Rakes and Radishes (21 page)

“Please accept my best wishes for your happiness,” Kesseley said. Then the conversation fell into a lull, everyone’s eyes on Kesseley, waiting.

“Well, shall we all take a turn together?” he begrudgingly suggested.

The ladies looked at Kesseley, then Bucky, then back to Kesseley. He wound up with Lady Sara on his right arm and some giggly thing on his left. Bucky got the American.

“You have not said anything about my new gown. You must know as a gentleman that it is your duty to compliment a lady.” Lady Sara’s smile held a challenge, as if she were expecting him to say something roguish.

Behind him, the American was explaining that her husband-to-be and father grew rice and tobacco on their plantations.

“Yes, very nice,” he said of the damned gown, then turned his head back to the American. “Surely you couldn’t grow rice and tobacco in the same soil?”

“No, our land is quite spread out. We abandoned our home on the low marshes, where the rice fields are, and built another home forty miles away, where the soil is sandy and the air is drier. Perfect for tobacco.”

“Are you going to Lord Southington’s ball this evening?” Lady Sara said, tugging on Kesseley’s arm.

“No, I believe I am attending another ball,” he said, then addressed the American again. “How long do you dry tobacco before you ship it?”

“We harvest at the end of June, then put it in sheets and carry it to Charleston three weeks later. My brother and I used to climb up the eaves in the tall hot tobacco barns and smell the drying leaves. I suppose that is why I am so homesick. Everything here is so different—the smells, the weather, the homes,” she said, gesturing to the sky. “It never clouds like this. The sun is always large and warm, hence my freckles.” She laughed, a pleasant, easy sound. “Please don’t compliment me on them. It is a gentleman’s duty
not
to compliment some aspects of a lady’s appearance.”

“Surely you could grow some lemons with everything else. If you applied lemon juice daily, you could fade your freckles by your wedding,” Lady Sara said, then arched a pretty brow at Kesseley. “Oh look at me, spilling my feminine secrets to Lord Kesseley.”

“The winters in the Carolinas are too cold for lemon trees,” he stated. Lady Sara frowned. He refused to play her game.
Wasn’t it Henrietta who’d complained of him being obtuse?

“I say, Lady Sara, your bonnet is loose,” Bucky observed. “You might want to retie it.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“It’s falling to the right side,” Kesseley said.

“That is the fashion. I hope I am not unfashionable.”

“No, of course not,” Kesseley resigned himself.

But it only took a slight breeze and—

“My bonnet!” Lady Sara cried and hurried in chase to the river’s edge. She reached futilely over the water like a bad actress. Kesseley’s gut tightened. He had seen this all before— Arabellina sinking in the water, Lord Blackraven having to drag her melodramatic arse out. Surely Lady Sara wouldn’t try something so outrageously obvious, would she?

Oh God, she’s going to do it!

She turned, seemingly slipping on a rock and plunging into the water with ballerina-like grace, splashing a nearby swan on her nest. “Help me!” she cried.

Kesseley saw everything happen before he could stop it. “Get out! Get out!” he shouted as he ran for the water.

The swan’s jealous mate came skimming across the lake, beak straight out like a sword, ready to defend his unhatched family. Lady Sara’s eyes widened. She shrieked as the raging swan flew at her, making its terrible hissing noises. She tried to shield her face, but it clamped down on her arm. She lost her balance and slipped under the water. The swan went down with her, pecking her hair.

Kesseley leaped into the cold water, knocking the swan away, sending white feathers flying. The bird let out a high, shrill hiss and rose up in the water, flapping his wings, making swipes at Kesseley’s back.

Kesseley pulled Lady Sara to his chest, protecting her with his body. He lifted her from the water. Her body shook with ragged coughs and water spilled from her mouth.

When she couldn’t cough anymore, she started screaming. Kesseley called the footman to deliver the carriage and then laid her under a tree. Blood oozed from her arm where the swan had bitten her. The torn fabric of her gown exposed her ripped stockings.

She latched on to Kesseley’s hand, wrapping her fingers between his, all pretense gone from her face. She was cold and scared. Her lips and ears had turned a pale blue.

Kesseley had pulled her shaking body to his by the time the footman returned. The carriage was waiting on Park Lane.

“Lady Sara, I’ve got to carry you to your carriage.”

She clutched him tightly as he lifted her from the ground.

Word had reached Rotten Row. He could see the fashionable people hurrying down the path, coming to view the spectacle.

An open landau waited for them with the steps folded down.

“Damn it!” Kesseley spat.

The footman and Bucky climbed aboard and helped lift Lady Sara up. She refused to let go of Kesseley’s hand. “No, don’t let me go!” she cried.

He shook his head in frustration, but when he spoke, his voice was gentle and resigned. “Don’t worry, Lady Sara. I will take you home.”

