Rakes and Radishes (15 page)

The duke wagged a fat finger. “Mrs. Whitmore, we won’t have any cheating like last time, or I might have to draw my pistol.”

She winked at Henrietta. “I can outshoot him too.”

The duke gestured to a table where four guests were deep in a hand. “May we play here?” he asked, in a way to imply it really wasn’t a question, but a command. Immediately the players set down their cards and abandoned the table. The duke pointed at a thin, slack-faced man. “Except you, Alfred. You’ll be my partner.”

“He’s my cousin,” Houghton explained. “He doesn’t talk much, just plays cards.”

Alfred nodded as if this were a fair assessment.

“Watson,” the duke said as he dropped into his chair. “You’re not related to that cabbage-headed poet Edward Watson, are you?”

“He is my cousin,” Henrietta said, waiting for him to ask if she was that sad cousin whom Edward had jilted for his daughter.

“My apologies,” he said gruffly. “I’m sorry you’re related to a cabbage-head.”

A small giggle burst from Henrietta’s lips, then another, growing into a full-blown laugh. She should have called Edward that as he rambled on about how she reminded him of everything he wanted to forget.
Edward, you cabbage-head, I don’t love you after all.

Guests gathered elbow to elbow around the table, watching the game as if the foursome were the performing horses at Astley’s Royal Amphitheatre.

The duke dealt. He was a quick, intelligent player, as was Mrs. Whitmore. Henrietta soon forgot about the crowd and got caught up in the heady excitement of a challenge. Her brain tracked every card played, every player’s move. Still, Houghton won the game on the last trick, playing a seven of spades over her five.

He leaned back in the chair, lifting its front legs from the floor. “See now, I arranged my cards with diamonds first and looked to the right just to confuse you.”

“Oh, I think I’ve got you figured out, Your Grace,” Henrietta said, long since over her initial shyness.

He set his chair legs down and slid the cards for her to cut. “Prove it.”

And she did. By the final game, she and Mrs. Whitmore had set the duke and silent Alfred by three. The room broke into calls of “bravo” and “encore,” shaking Henrietta from her concentration. She had been so focused on the cards that she had forgotten about Lady Kesseley. She scanned the audience looking for Lady Kesseley’s face, but not seeing it. Nor did she see Sir Gilling’s.

Mrs. Whitmore moved to start dealing again. Henrietta held up her hand. “I’m sorry, but I should stop. I need to talk to Lady Kesseley.”

“No, you don’t,” said the duke, banging his hand on the table. Henrietta flinched in her seat. “I don’t like losing, especially to a Watson.”

The audience ceased chattering. A tense silence filled the room.

“Mrs. Whitmore, deal the cards,” he barked.

Henrietta smiled politely and picked up the cards dealt to her. She had a run of spades with an ace and a queen. She could easily win the game playing her long suite, but instead she drew out the seven of clubs and laid it down. The duke took the trick and the next, then Henrietta won with a jack to give the impression she was trying.

When at last the duke was satisfied that he had truly conquered his Watson foe, the short hand on the clock nudged past two. Many of the guests had left and those remaining roamed about with glassy inebriated eyes. Candles had burned down and not been replaced, darkening the house.

She found Lady Winslow in the front parlor in a heated discussion over exactly how many fashionable ladies Lord Damien had conquered in his reign as premiere rake. Lady Winslow insisted Lord Damien had seduced no less than seventy-five.

“Have you seen Lady Kesseley?” Henrietta interrupted.

“Darling, she was watching you play cards.”

Henrietta just nodded, not wishing to publicly contradict her. She set out in search of Lady Kesseley, wandering through a series of ornate parlors, each crammed with art and furniture like a warehouse of decadence. But she couldn’t find Lady Kesseley anywhere.

Coming out of the library by the second-floor stairwell, she collided with a young man. His glass of strong-smelling spirits sloshed down the front of her gown.

“Ughh!” she cried, feeling the cold brandy drip between her breasts and down her belly.

“A thousssand apologiess,” he slurred and produced a handkerchief from his coat and began wiping her bosom.

She pushed him away. “You ruined Lady Kesseley’s gown!”

He opened his mouth and hiccupped. She fled past him and up the staircase. The corridor was dim, lit only by the blue shadows of the moon through the windows. Surely no guests would be up here in the dark, she thought. Then the soft echo of a woman crying drifted below a door. Henrietta froze, her ears pricked.

