15. “The Prince Of Darkness Is A Gentleman!”
“THE PRINCE OF DARKNESS IS A GENTLEMAN!”
(W. SHAKESPEARE)
Walnut desk, bookcases, globe, a few lit candles to counter the dusk, papers and a bloodhound dozing in front of glowing coals.
A study fit for a gentleman.
Or a Prince.
A smart manservant had shown him here, eyes lowered as he’d murmured the Prince would join him shortly, so now Miles paced and waited, the rumble of laughter and clack of dice echoing from the floor below.
On the panelled wall, a painting caught his eye and he approached it. A woman with dark tussled tresses was dashing through a meadow, pale-pink skirts melding with the wild blooms, and her expression was one of such freedom and joy.
She reminded him of a young Verity, of a day when a single glance from her had ignited in him the innocent joy of requited love.
The meadow flowers were of spring and… “Somerset,” he murmured to himself, “the Vale of Tau–”
A hand spun him, another tight at his throat that shoved him to the panelling, his head thudding. “What the bloody–”
In his years of service, Miles had encountered many a broken man, their vacant stares betraying shattered spirits, but this man’s pitch-black gaze outdid them all. Not to mention the stealth of his entrance…
“What of it?” the Prince snarled, his grip tightening.
Miles remained calm.
Then prodded the man’s gizzards with the knife he’d freed as soon as that hand had spun him.
The grip lessened. A little.
“Of what?”
“Somerset.”
“Somer…” Frowning, Miles cocked his head. “The meadow in this painting has a flower that as far as I’m aware is only found in a vale of that county. The Vale of Taunton. That is all I know of Somerset…Sir.”
The devil stared into his eyes as though he could read each lie and truth that Miles had ever told. It was a proficient ploy, cowing a foe in such a manner, and even Miles felt a vague shudder down his spine.
In his own good time, however, the Prince stepped back, his criss-cross scarred hand lowering to his side. “Brandy or whisky?”
As an apology, it was downright poor, but Miles withdrew the knife and with a flick of wrist returned it to the band of his breeches. “Whisky.”
The Prince strode to the decanters, scarlet jacket a-swish, swordstick nudging his thigh. That hand motioned to the chair across the desk and as Miles seated himself, the whisky was placed before him.
Sipping, he appreciated the superior and obviously smuggled liquor. The Prince sat opposite, his posture nonchalant but Miles sensed a permanent tenseness to the fellow, as though awaiting the drum beat for arms.
Miles shifted. Best be blunt. “I’m looking for someone.”
“Who would that be?” the Prince rasped without ado.
“A soldier named Jacob Dempster who’s in one of the London hospitals. I thought you might be able to discover which.”
Silence.
This was like pulling teeth. Which Miles had been required to do on occasion whilst on campaign. “How much?”
A flicker of a smile. “I’ve no need of money.”
“That’s very gener–”
“But a favour.”
“What favour?”
Scarlet-clothed shoulders shrugged. “A future one. To be added to your existing debt.”
Miles breathed deep. “Agreed. Upon your word its repayment will not land me in hell at your behest.”
“Hell?” The Prince raised a dark brow. “‘Hell is empty and all the devils are here.’”
Perusing this Machiavellian rogue opposite, Miles was curious as to a fellow who spoke like a gentleman, acted the ruffian, haggled like a merchant and quoted Shakespeare.
He’d made inquiries, of course, but people were either too fearful or too admiring to say much, aside the oft-repeated talk of his murky reputation. “You’ve not answered.”
Further silence. But Miles had never been troubled by silence. It was cannon and musket fire that brought trouble.
“Agreed,” the Prince said at last. “If you trust my word?”
Miles rose to his feet. “I do.” And curiously enough he did, so he held a hand across the desk, intuitively knowing this sinister rogue was a man of his word – whether as a foe or as a friend.
The Prince uncoiled from his chair and their palms met in a firm shake. “I’ll have–”
A knock on the door and it swung open to reveal the black-garbed fellow who’d accompanied the Prince that night in the alleyway.
“M’apologies, Guv, but you wanted to deal with the Marquess of Bythorn personally, if the sassenach turned up again?”
