Indulgence 2: One Glimpse (8 page)

The shorter man faced Sam and, no doubt sensing that something terrible had just happened, turned and fled back into the room. For several long, agonizing seconds, Sam and Darnish faced each other. Heat prickled Sam’s scalp, and his stomach twisted into knots. This couldn’t be. It just wasn’t possible. Surely, he was not seeing what he thought he was seeing.

The silence was broken when the door Sam had just closed swung open and Lizzy came bouncing out, all smiles and humming tunes.

“Sir Samuel? Still here, I see.” She giggled and threw her smooth snow-white arms around his neck. “Can’t resist me, can you? I knew it, but another time, I’m afraid. My lord waits for no one.” With a final playful laugh, she gave Sam a wet buss on the cheek and skipped off down the stairs.

Darnish’s eyes, the same eyes that remained wide and unblinking, followed Lizzy before turning back to Sam. That small movement seemed to finally break the paralyzed atmosphere. Darnish lifted both his hands in a kind of calming motion.

“Now, eh, Shaw. Th-this isn’t what it looks—”

“But,” Sam said in a gasp,  “you…you have a mistress.  You have a
daughter
, you—”

If it was possible for Darnish’s face to turn even paler, it did in that moment. He shook his head, his thick bronze locks falling over his eyes, yet no sound came out. Finally, he managed to mutter in a broken voice, “Shaw, please, listen.”

Dear God, it’s true.

With that thought settling on him, Sam did the only thing he could think to do, a thing for which he would not be very proud later. He ran. He turned and fled for the stairs, his coat billowing behind him as he descended the carpeted steps two at a time. Twice he looked back over his shoulder, half expecting to see Darnish in pursuit. He had no idea what he would have done had the man decided to follow him. As he ran, as he reached the ground floor, and even as he forced himself to slow and leave the house without making a scene, his mind repeated the same idiotic mantra.
It can’t be true. It can’t.

But it was true. Lord John Darnish, the Corinthian darling of the ton, preferred men. Or at least dallied with them. And for reasons Sam could not begin to comprehend in his current state, the discovery left him sick with grief.

* * * *

The room was empty, the whore with whom John had spent several vigorous and satisfying hours having fled through another door. John straightened his clothes and tied his cravat into a smooth knot, making certain to position his shirt points just so. He collected his coat and hat when he arrived downstairs and nodded cordially to the house madam as he departed. He hailed a cab and directed it to Mayfair, giving the driver a generous tip once they arrived, and when he entered his house under the respectful bow of his butler, he was able to excuse the man to his bed for the night without his voice shaking.

He managed to do all of these things, quietly and calmly, while his very life’s blood seemed to crystallize in his veins and his heart stuttered like a pump too short of water. Rejecting his butler’s offer of a late-night meal, John closed himself in his study and walked to the bookshelf on the other side of the room.

A fine rosewood box, inlaid with mother-of-pearl and the Darnish family crest, rested between stone bookends. Still numb, still thinking and yet not thinking, he picked up the box and carried it to his desk. He took a seat in the old burgundy leather chair, the same chair that two previous generations of Darnish men had occupied, and opened the box. The hearth fire cast glints of light along the engraved steel barrels, bouncing and shifting. He reached out and ran his fingers along the cold metal before shifting them to the warm embossed wood of the handle. Perhaps it was the touch of the thing that finally broke through his stupor, or that his mind had merely needed time and solitude to accept what had just happened. Either way, he finally broke. His breath caught and he made a choking sound as tears glazed his vision and began falling down his cheeks.

He dropped his head into his hands and sobbed for his life which now, he was sure, was over.

Chapter Four

Fear

“Damn nonsense, if ye ask me. Ain’t right in any case, a gentleman on his hands and knees like that, doing filthy things. What would the neighbors be sayin,’ eh? Tell me that, then.”

Sam rolled his eyes and turned his face away as Mutton—he really needed to think of a better name soon—gave another hardy shake and sent streams of water splattering around the kitchen. The maids giggled behind their hands while the cook looked murderous.

“If you’re going to mutter curses at me, Mrs. Corry, you could at least
mutter
them,” Sam said as he continued to bend over the brass tub of soapy water, on his knees doing
filthy things.

