and eccentric as others say?”
They both look at each other with a mirrored expression of puzzlement. But of course they probably haven’t heard as much. I merely plant the seeds and hope they grow.
“No,” Grayson replies. “Not that I’ve seen or heard. He seems an altogether affable fellow.”
“Hmmm. And his gambling debts?” This time, they both laugh, even Chase.
“Forgive me for being so bold to one so much older than me,” Chase smiles in a mischievous, snake-like manner. “But you shouldn’t listen to idle or tavern gossip. Henhaven? A gambler? When would he have the time?”
“Yes. I’ve heard of his sisters. Six, I believe,” I say, my heart sinking as yet another avenue shuts before me.
“I can’t imagine so many women in one house,” Grayson chuckles. “Hell and damnation. I was thrilled when Augusta got married off.”
“In truth,” Chase muses, “was it her absence or the breath of relief you could breathe knowing such mischief was for someone else to handle?”
“Isn’t that the truth!” Grayson cheers as he gives a triumphant nod.
None of this helps me in any way. Let them prattle on about women I care nothing about. “Gentlemen,” I murmur as I nod and leave. Perhaps the card tables in the back will provide better conversation.
As I sit at a chair by myself, I watch the others as they come in and out.
Where would Henhaven be on a day like today?
Though it isn’t unheard of that he would be here in the back playing cards, I do find it odd he didn’t stop in once to read one of the many papers.
But then, none of my other friends are here either.
They’re probably all at home with their wives, lazing about in the bed as they start their day in a far less cold and lonely manner.
My fingers grip into a fist as I close my eyes.
Such violent and furious emotions swirl through my veins as I sit there, doing my best to appear unassuming as I listen to the gossip around me.
Every single one of them, married and bound, mated for life with the woman they chose. Or, in some of their cases, as with Augusta and Benedict, with the woman who chose them. Either way, they all seem happy and content.
Not once do they seek out the Rose and Thorne to have their lurid needs met. No. That is now for me, who is unwilling to look for another who could quite possibly meet my nefarious wants. Why should I when I know my perfect match is here, wanting me as much as I desire her?
Damn Lewis and his talk of duty. What good is duty when it costs you the one thing you crave the most? But then, I should also damn myself for not knowing then what my heart knows now.
She was an annoying slip of a girl at the Twelfth Night celebration. She was eager, untrained, and willing to learn. God, the way she responded to my crop when I smacked it across her ample backside…
No. I knew then. To say otherwise would be to lie to myself. I was just too cowardly and too duty-driven to actually listen to my heart.
As I muse over these ugly emotions, a flash of movement whisks by me, disturbing the air. Could it be someone here to play and possibly divulge any ugly truths they might know about Henhaven?
Only, as I open my eyes, no one sits in front of me. I scent the air but detect nothing. A beta. More than likely, someone who works here. Glancing down at the table, I note the glass of port waiting for me. Though I didn’t order it, I am most grateful to have it.
As I move the ornate glass, I spy a small card underneath. My heart pounds in my chest as I pull it to me, holding it close where no one can see. Could it be my efforts were not in vain? Could hope actually spring eternal?
The slash of letters across the parchment makes my stomach plummet. The blackmailer. How did they get into White’s?
My Most Magnificently Melancholy Duke,
How do you fare? It has only been but a day since we last spoke, but even now, your countenance seems fallen. Your steps are not nearly so lively.
Have you found what you’re looking for? Have you ferreted out some hidden secret, some gem or nugget of information that might allow you to steal Miss Campbell out from under Henhaven’s nose? Keep searching, dear duke, but you will never find anything.
Secrets do not stay hidden long. Not when the very walls have eyes and ears. And Henhaven? He has nothing on him that will help you. I do fear you are to be alone, without the touch of your precious Miss Campbell. He is nigh untouchable.
Will you be there at the wedding? I will. I wish to watch every moment as they pledge to love and honor each other until death parts them. I do wonder if he’ll claim her on their wedding night… One can only hope.
Your Rosy Thorn in Your Side
Red tinges my vision as I crumple the note in my hand.
Who would dare send this to me in so public a place?
It makes no sense how someone can get this close to me without me even knowing.