Miles had thought this hell owner’s mug couldn’t darken further but he’d been in error, for the scarred cheek tugged taut and wrath seeped from him like black tar from a leaking barrel.
The Prince gave a single nod before he strode from behind his desk, directed a brusque “I’ll send word” towards Miles, and in a whirl of scarlet was gone.
The Scotsman merely swung an arm for Miles’ departure so with the feeling of having been summarily dismissed by a Lieutenant General, he put pace to his boots and marched out.
The gaming room was filled with young gentlemen of the Ton, frittering their inheritance or squandering their tenants’ futures. And the night was still young.
Damn it. He sounded like an old curmudgeon but it wasn’t that he begrudged pleasure or people’s pursuit of such, it was just he’d once traded his second pair of army boots for food to stave off his and his men’s hunger until supplies got through, so such a flagrant disregard for the value of coin felt bloody peculiar to him.
Mind you, it obviously paid the Prince well as the room glittered with opulent chandeliers, crimson-furnished chairs and immense green-baized tables.
As he skirted the roulette, a blonde lady eyed him, her blood-red lips curving as she indicated the vacant seat aside her. But with a smile, Miles shook his head; he was up to his neck in woman trouble as it was.
So leaving the restless clamour of the gaming room, he passed through the vestibule before the scarlet portal was swung open by the doorman for his departure.
Dusk had descended upon a Pall Mall that was rapidly emptying: hawkers sold the last of their wares and shopgirls rushed home – though a queue of hackneys still plied their trade and an organ grinder coaxed a wheezy tune.
Miles peered down the lamp-lit street to behold Lynch turning at Cockspur Street, so he waited, patrolling the pavement.
He ruminated on the mayhem within his life and whether he’d made any progress.
As far as Miss Seymour was concerned, the moment he’d caught sight of her at the art exhibition, the objective had been clear: to kiss some answers from her.
But her scent of orange blossom had besieged his senses, her lips had assailed his resolve and then his wits had been taken prisoner by his own damn desires.
So much for control. So much for remaining unaffected. So much for not wanting her again.
He thumped his cane to the pavement and–
A sharp prod to his backside and he spun, wrenched–
Musty wool clattered into him, damp ostrich feathers batting his nose.
“Stonewold! What is the meaning of this!”
“Apologies, Aunt Mildred.” And he settled the lady at arm’s length, also returning her umbrella which had prodded him so rudely. “I’d not realised it was you.”
“Well, who else would poke you on Pall Mall?”
Who, indeed.
Miles twisted to Jeremy. “How fare you, Cousin? What news?”
“He has no news,” Aunt Mildred answered, “have you, Jeremy?”
“Well…” Jeremy’s eyes shifted to the pavement. “Not in–”
“But more to the point, Stonewold, what are you doing outside this abode of sin?” Aunt stabbed out her umbrella towards the scarlet portal of Prince’s hell. “I hope you’re not sullying the Stonewold title or squandering the family wealth.”
Miles raised a brow. “I could ask the same of you, dear Aunt. What brings you to this abode of sin? A high-stakes game of whist?”
Eyes narrowed and lips pursed to a cat’s ars–
“You are not amusing.” She sniffed. “I have been attending Lady Nonsuch in St James’s Square but our sole barouche – it being too small to be seen at such a prestigious address – is awaiting us at Waterloo Place.
If our stipend was more substantial, I would, of course, not have to suffer this gauche discomfort. ”
Aunt glared, Miles sighed and Jeremy tapped his foot in time with the organ grinder’s tune.
The Prince was correct: hell was empty and all the devils were here.
A damp heat whispered over palm leaves, the world inside alive with shade and shadow.
Verity stood at the door and closed her eyes, felt that whisper upon her skin.
At night, her conservatory became a hushed glass-bound sanctuary, the warmth of the day still lingering in the air to blend with the sharp tang of citrus from the potted lemon trees.
Only the barely perceptible rustle of a leaf curling for the night and the murmur of moth wings disturbed the silence.
With a polished mahogany box clutched beneath her arm, she stepped from the garden to within.
