A Season for Sin (3 page)

“I’d better help,” Bell said. “He’s liable to stumble and bring you down with him.” Together, he and Colin managed to get Harry up two flights of stairs. Behind the door, a dog barked incessantly. A manservant opened the door, and a collie herded them inside an untidy parlor.

Colin swept newspapers off a threadbare sofa, and Bell deposited Harry on it. When Harry clutched his head, the dog nosed his inebriated master’s face. Harry groaned and pushed the dog’s snout away. “No, Brutus.” Within a few moments, Harry was snoring softly again.

“Should I bring coffee?” the manservant asked.

Colin shook his head. “No, let him sleep it off. He’ll want coffee on the morrow.” He looked at Bell. “We’re indebted to you. Name the favor, and we’ll see it done. “

Bell waved him off. “That isn’t necessary. I’ve tippled one too many bottles more than a few times.”

“Then perhaps you’ll allow us to buy you a bottle one night,” Colin said.

“Why not?” he said. Privately, he figured Colin had felt obliged to make the offer.

Harry opened his eyes. “The devil. My mouth feels like a desert, and my head hurts.”

Bell looked at the manservant. “Can you bring hot tea with a dose of willow bark?”

The manservant nodded and shuffled off.

Harry sat up with his elbows on his thighs and his head in his hands. “Egad, I stink.”

Bell snorted. “We all do. It’s late, and I can’t wait to burn these clothes. Do you need a ride, Colin?”

“No, my rooms are on the next floor,” Colin said.

“Well, then, good evening.” Bell strode toward the door. Brutus trotted alongside, bumping him as if determined to herd him. Bell bent down and ruffled the dog’s fur. “You need a real job, Brutus.”

“Aye,” the manservant said. “He’s bred to herd sheep. It’s in his blood.”

Bell descended the stairs. The chill wind bit through his coat. When he got to the carriage, he climbed inside and chafed his arms. Only then did he realize he’d left his hat on the grassy slope. Ah, well. He had others.

Bell knocked on the roof, and when the carriage rolled off, he thought about his strange evening. Nothing had gone as he’d expected. He was a bit surprised at himself. Ordinarily, he didn’t involve himself in others’ troubles, but he hadn’t taken time to think before diving into the river.

Despite initial appearances, Colin and Harry seemed decent enough fellows. Bell briefly considered inviting them to join him at White’s, but he dismissed the idea. With the exception of two longtime friends, he accounted himself something of a lone wolf. He did his part in Parliament and managed the sprawling estate in Devonshire. Sometimes late at night when he had trouble sleeping, he felt something was lacking, but he always shoved the thoughts away.

T
he next morning, Bell’s valet Porter picked up the damp shirt and grass-stained coat hanging over a chair and actually gagged. “My lord, what happened?”

Bell grimaced. “Never mind. Just toss them in the rubbish. I have dozens of others.”

“Dear God, the stench!” Porter picked up the wet boots and pinched his nose. “They’re ruined,” he said in a nasally voice.

“It’s all got to go.” Bell threw the still-damp stockings on the fire. For a moment, he wondered if his valet would weep. “There’s no sense in getting yourself in a state, Porter. What’s done is done.”

An hour later, after a bath and a shave, Bell descended the stairs for his usual breakfast at precisely nine o’clock. He always ate the same thing at the same time every morning: baked eggs, toast and butter, bacon, and strong coffee. He preferred routine in his life and believed it eliminated problems when all of the servants knew exactly what to expect.

Upon entering the dining room, he frowned. His breakfast was not waiting on the sideboard. The footman poured him a cup of coffee and stepped back into the corner. Bell inhaled the aroma and then turned to the servant. “Will you please inquire about my breakfast?”

“Yes, my lord.”

After the footman left, Bell picked up the newspaper to read while drinking his coffee. He was displeased by the tardiness of his chef, but he allowed that things sometimes went wrong. As long as the matter was swiftly remedied, he would not complain.

Ten minutes later, the footman returned with news that his breakfast would be served shortly. Bell nodded as the footman poured him a second cup of coffee.

