Chapter 20
Charles
Wednesday
My Despondent Duke Dwelling in the Doldrums,
How fare you?
Less than two weeks and your love will be forever taken from you.
Will you intervene? Will you make some mad declaration that will embarrass you and your family?
Even now I see that your brother has made it his occupation to be at your mother’s house far more than he used to.
Can it be he keeps you from her yet again?
Such sorrow to be had. Such delicious suffering. I cannot wait to see your beautiful bride walk down the aisle. Only… she will not be your bride then, will she?
Your Rosy Thorn in Your Side
Insanity eats at my brain, plaguing me as I read and reread the letter. Who on earth can this be? How have we not found them yet? A growl simmers under my breath as I rip it up and toss it into the fire where it belongs.
It must be someone so happy to see me brought low. Only who have I wronged? Who could be so pleased to see me in such a state? I stare at the flames as the paper curls in on itself before turning to ash.
Could it be Lewis after all? He knows so much about me. Hell, he is, in fact, thwarting me every chance he can so that I am not alone with Cynthia unless under the cover of darkness.
Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if he eventually put the pieces together and showed up, unannounced, at the servants’ entrance to keep me from seeing my precious obsession.
No.
I quarrel with myself as I pace my study. My brother may be many things, but I don’t see him going so far as to write me letters reveling in my misery. No. It has to be someone else. But then who?
As I sit back in my chair and shuffle through the few reports I’ve gotten thus far, I shake my head. Nothing. A whole lot of nothing.
An odd tightness spreads through my chest as I leave the town house and head to White’s. At the very least, I can keep a close eye on the betting ledger and see if anyone slips in their penmanship.
My friends are already there, sipping coffee and looking through the papers.
It’s been a while since we’ve all been under one roof, besides Parliament that is, and I have to admit, it does my soul good to see them.
They greet me with their usual enthusiasm, as if neither time nor wives had come between us.
“Well met, Norhaven,” Benedict Fortescue, Duke of Portswell, cries out. “You look as if you’ve been kept up all night, and not in a way of your choosing.”
William Dowding, Duke of Birchleigh, smirks and nudges his adoptive brother with his shoulder in response to our friend’s words. “Or, he’s been exactly where he’s wanted to be, and so he’s beyond exhausted.”
I can’t keep the ghost of a smile off my face as I recall leaving Cynthia in her bed, my marks on her arse and a smile on her lips. Though it’s been a day or so since I’ve seen her.
“As I said,” Birchleigh laughs. “Tell me, are you too enthralled with this ladybird to settle down and find you a proper wife? The pounds are yours the moment you walk down the aisle.”
“What need does he have of our coin?” Lewis asks as he comes over to the table. “He has enough of it to last him a long while. Allow the man freedom from the marital noose while he still has the chance.”
“Right,” Joseph Harding, Duke of Foxford, cuts in. “As if any of us feel led to the gallows by our women.”
“Some days,” Portswell moans. “Augusta continues to be the death of me.”
“Ahhh,” Birchleigh says. “La petite mort?”
“More like I want to strangle her, but you all know she’d like that far too much.”
As the lot of them laugh and carry on, I study their faces, looking for any sign, any hint that they might be behind these letters. I don’t wish to think ill of them, but the details are so intimate, so knowledgeable. I can’t help but wonder.
I let my gaze drift over the room, seeing if someone stares a little too long, or finds just a bit more interest in us than they should. I don’t find them, but I do find someone else. Blasted Henhaven.
He strides over, his mouth already quirked into a smile. Could it be him? Does he feel so threatened by me that he would add to the agony of losing Cynthia? Thinking quickly, I grab a small booklet of paper from my pocket and a pencil and turn to my friends.
“There’s something I’ve wanted to try. An experiment I’ve heard about while in service. Another officer taught it to me. Are you game?”
They shrug in turn and nod, their brows furrowed as curiosity gets the better of them.
“I’ve heard tales that one can determine the sort of man from how he writes. Here now. Each of you write down one word. Hmmmm. What shall it be?”
Closing my eyes, I pretend to concentrate, acting as if this idea comes from on high. “What about thorn?” I eventually say. “Good, strong word. What say you?”
With another shrug, they write the word and turn the notebook to me. Not one of the samples even comes close to matching the letters. But then, would they disguise their hand? These letters are driving me mad, to the near brink of insanity.
As a joke, I turn the papers this way and that, making a grand show of bringing them forward then drawing them back. With a critical eye, I pretend to examine the strokes as if I have any expertise at all in the matter.
“Well,” Lewis says, crossing his arms. “What do you see?”
“For you, the long stroke of the T denotes you’re a pompous arse who must have everything just so.”
“Really,” he smirks. “It says all that?”
“Truly. The little looped tail at the end of the N means you’re a bastard.”
“Ahh. Are you sure that’s a professional opinion or your own?”
Refusing to answer, I go down the line of men. “Foxford, your T shows that you’re studious, methodical, and a lover of literature.”
He laughs. “But we knew that.”
“And see, the letters confirm it.”
“I’m sure. Go on. Do Birchleigh next. I’d love to hear your assessment of him.”