“Never mind that.” Mrs. Corry snorted. “Gentleman ought not to be washin’ anything, let alone some street mongrel. One of the girls coulda been set to the task.”

The maids, standing in a gaggle near the large center table, stared at their illustrious employer. Sam could swear they were trying not to laugh, and a few of them blushed behind hidden smiles. He shook his head. It was just a dog. One would swear he had invited a band of gypsies into the house from the way everyone was acting.

“And what are you featherbrains gawkin’ at?” Mrs. Corry snapped. “Set to your tasks.”

The maids moved, then wavered. Sam and his dog-washing operation were taking up most of the kitchen floor space, and he was sure he was blocking the storage closet just behind him. Well. Perhaps he
was
causing something of an uproar for the servants after all.

“I am almost done, Mrs. Corry,” he said, forcing the same facetious grin he had leveled on the old woman all through his childhood. “No need to get angry with me. And I suspect that too soon you will be the one sneaking treats to this little fellow behind my back.”

Mrs. Corry blushed and turned away as if insulted while the maids let up an even louder flutter of giggles. Sam glanced at them. He found it odd how the employment agency always seemed to send him the prettiest young maids. Typically, the agencies shunned sending attractive young women to bachelor households, and probably for good reason.

That’s it, Sam. Keep trying to distract yourself with nonsense.
Anything to get that night at the brothel from his thoughts.

“Something amusing?” he said imperiously, eyeing the maids. Coming from a baronet who was currently kneeling on the kitchen floor, he doubted he came off as very intimidating.

“Yes, sir,” one of the maids said, trying to hold herself together.

“And?” he pressed, searching for the soap bar at the bottom of the tub.

“You said cook would be givin’ scraps to ‘this little fellow,’ but that dog’s a girl, sir.”

Sam frowned. Then, quite reasonably, he lifted Mutton by his front paws and took a look underneath. “Well, then. It appears you’re right. How did I miss that?”

Whatever poise the maids had collapsed into a fit of laughter. Sam smiled despite himself, but Mrs. Corry slammed the oven door and pointed to the stairs. “Out with ye.”

The maids scrambled to the kitchen stairs, their heads bowed despite their persistent smiles. At their departure, the kitchen descended into a sudden and peaceful quiet, only the sound of water dripping in the tub and the roast sizzling in the oven. Mrs. Corry continued to dry pans with near inhuman silence.

Mutton—maybe he should just keep the name?—trembled and gave Sam a sad, reproachful look. With his,
her
, fur wet and clinging she looked even skinnier and more pathetic than she had when he had finally convinced her to come to him again on the street. She had needed much convincing after his reprehensible behavior, which he still felt sick over. The poor thing didn’t deserve to be a playacting prop.

“I see,” he said softly in response to her accusing stare. “You think I’m tormenting you for no good reason. Well, your stench is tormenting this household, so consider this fair play.”

Mrs. Corry clucked her tongue, but a quick look verified she was smiling. It was a small surrender, but the old bird could no more hide from him than he could from her. They were both sheep spending most of their time in wolf’s clothing.

As if understanding that Sam meant no ill will, Mutton relaxed and dropped her hindquarters back in the warm water. She panted from the heat, making it appear as if she was grinning.

“There you are. See?” he said. “No cause to be stubborn. Just wait until Flor visits and sees you. You’ll never know a moment’s peace once she starts fawning over you.”

At his own mention of Flor, Sam sighed. It was his responsibility to act as escort for his little sister while in town, being dragged around the marriage mart by Kat. He had canceled on them for this evening, claiming ill health. In truth, he was terrified of encountering Darnish at the ball almost everyone would be attending that night.

Not that Flor would mind much. The poor girl hated all of it.

Heavy footsteps on the kitchen stairs drew his attention. A footman in camel and brown livery stopped at the bottom step, betraying his surprise at his master’s current state with only a quick blink.

“Forgive me, sir, but you have a visitor. As you gave no instruction as to whether or not you were home.” He eyed Sam’s dirty clothes. “Mr. Barton showed him to the drawing room.”