“What, Eleanora? What did I do now?” a man growled, as if talking with clenched teeth.

Henrietta carefully followed the voice, trying to keep the boards running under the carpet from creaking. She stopped outside the door and leaned her ear close to the wood.

“I just want you to leave,” she heard Lady Kesseley say.

“But you were the one who begged me to come up here,” the man retorted, clearly exasperated.

“My son might—”

“I’m tired of hearing about your son. For God sakes, Eleanora, he’s not five years old. Stop coddling him.”

“You don’t understand,” Lady Kesseley cried. “He’s different.”

“What? Is he as cracked as you?”

Henrietta heard the pop of skin being slapped.

“Damn you!” the man hissed.

Then the thud of a falling body. Henrietta flung open the door.

Lady Kesseley, whose cool reserve always intimidated Henrietta, was now humbled on the floor, weeping. Sir Gilling stood over her, legs spread, his muscles flexed. His left cheek was red from where he had been slapped. Some mental timber in Henrietta’s mind collapsed and all her old perceptions came crashing down.

“What the hell!” he cried, staring at Henrietta, his eyes wild. “I didn’t hurt her. She fell. I swear, I didn’t lay a finger on her.”

“You leave her alone,” Henrietta cried, instinctively protective of Kesseley’s mother.

“Leave her alone?” he echoed. “Hell, I did. Just like she asked.” He began to walk toward Henrietta, backing her up. “But she came back.
Hold me, Gilling. Tell me I’m beautiful. Make love to me.
Then she starts feeling guilty because she thinks that hick son of hers might find out.” He glared at Lady Kesseley. She had drawn her knees to her like a small girl and laid her head on her knees, rocking. “How am I supposed to feel?”

“I don’t really care,” Henrietta responded, as she knelt beside Lady Kesseley and placed a reassuring hand on her back. The scent of perfume and brandy filled Henrietta’s nose. She wasn’t sure if it came from Lady Kesseley or her own drenched gown.

“Don’t let her fool you,” he said. “These tears are to make you feel sorry for her. She twists people, makes them think she’s the innocent lady that she’s not.”

Lady Kesseley pursed her quivering lips and shook her head.

“Did you not hear me?” Henrietta said in a controlled voice, trying hard not to scream. “I said get out. Now.”

“Don’t stand up for her. She doesn’t even like you. Calls you a sly minx.”

“I didn’t!” Lady Kesseley cried. “Just leave, this time forever! I never want to see you again.”

“Fine.” He held up his palms. “I’ll go. I hope you find some bloke desperate enough to put up with your little games. I want you to know that I treated you well. Better than you deserved.”

“Just shut up!” Henrietta jumped to her feet. Searing rage burned behind her eyes. “You heard her. She doesn’t want to see you anymore!”

His eyes raked Henrietta up and down as if he could see beyond her clothes. “The little companion,” he said, a snarl of a smile twisting his lips. “My lady may not like you, but I do. It’s rare to find a loyal woman.” He jerked his head toward Lady Kesseley. “When you get tired of her, you find me. I’ll take good care of a sweet thing like you.”

He opened the door and walked out.

Henrietta wanted to scream at Lady Kesseley, shake her, slap her for dragging her here, for giving her a pretty necklace and gown like a foster mother, then luring her into this sordid desperate place. But the once cool, distant woman now lay huddled and broken on the floor. Henrietta knelt back down, scared, and suddenly recalled the days she’d spent trying to find words to comfort her mother as she lay on her deathbed.

“I’ll take care of everything,” she whispered, as she laid a nervous hand on the fallen feathers in Lady Kesseley’s hair. “Wait here, I have to get Lady Winslow.”

Lady Kesseley reached up and clutched Henrietta’s hand. “I didn’t mean to say those things about you. That was before—”

“Shhhh, it doesn’t matter,” Henrietta said, as one would soothe a frightened child. “But you must let me go.”

Lady Kesseley relinquished her hold. Henrietta forced herself to walk slowly down the stairs, measuring her breath, trying to look as if nothing were out of the ordinary. Lady Winslow hadn’t left the parlor where the Lord Damien debate still raged. The tally of lovers had reached 125. Henrietta tugged Lady Winslow’s elbow and asked for assistance with her gown.