The footman and Bucky jumped down. Kesseley pulled himself up. Lady Sara clung to him, trying to get warm. Her fingers were wrinkled and red. Wet droplets fell from her curls.

***

Her mother was in the parlor entertaining a dozen callers amid the flowers when Kesseley carried Lady Sara inside—shaking, bleeding, her limbs exposed. Kesseley couldn’t explain for the screams. The household staff descended upon them. The duke came huffing into the room, his face reddened from the exertion. Words and demands were shouted. Kesseley had to yell to speak above the roar. Lady Sara needed warm clothes and a fire.

“This way!” the duke said, and Kesseley followed him up the curving stairs to Lady Sara’s chamber on the second floor. He laid her upon the bed as the household staff buzzed around. She clung to him, refusing to let him leave.

“Dearest, you have to let Lord Kesseley go,” said an older female, probably Lady Sara’s abigail.

“No!” she cried.

“We have to remove your clothes,” the lady pleaded with her charge.

“I don’t care!” Lady Sara replied. “He’s already seen me.”

Her mother screamed and buried her face into her husband’s chest.

Kesseley swallowed, trying to speak calmly. “Lady Sara, you are distraught. You must get dry. I won’t leave until I know you are well. I promise.”

“Don’t leave,” she said. “Please don’t leave.”

“I have to, for now,” he said. Pulling his hand free, he slowly backed out of the room and closed the door to protect Lady Sara from the duchess’s friends clogging the corridor. The feigned concern in their eyes barely concealed their sordid curiosity at his wet dripping pantaloons and bloody shirt.

What happened was going to blaze through London like a windblown fire. It didn’t matter what truly happened. Kesseley had carried a sobbing, disarrayed Lady Sara in his arms through London. The truth would be whatever London wanted it to be. He would be put on the sacrificial altar for that specious truth.

Kesseley felt a fat, warm hand behind his wet collar.

“My future son-in-law is a fine man,” the duke said to the guests. “My daughter is safe, thanks to him.”

Kesseley started to speak, then shut his mouth. What he needed to say couldn’t be aired in front of London.

“We need to talk, son,” the duke said, still smiling at the guests while pulling Kesseley into the chamber across the hall. It was devoid of art, just a draped bed and wall sconces. By the wooden carved mantel, two fabric-covered chairs were pulled up by the fire. The duke gestured to one, uncaring that Kesseley was soaked and muddy. He took the other, his plump legs hanging off the edges. He reached for the silver snuffbox beside the chair and took a pinch, then offered it to Kesseley.

“What happened?” he asked.

Kesseley declined the snuff, then retold the story. It seemed so absurd in retrospect. The duke ingested it with no expression.

“You’re a fine man. You protected my family. I’ll be honored to call you my son. We can make the announcement at my ball. You will marry at our estate, of course. I have some land I want to show you. It came from my mother’s line and it ain’t entailed. Not far from Norfolk. 10,000 acres. Good tenants, the old kind that ain’t afraid to work. I’m giving it to you. You can farm as you see fit, then pass to any younger sons.”

“Your Grace, I’m not sure—”

The duke held up a flat palm and rose to stand by the fire. “You’re young and I know your father died too soon. I’m not the only gentleman in England that admired how you put Wrenthorpe to rights. But let me give you some advice—”

“I’m not sure I want to marry your daughter. I mean, I’m not sure I want to get married this year.”

The duke stared at him, his face coloring with rage. “Today you carried my daughter from the park—muddy, bleeding, her dress torn, parading her through the streets in an open landau for all London to see! Then you tell me this wild story that she was attacked by a swan!”

Kesseley stood. “It’s the truth. And if you must know, she threw herself in the water for me to save her. I am being entrapped.”

“Damn it, man, you’re an earl. Show some honor to your name and duty.”

Kesseley flinched. The duke’s words stung him. Duty and honor. Words his father hadn’t understood. Words he lived his life by.

Or had.

The old man continued, “The Duke of Houghton was made by William the Conqueror. My estate expands 20,000 acres in four counties. I got a dozen members in the House of Commons that do as I say. When Prince George has a question, he comes to me. When Lord Liverpool needs to get something done, he comes to me. I’ll be damned if you will make a fool of me and my family. Perhaps you’ve never had the importance of family duty and honor instilled in you.”

Kesseley couldn’t breathe. His lungs felt weighed down.

Isn’t that what you wanted, damn it? Accept it. You’ve finally severed yourself from Henrietta.

“Oh God,” he cried.

The duke put a hand on his shoulder. “Son, we all come to this moment. It’s in the choice between what you want and what your name and duty demand that makes the man. Now you just make some handsome sons and vote the right way. Everyone will turn a blind eye when you dabble. Just like they do for me. Just like they did for your papa.”