Sending notes to my home is one thing, but to have them here at White’s?
It has to be someone in my close circle.
Glancing about, I dart my gaze to each table. Nothing seems amiss. No one looks at me. No one even cares.
Again, I scent the air. Nothing. Only the Alphas who have already been here. Lifting a hand, I flag down a steward, my heart thundering in my ears as he comes close.
“Who delivered my port?” I ask.
“Forgive me, Your Grace?” he asks, his brows furrowed.
“My drink. Who set it at my table?”
“Was it not the waiter you summoned to deliver it?”
“I summoned no one. It simply appeared.”
“Forgive me, Your Grace. I have been occupied with other matters. I did not see anyone come by your table. Shall I enquire of the other staff?”
“Do so. I want an answer at once.”
“Very good, Your Grace.”
As he walks off, I keep scanning the area around me. Off near the front, the betting books lie open. Intriguing. I never thought to look there. If it was, indeed, a steward who dropped off this horrid note, their pen should be somewhere in this ledger.
Better yet, if one of the members recorded it… but then, there was no scent. It wouldn’t be an Alpha. That is, unless, they used someone else for their dark deeds. Betas are few and far between, but they frequent White’s as well when invited.
Striding over to the books, I watch as the others shift away, keeping their gaze on me. I must look murderous for them to react this way. Not that I care. Apart from the Rose and Thorne, White’s was my only other place of solace. Now, it’s tainted.
I flip through the books, going back to the very beginning of The Season. Here and there I spot little jabs at my friends and me, but they were all in good-natured fun. If only they knew we had our own bets going as well.
My heart pounds in my chest. What good is winning the money if I won’t have my desire, my obsession? Shoving such thoughts from my brain, I continue to sift through, my anger rising, as not one stroke of the quill matches that of the blackmailer.
As I come toward the last page, my blood runs cold. Amongst the normal tallies, a few stand out. Not because of their handwriting, but because of their contents.
22th May 1814
Lord Ashmore wagers Lord Pemberton the sum of fifty guineas that the marriage between His Grace the Viscount of Henhaven and Miss Campbell of Kirden shall not reach its conclusion before the close of The Season.
R. Ashmore T. Pemberton
As much as I’d like to agree with this wager, as of this moment, it is yet to be seen. Still though, it’s odd reading this like they’re simply betting on which horse will piss first before the race.
22th May 1814
Sir William Graves wagers Mr. Howard Finch the sum of twenty-five guineas that the Viscount of Henhaven shall express private regret at his choice of bride before Michaelmas.
W. Graves H. Finch
This one strikes deep. As much as I do not wish Henhaven any goodwill, it stings to have them speak of Cynthia that way. What would there be to regret? Unless they also speak of her lower birth?
Before I can read the next, the steward comes over. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but there has not been any record of a drink being sent to you. All staff have been questioned.”
I blink at the man, mulling over his words. “It couldn’t have appeared from thin air. It’s not as if a wraith placed it on my table. There has to be someone.”
“Your Grace, I hear you and understand. I simply have nothing I can report. There were some delivery boys going in and out. Perhaps a friend merely played a joke on you.” He bows once more and steps away.
A joke. The drink, yes. The note… Now that would be a cruel joke indeed. Glancing back down at the pages, my eyes skim until I reach the very bottom. There, in barely dried ink, the last entry stands there like a testament to all my carefully concealed glances.
23th May 1814
Arlo Mathews, Duke of Dunton, wagers Finnley Riley, Viscount of Glendale, the sum of one hundred guineas that the Duke of Norhaven shall make his intentions toward Miss Campbell of Kirden known before her wedding to the Viscount of Henhaven.
A. Mathews F. Riley
My heart nearly stops as I read it. Of course, the handwriting is Arlo’s. His scrawl is not easily missed. It’s not, however, the same hand as the blackmailer's.
My fingers clench around the edge of the table until the words start to blur in front of me.
All this means is that I’ll have to be far more careful when out in public.
In private, however, I will make Cynthia cry out for more.
If she is, indeed, to be saddled with the milksop likes of Henhaven, I shall at least give her memories to warm her through her rather tepid moments with him.