Sam blinked as if a spell had been broken. All the anxiety and dread of the night before, which he had been trying to ignore, crashed back on him. It must be Darnish. As much as Sam had tried to dismiss the possibility, he had known that a confrontation was inevitable, even if a part of him had hoped it could be set off by a few days. What would he say? What would he do? What kinds of threats would Darnish wield? Sam could only imagine, for in all his years of noticing Darnish and admiring him from afar, he had never seen the man angry or even in a bad humor.

“Sir?” the footman said when Sam did not reply.

“Tell him I will be right there. And ask him if he would care for tea.” Oh, yes, that sounded like a marvelous idea. Give the man a pot of tea so he could smash it and hold the shards against Sam’s throat. But, no, it would not be nearly that dramatic. He was worrying over nothing, surely.

What the hell am I going to do?

He left Mutton in Mrs. Corry’s capable hands and rushed upstairs. He thought to call his valet and put himself in some decent state for visitors, but stopped himself. Even on his best day and under the best circumstances he could not hope to make a favorable impression on someone like Darnish. Now, with the man’s thoughts probably running to murder, it would be even more ridiculous. Instead, he rolled down his wrinkled sleeves and tried to smooth his hair while making his way to the drawing room. The footman gave his attire a curious look before opening the door.

Sam hurried in, then halted.

“Well,” came a soft voice from near the mantel, “I know I am merely a
third
son of an earl, but I would hope I was grand enough to at least warrant a comb through your hair, Sam.”

Julian stood to one side of the fireplace, his slim fingers playing over the engraved surface of the mantel clock. As always, he struck a pose of feline beauty.

“Julian? What are you doing here?”

Julian stiffened. “I could ask you the same question since we were to have breakfast at Boodle’s this morning and you were not there.”

Sam frowned in utter confusion, then flushed. “I forgot. I’m sorry. I…I did not get much sleep last night and—”

“You too? Well, congratulations,” Julian said quickly, lifting his chin. “I am also ambling through the day half asleep. I could still be lying in a very
warm
bed if I had known I was to be forgotten.”

Sam sighed and made a conciliatory smile, though the sudden drop in tension at seeing Julian rather than Darnish left him feeling dizzy. Still, it was as he had expected with Julian. Sam’s failure to accept his invitation of a pleasurable night a few days ago had obviously not left Julian going without.

“Just what have you been up to this morning, anyway?” Julian said, eyeing him from top to bottom. “You look as if you just rolled out of the Thames.”

Sam was indeed in a state, with wrinkled shirtsleeves and water sloshed over his trousers and waistcoat. He shrugged his shoulders. “Nothing. Just some crisis down in the kitchens.”

Julian smiled slowly. “One of the things I’ve always liked about you, Sam. You’re so republican. It’s no wonder your servants adore you.”

Sam was rather taken aback by the sudden compliment, and it was a compliment, for Julian’s penchant for sarcasm was rarely mistakable.

“That’s ridiculous,” Sam said, making an effort to scowl. “My servants are well paid and I ask less of them than most. That’s all.”

“Mmm. That may be all for the men, but those pretty maids of yours are clearly besotted.”

“And you are
clearly
in a ridiculous mood,” Sam countered. “Do you want tea since I’m responsible for keeping you from breakfast?”

Julian crossed the room and took a seat on the sofa near the windows. Sam joined him, though he took the opposite chair since one of the servants might arrive any moment. Should he tell Julian about what had happened last night?

Not a chance in hell.

“You did not keep me from my breakfast,” Julian assured him. “I was invited to play a very awkward chorus part to Richard and Brenleigh’s leading roles, all over eggs and toast points. Thank you for that, by the way.” Julian’s words were playful, but Sam could not miss the edge to his words. Perhaps Sam wasn’t the only one with reasons to dislike Henry. Of course, he would not dare raise the question with Julian.

“You met Lord Richard and Hen—Brenleigh at Boodles? I wasn’t aware that Richard was a member.”

“He isn’t, but Brenleigh is. Newly minted, I’m told. It appears that he doesn’t prefer White’s, which is understandable. Damn place can get quite exhausting and expensive if a man is unable to resist the temptation of the tables.”

Sam scoffed. “Henry is no gambler.”

“Really?” Julian said after a meaningful pause. “I’m not yet acquainted with
Henry
well enough to know.”