Three hours later, Kesseley sat in evening clothes in a dim, smoke-filled gambling hell on Soho Square, playing
Vingt-et-un.
He kept his playing hand on the table with the other one around a golden-haired courtesan whose name he didn’t know. She sat on his knee and held his drink. He had already gulped down three gin-laced drinks, but they weren’t strong enough to burn out the anger, fear and dread writhing around like a worm in his gut.

He hated himself. He stared at the turned card under his thumb and felt the softness of the courtesan’s thigh on his leg. This was all it was going to be. His fate. In his mind flashed Henrietta’s chocolate eyes reflecting the sunlight dancing off the Ouse River. Now lost forever. He had finally shed his past. He should be happy. He nudged the courtesan, and she gave him another sip of the gin.

Bucky had lost seventy-five pounds early on and had to quit. He’d since been standing against the tapestry-covered wall behind Kesseley, smoking, repeatedly asking when they were leaving for his cousin’s ball. So eager to meet that ugly heiress of his dreams.

Kesseley’s rowdy card partners included a lucky naval captain who entertained the table with stories of wild exploits on his frigate and several men with various handles to their name, including a handsome baronet who unexplainably annoyed Kesseley. He seemed amicable enough, smiling more than Bucky, yet something about the buck’s close-set eyes made Kesseley feel he could never really see him eye to eye. The baronet had recently inherited 10,000 acres with a 7,000 pound a year income and a fine home in the Westmorland from a deceased uncle. Everyone knew this, because he proudly repeated it between naval stories, as if he had not said it just fifteen minutes prior. The others took pleasure in ribbing him. “Was that 3,000 acres you say? Lake or land? How are you going to manage on just 2,000 a year income?”

Kesseley had a seven turned and ten showing on the table. The bet was three hundred pounds and a lot of face cards had been dealt. The baronet took a pinch of snuff, asked for a card then raised the bet another hundred pounds. He had something good. Kesseley fingered his cards—he was safe—but a rebellious recklessness urged him on.

The captain took a drag of his cheroot and blew it over Kesseley’s shoulder. “Look who’s back in London?”

Kesseley followed the smoke, finding Sir Gilling edging through the crowd. He smirked when he saw Kesseley, arrogant even as the faint translucent blue bruises still marred his face. He drew back a chair at the faro table not four feet away from Kesseley to further show his indifference.

“He would do better to stick to games of luck than skill,” the captain said loud enough for his voice to drift to the other table.

The indentation under Sir Gilling’s jaw pulsed. Otherwise he appeared not to hear.

“Lord Kesseley, the bet is four hundred. It’s your decision,” the dealer reminded him. He had a jack turned.

Kesseley should stand, but something inside him didn’t want to, even against the odds. “Sweetheart, give me another sip,” he asked the courtesan. She lifted the glass to his lips. He swallowed it down, and then leaned back and stretched his arms. “Another card, gentlemen.”

Devil take it, the last queen.

Kesseley laughed and turned over his seven.

Bucky gasped, “What the hell were you thinking!”

“That I couldn’t feel my balls anymore,” he said.

The men hooted and the naval captain waved his hand dismissively. “Deal him out. Deal him out.”

Kesseley concurred, standing up, letting the courtesan slide down his leg. He turned to his friend. “Bucky, let’s go find this ugly heiress of yours.”

“Maybe Lord Kesseley should have taken lessons from his mother’s companion,” the baronet said to the table. “I had the delightful opportunity of getting beaten by that delicious morsel. I couldn’t help but feel amorous every time she over trumped me.”

Kesseley’s belly tightened. The veins over his temples hurt.

“Don’t talk that way about Henrietta,” he whispered, keeping his back to the little prig else he would tear off his head.

Sir Gilling’s head jerked around.

“Henrietta, is it?” The baronet laughed. “It seems Miss Watson might be more than just his mother’s companion. Maybe his little companion too. I tell you, if that little pocket Venus lived in my house, well, I daresay, I would never leave. She could play her little trumps in my bed.”

Kesseley’s heel ground into the floor as he turned to the baronet. Fury heated his face.

The table went silent. When the bugger realized he might have swum out too far, he started stammering. “I didn’t mean—Hell, I was only funning.”

“I changed my mind,” Kesseley said slowly. “Deal me in.”

The game moved fast. He didn’t speak, keeping his mind on every card falling from the dealer’s hand. Soon the baronet no longer possessed the cool face of a seasoned card player, but became a desperate man, perspiring, the cards shaking in his hand. He had to stay in the game just to try to win back the fortune he was losing.

Kesseley should have stopped, but he couldn’t—some dark urge pushed him on. He continued to play, racing his own demons to some brink where everything became irreversible, all hope gone…the old Kesseley gone.