In the dressing room, she outlined the situation. Lady Winslow’s features sharpened like a soldier’s at the first crack of fire. “Go upstairs and wait for me,” she said.

Back in the dark room, Lady Kesseley now stood before a rectangular mirror over a washstand, trying to smooth her hair with shaking fingers. The tears rolled down her face and streaked her powder. “I’m sorry you have to see me like this.”

“Allow me,” Henrietta said. She tried to pin Lady Kesseley’s pale curls and feathers back in place but with very little success.

The plunking sound of the pianoforte trickled up, and a lovely bell-like soprano began singing Mozart’s
Ah se in ciel.
Lady Winslow tapped on the door. She had brought a footman. Wordlessly, they held Lady Kesseley between them, hiding her, and sailed down the stairs and out the front door. Henrietta took one small peek into the downstairs parlor as they fled. The princess stood by the piano, entrancing the guests with her lovely voice. Henrietta’s throat caught in appreciation. For less than a second their eyes met, and she saw a keen understanding hidden behind the princess’s bright eyes.

Silently they continued along the street, catching up to the carriage rounding the corner for them. The footman lifted Lady Kesseley inside. She no longer cried, but leaned limply against the corner.

Henrietta didn’t know what to say or how to make it better. She felt utterly powerless. She just watched London pass outside the window, its nighttime inhabitants, drunken men and prostitutes conducting their ugly business under the glow of the gas lamps. She closed her eyes, letting the rhythm of the carriage lull her nerves.

“I met Sir Gilling at Brighton when I was visiting Fanny and the princess,” Lady Kesseley began quietly. “I didn’t mean for anything to happen, but it just did. I told him that I couldn’t see him in London because of Kesseley. If my son found out that I had an affair with a married man, he would be so ashamed of me. But I’m too weak. I couldn’t stop myself. He made me feel…feel…”

Lady Kesseley’s lips trembled as tears streamed from her closed eyes. Startling Henrietta, she leaned over and buried her face in Henrietta’s shoulder. “I just want someone to love me again. Isn’t that pathetic?”

“No, of course not.”

“I wasn’t always broken like this. A beautiful boy once loved me. Truer than anything I have known. I ruined it—like I ruin everything.”

***

Kesseley lay in his bed in shirt and pantaloons, one foot balancing on the toes of the other. He sipped red wine while finishing the final chapter of
The Mysterious Lord Blackraven.
Finally Arabellina had taken into her head to throw herself into the ocean because she knew she had beaten down Lord Blackraven so badly that he couldn’t find his own arse without her help. He would come running to save her, thus breaking the poor man’s last straw of free will, and ensuring her dominion over him. She had conquered the unconquerable mysterious male with her innocent love. Now she could live happily ever after.

Outside the clomp and rattle of a carriage stopped before the front door. Kesseley swung himself out of bed and put his banyan over his clothes, using the moonlight to guide him down the stairwell. Their voices drifted up to Kesseley.

“Don’t tell Tommie,” he heard his mother say, in the manner of a drunken person believing they are whispering.

Henrietta murmured a reply he couldn’t hear.

“He mustn’t know about Gilling.”

Kesseley came down the stairs. He smelled the brandy before he saw them. Henrietta held a candle, her brown eyes wide and glittering, her bodice so low it could scarce contain her breasts. A large stain ran down her gown.

His mother was no better. Wrinkles crisscrossed her gown. Bent, crumpled feathers dangled from her loose hair.

“What must I not know, Mama?” he demanded.

“Tommie, I–I—” His mother looked to Henrietta for help. Of course, she was never at a loss for words.

“Nothing!” she said too quickly. “We just went to a play and a party and—”

He held up his flat palm. “Just stop,” he said, and returned his attention to his mother. “I thought we had left all this behind when Father died. I thought we could live decent, respectable lives. Yet here you are, hiding away in darkened rooms with your married, scandalous lover. You’re no better than Father.”

His mother covered her mouth with her hand. He could see her chin tremble. Inside him, a small boy still huddled in the corner of a unlit chamber, listening through the wall to her cries and the angry rants of his father. After all those years, he had defended her, demonizing his father. She was supposed to be the innocent, angelic mother. But now she behaved no better than his father. The only difference was that she attempted to conceal her depravity.

“Why did I even bother?” he whispered, disgusted.