Some conservatories were regimented affairs with long parallel stages of plants but Verity had created more of an indoor garden with pots higgledy-piggledy.
It did not have the extravagant glass roof of Mrs Tait’s next door, but it was cosy with low walls and tall windows set within wooden frames and blinds that could be pulled, if necessary.
The gardener had already trundled in the pots of lemons for winter’s onset and placed them in front of the glass for best light, then filled the few gaps with other tender plants.
She walked the curved narrow path amongst the pots and foliage to the centre.
There she’d created a haven with a small wrought-iron table and a wide chaise longue upholstered in bottle-green leather but with a slipcover of cotton.
At times, when troubled or restless, she would sleep here, the scents of nature soothing her, moonlight filtering through to throw silvered patterns upon the tiled floor.
Breathing deep, she sat upon the chaise and placed the box on her knees.
Perhaps she should not do this.
Perhaps it would open old wounds that she’d thought…well, not healed but at least stitched up.
Yet…
Like Pandora’s box, she could not resist.
She had to know if she’d been wrong all those years ago. Wrong to have lied and to have shattered a young man’s heart. Was she wrong now…
So she inserted a small key within the elaborate escutcheon of the mahogany box.
The metal grated, its mechanism doubtless clogged with the neglect of some seven years. The key granted a half turn before wedging, but with a joggle and then a more forceful twist, the lock yielded a soft click of surrender.
Her fingers nigh trembled as she opened the lid.
A dried rose lay atop, a pale, faded version of its former self. She could only empathise.
Next were letters, neatly folded, beads of red wax dotting like blood.
Verity spread all on the chaise, the rose, maps and articles. All items that Miles had sent her – from the hour he’d departed for his father’s estate until the moment he’d returned to her and she’d spoken such cruel words.
She unfolded one of the letters, smoothed its creases upon her thigh…
Verity, my Amaranth,
I miss you.
Your lips, your eyes and your touch.
I miss hearing you. I miss watching you create living flowers upon paper.
I miss hearing your breath.
Fighting the sting of tears, Verity forced her eyes to the bottom of the letter, unable to bear the most romantic words she could ever have imagined…
I hope this map of the Americas brings you as much excitement as it has for me.
I have investigated a route we could take (drawn in red) and although it would be arduous, the thought of us snuggled in many a ship’s little cabin together, as man and wife, brings me naught but joy.
Yours eternally,
Miles.
Verity closed her eyes. Swallowed.
An unromantic gurgle of water and creak of pipes brought her back to the moment, for occupying the corner of the conservatory was a wood stove that fed hot water pipes running beneath the floor, elaborate grills above.
One could stand over a grill in winter and feel the heat all the way up one’s skirts.
She settled more comfortably against the cushions while randomly selecting items from upon the chaise.
Articles on new plant discoveries. A history on William Dampier, a buccaneer who’d plundered and murdered his way around the world and yet never forgot his flower press. Words of devotion. Words of excitement.
Before her father’s death, she’d read these with such anticipation, but afterwards…
She shook her head; it was no use.
Verity rose from the chaise and drifted to the small rack of gardening implements, grasped the watering can and plunged it into the barrel of water that connected with the drainpipes outside.
Then she pottered about, admired new blooms and watched as a shadow shifted across a broad palm leaf like a moon dial. Her melancholy gently faded as she watered and tended, snipped off dead leaves and breathed in the scent of life.
She added another log to the stove and it roared back into life, giving life…
After a good while, she sat once more and tidied the articles and letters together in order to return them to within the box.
Because now, after all these years, she could allow herself to release the guilt she had held onto.
For surely that young girl had been given no choice but to do what she had.
If anything, his heartfelt devotion in those letters, that fire which had burned bright for faraway lands, those maps, had compelled her decision.
And as for now…
Well, nothing had really changed. In fact, the earldom had made it all so much worse.
Pandora herself had slammed the lid shut on her box, to keep hope locked within, to keep hope locked within the hearts of us all.
But Verity could not do likewise. She steeled her heart and did what she must…
Breathed deep and let hope slip away forever.
Quiet as a forgotten dream.