The bell rang. Bell frowned, as it was rather early in the day. He had no appointments with his solicitor or banker and didn’t appreciate the disturbance. Blast it all, he had his usual Tuesday meeting with his secretary scheduled for ten o’clock.

Footsteps thudded outside the dining room, and then Fordham strolled inside.

Bell stood at the sight of his friend and clapped him on the back. “Good Lord. What catastrophe roused you from your bed at this early hour?”

“Is that coffee I smell?” Fordham asked.

“Yes, take a seat. Have you had breakfast?”

“I have,” he said as the footman poured him a cup. “Sorry for last night. A family affair kept me longer than I anticipated.”

Bell scoffed. “Since when have you allowed family gatherings to stand in your way?”

Fordham drank the coffee. “Your chef makes the best coffee in town.”

Bell noted that his friend hadn’t answered his question.

Fordham set his cup aside. “I’ve had a letter from Will. He’s planning to write you as well.”

Last year, their friend Will Darcett had married Amy Hardwick, and when the summer ended, they had decided to move to the Cotswolds to be closer to her parents, as she was their only child. “How does Will fare?” Bell asked.

“He’s going to be a father this summer. Quite thrilled about it.”

Bell sipped his coffee to hide his astonishment. He ought to have expected the news, but somehow he’d just never thought of it. “Well, congratulations are in order for our friend,” he said. “I’ll send him a letter.”

Fordham gave him a sheepish look. “You might wish to congratulate me, too.”

Bell nearly spilled his coffee. “What?”

“I’m engaged,” he said.

“Hah,” he said. Then he took another look at his friend’s serious expression. “This
is
one of your jests, right?”

Fordham shook his head. “No, I’m engaged.”

The world felt as if it had tipped sideways. Fordham, engaged? Irresponsible, devil-may-care Fordham planned to marry?

“I know it seems a bit sudden, but actually it isn’t,” Fordham said. “I spent time with her over the summer at a house party.”

Bell gaped at his friend. “Who is the lucky lady?”

Fordham lowered his eyes, looking as abashed as Bell first remembered him at Eton many years ago. “I’m the lucky one. Lady Eugenia understands me.”

He did his best to mask his surprise. “Isn’t she Beaufort’s sister?”

“Yes. She’s blossomed. Said it was because of me, but to be honest, I’m a different man because of her.”

Bell set his cup on the saucer. The clink sounded unnaturally loud. “How so?”

Fordham shrugged. “I suppose I’m not restless anymore. Sowing wild oats no longer interests me.”

Bell drew his brows together. He’d never expected Fordham to settle down and marry. Now both of his oldest friends had embraced domestic bliss. He still reeled from the news, but Bell folded his hands on the table to cover it. “What brought on this sudden turn of events?”

“You’ll laugh.”

“Why?” Bell said.

Fordham sighed. “I fell in love.”

Oh, lord. Bell noted the glazed look in Fordham’s eyes and realized Cupid had indeed felled him. “Well, then, I wish you both happy.”

“Thank you. After a wedding trip to Brighton, we’ll move to Somerset. My father purchased a small property for me. Nothing to beat your holdings, but still, it’s more than I expected as the youngest son.” He paused and said, “The wedding is in a week. My eldest brother is standing up for me. I hope you’ll attend.”

“Felicitations to you and Lady Eugenia, and of course I’ll attend your wedding.”

Fordham regarded him with an enigmatic expression. “I know you’ve sworn to be a lifelong bachelor, but I hope you’ll reconsider. Don’t let what happened to your family prevent you from—”

“Don’t,” Bell said. He rarely spoke about the events that had destroyed his world. That was another life that had ceased to exist years ago. He was a different man altogether.

Fordham finished his coffee, set the cup on the saucer, and toyed with the handle. “Sorry, old boy. I just worry about you.”

Bell pulled a face. “That’s ridiculous.”

“You shouldn’t be alone,” Fordham said.

Bell lifted his brows. “That’s what mistresses are for.” Devil take it. He’d have to find a new one. Perhaps he’d go to the theater tonight. An actress would appreciate a generous protector, but there was the whole bother of her theatrical performances. He sighed. Finding a suitable, new mistress was a pain in the arse.