The duke in question props his foot up onto the back of a chair and stands like a pirate while curling his fist to hold at his forehead, very much showing off his biceps.
“There is a slight gap between the O and the N. This tells me you are always one to cause delight in any situation, but still harbor some latent sorrow for not being born into your dukely status.”
Birchleigh gives a loud, dramatic sniff and dabs at his eyes. “It’s as if you see into my very soul.”
“You, Blackport,” I say to Robert Dowding, “are steadfast in all you do. Everything is just so. Fastidious to a fault. A place for everything and for everything a place.”
“Let me guess,” he grumbles. “Is it the way the T dominates the other letters?”
“Quite wrong, my good duke. It is because they are all precise in how you write them. Crisp, clean, and without fault.”
“As they should be,” he chuckles under his breath.
“As they should be,” I repeat. “On to Portswell. Each stroke is sharp, pointed, jagged. I would surmise from this that you are a man quite at the edge of his rope. Very frayed it is. Perhaps there’s some vexation in your life? An annoyance you must put into its place?”
He groans and rolls his eyes. “You know of my tales of woe. ‘Tis a delight to see my harried scrawl matches my internal confliction.”
As the laughter dies down, I turn to the last man.
“Let’s see. Redleigh.” The duke in question merely raises an eyebrow and leans back in his seat, saying nothing but daring everything.
“It appears that your writing is so discordant that I cannot glean anything more than that you must write and perform music. For only one skilled in such arts could make heads or tails of these dramatic scribbles.”
“Well then, the man must be correct,” he barks out in a rare laugh. “He has described each of us as we are. Mere mortals who are doomed to be ferreted out by such lowly letters.”
Lewis jerks his head, gesturing to the man I know is coming up behind me. “I’d love to hear your thoughts on Henhaven.”
“His thoughts about what?” he asks as he stands next to us.
“It’s a simple lark,” I say, reeling him in. “A child’s game. I’m sure one as serious as you wouldn’t care to partake.”
He plants his hands on his hips and cocks his head. “I’ve been known to partake in some merriment or two. If playing such a game endears me further to the family who are dear friends to my intended, who am I to say no?”
Who indeed.
But now he’s trapped. Concealing my smile, I hand him a fresh sheet of paper and a pencil. “The game is simple. You write a word, and I examine it to learn your deepest, darkest secrets.”
I study his face, using my training in the military to detect any shift, any hiding of guilt. Unfortunately, the viscount doesn’t change. There is no guile in his gaze, nothing hidden that I can see.
“And the word?”
“Thorn.”
“Easy enough.” He leans down to write the word and hands it to me.
My hands nearly tremble as I take it from him, hoping to finally put this horrid mystery behind me. Only… it’s not even close to the letters I’ve destroyed in my anguish and anger.
“Well then,” Foxford goads. “What do the letters say of the mighty Henhaven?”
“Mighty,” he chuckles. “I find myself most esteemed if you all think me mighty. I am just a humble viscount and nothing more.”
“Humble, you may be,” I say as I squint at the letters, looking now for the pressure points of the strokes but still coming up with nothing. “But based on how spread out the letters are, I believe you to be in possession of a great many stones.”
“More than just the standard two?” Birchleigh laughs.
Henhaven chuckles and shakes his head. “Fear not, men. I do not possess any bits of anatomy so strange as to make that boast. If I did, I’m sure it would have been told far and wide, and the ladies would either swoon from delight or horror.”
“That’s not what they say at the Rose and Thorne,” I hedge, keeping my tone light and jovial.
“Then the occupants must be spinning tales, seeing as I have never stepped foot in a whipping or bawdy house here in London.”
Then that explains why Madame Douleur had no further information on him.
“What do you mean then, Norhaven?” Foxford asks. “If not the abnormality of his… purse… then what stones are you speaking of?”
“He must mean my massive collection of rocks and specimens I keep at home,” Henhaven says. “Quite astute. It’s as if you had not overheard a conversation and used that knowledge to your benefit.”
“On the contrary,” Portswell cries. “He is a learned man of much intellect. He has seen into your letters and drawn out the truth of the matter. We should all hail the astounding skill he possesses.”
“Hear, hear,” they all murmur, including Henhaven.
“You all are too kind,” I say with a flourished bow before turning back to the man standing between me and true happiness. “But they say you never really know a man until you’ve seen what he’s made of with his hands.”
Henhaven stares me down, his lips twisting in a ghost of a smile as he raises one eyebrow a fraction. “I can assure you. I am not lacking in any department.”
“Well, seeing as there are no ladybirds to vouch, I fear there is no true way of determining any sort of prowess.” At this point, all the men look between us, watching our interaction with rapt attention.
“And is that the only way to test one’s skill? A courtesan who could lie just as well as she can tell the truth?”
“Jackson’s then? Say tomorrow at ten?”
He smiles again, showing far more teeth than usual. “I didn’t take you to be one of the Fancy.”
“I’m not.” The words hang heavy in the air as I refuse to elaborate. It’s no secret I’ve spent time in the military. Tomorrow, Henhaven will know just how formidable an opponent I can be.