Fordham regarded him. “You’ll visit us once we’re settled in, won’t you?”

“Why not?” Privately, he wasn’t so sure he’d make the journey. He’d feel obliged to stay a fortnight at the least, but he knew he’d be itching to leave within a day or two. Somehow, he’d always felt like an interloper when visiting married friends, and worse, their wives always got the bright idea to play matchmaker. It was deuced awkward.

At long last, Moreau, the portly chef, entered the dining room with a covered dish. Bell regarded him with raised brows as he set the silver dish on the table. When the chef whisked off the cover, Bell frowned. “What is this?”

“Two apricot tarts,” Moreau said in his heavy French accent. “For you and your friend.”

The footman hastily placed two plates on the table.

Fordham inhaled. “The tarts smell delicious.”

Chef Moreau beamed. “It is a culinary delight,” he said.

Bell frowned at Moreau. “Where are my baked eggs, toast, and bacon?”

Moreau sniffed. “Try the tart. You will find it a masterpiece.”

Bell narrowed his eyes. “I don’t want a masterpiece. I want the breakfast I requested.”

Meanwhile, Fordham forked a slice of tart into his mouth. “Lord, it’s heavenly.”

“You see,” Moreau said. “Your friend agrees it is wonderful.”

“I do not want a tart,” Bell said. “I want my usual breakfast.”

Moreau’s face mottled. “But you have not even tried the tart. You need to expand your horizons.”

“No, I do not. I hired you to cook the breakfast that I requested. My expectations have not changed.”

“Every day, I cook the same breakfast,” Moreau said. “You never eat any other meals at home. I will lose my touch if all I cook are eggs, bacon, and toast.”

He couldn’t believe the man’s insolence. “Are you refusing to cook my breakfast?”

“I am one of France’s premier chefs, but I am reduced to cooking your dull breakfast. My culinary talents are wasted.”

“Then perhaps you should take your talents elsewhere,” Bell said.

Fordham finished his tart and looked at Bell. “Can I have your tart?”

Bell glared at his friend.

“In that case, I quit,” Moreau said.

Fordham’s eyes lit up. “Would you consider a position in Somerset? I’m sure my bride would be thrilled to have such a renowned chef.”

Bell stared at his friend. “You’re planning to steal my chef?”

“It is not stealing,” Moreau said, “because I quit. I will be happy to create culinary masterpieces in Somerset.”

Bell set his napkin on the table. “Very well. I accept your resignation.”

Moreau bowed to Fordham. “I look forward to my new position.”

After the chef left, Bell looked at Fordham. “Traitor.”

“He’s right, you know. I’m sure one of the kitchen maids can whip up your eggs, bacon, and toast. Moreau will never be happy unless he has the freedom to create new and different dishes.”

“Why does everything have to change?” Bell grumbled.

Fordham grinned. “You’re too set in your ways, like an old bachelor.”

“I’m twenty-nine; that’s hardly old,” he said.

When Fordham stood, Bell rose with him. His friend clapped him on the shoulder. “I predict your staid life will change soon.” He winked. “Write me when you meet
her
.”

Bell scoffed and walked with Fordham to the foyer. “Where is the wedding taking place?”

Fordham grinned. “St. George’s. Ten sharp.”

Bell nodded. When Fordham left, a strange hollow feeling settled inside his chest. He pushed it all aside and strode off to his meeting with his secretary.

He’d nearly finished all of his dictation to his secretary when he heard the housekeeper’s shrill voice out in the corridor. With an exasperated sigh, Bell wondered why his usually orderly household had turned chaotic all of a sudden. Now, as the voices grew more audible, he realized the housekeeper meant to invade his study.

No one but his secretary was ever allowed into his inner sanctum. The maids cleaned early in the morning and had strict instructions to replace every item just as they’d found it. He’d thought this was understood, but clearly something had occurred that the housekeeper felt needed immediate attention.

At the rap on the door, Bell dismissed his secretary and called out to the housekeeper to enter. Plump Mrs. Atwood marched a very young maid wearing a smudged apron inside. The maid held a book of some sort.