The final game rested on one thousand pounds. All that was left of the baronet’s seven thousand pound income for this year.

Kesseley felt everyone’s eyes on him. The baronet swallowed and turned his final card. A nine. He had nineteen. He looked to Kesseley, desperation in his eyes.

What the hell did he think Kesseley could do now? It was too late. He turned his card. A jack to match his ten. Twenty. The baronet sunk his face into his hands.

No cheers went up for Kesseley’s victory. Just uneasy silence. Why had he done that? What was he trying to prove?

Kesseley stomped outside, furious, leaving the baronet to the moneylenders. The night had grown colder and the wind whirled trash and other debris around the square.

“You are a bastard,” Bucky said.

“I know. Why don’t you go to your cousin’s without me?”

“I told my cousin you were going. She got all my other cousins, her friends. Everyone expects me to bring you.”

“Why, so they can stare at me? Bucky, do you really like me, or do you just like being in my wake?”

“Now see here—”

Kesseley waved him silent. “Don’t listen to me, I’m drunk and I damn well want to stay that way. Let’s stop and get a dram or two. Then I’ll go and dance with all your female cousins and their friends and every damn eligible female there.”

***

They took a hack to a white stucco row house on Green Street. Kesseley stumbled over the entry, banging into Bucky as the butler ushered them in.

“Hell’s tinker. Straighten up,” Bucky hissed under his teeth.

“You wanted me to come,” Kesseley reminded him. “Even if I am a bastard.”

“Go to hell.”

“I have,” he replied.

It was a modern home: all ornate stucco ceilings, iron balusters, Grecian cornices and pastel walls. The harshest critic couldn’t find any want in the décor nor any distinguishing features that might make it different from the adjoining houses on the block. Some Greek gentleman, maybe Plato, perched on a bust over the door, looked down with his stone, blind gaze as Kesseley entered the parlor.

Pocket doors were open, forming a large room of a red parlor and fern-green dining room. The carpets had been removed and the walnut furnishings pushed to all the walls. The guests hovered awkwardly about with vacant expressions, having perhaps run out of conversation two hours ago. A scrawny orchestra, consisting of a violin, cello and flute screeched in the corner, while several young ladies and gentlemen danced a sad minuet in the center of the room.

Every eye flew to him, a pulse of excitement jolting the bored guests.
He’s here!
their faces seemed to say.

A beautiful redhead glided gracefully across the room, relief on her features. Bucky’s cousin. They shared the same pale skin, light green eyes and riotous curls.

“I thought you would never come, dear cousin,” she greeted Bucky, but her bright eyes were on Kesseley. Her cousin made the introductions, and Kesseley bowed so low he had to right himself on a nearby table.

“A pleasure,” he said, having already forgotten her name. It began with a C.

She gestured to an expressionless bald man sitting inert by the fire, his chin drooped on his chest, his pudgy legs sprawled out before him. “My husband.” Her tone contained an apology to Kesseley as well as her own thinly veiled contempt for her husband.

“He’s rich,” Bucky said quietly to Kesseley as they followed behind his cousin to a cluster of other young female cousins, all with frizzy curls and dipped in freckles.

“Damn, Bucky, which one’s the heiress?” Kesseley whispered. “They’re all ugly.”

“That’s it—you’re leaving!” Bucky hissed, and he took Kesseley’s shoulder to spin him around. He didn’t budge.

“But I’m ready to dance!” Kesseley protested.

The hostess smiled. “Are you? Lord Kesseley, may I present you to an eligible dancing partner?”

Kesseley wiped off Bucky’s arm.

“Yes, I would like to dance with a young lady as beautiful as yourself.” Bucky’s cousin blushed as bright as her hair. “In fact, why don’t you dance with me?”

His hostess started. “I-I can’t. My husband wouldn’t like it.”

He flashed that intimate smile the ladies liked. “My understanding is that marriage shouldn’t stop you from enjoying yourself.” The hostess let out a small gasp, then closed her mouth. She peered at her inert husband, her eyes tensing with pent-up longing and fear. She was miserable, Kesseley thought, then quickly closed the box he had opened. “Yes, yes, introduce me to a sweet eligible young thing. I desire a country dance.”

He danced with every one of Bucky’s redheaded cousins, spinning them all about the floor, complimenting gowns, hair, jewelry, dancing ability. They didn’t seem to notice when he stumbled and only laughed when he upset the fire screen.

Bucky glared at him.

His heiress wasn’t so ugly. Yes, she was short and had a few moles, nothing unattractive, but then Kesseley did have a weakness for petite things. She was trying to smile and converse with Bucky, but her eyes slid in Kesseley’s direction.

He didn’t get near her.

Bucky’s cousin was another matter. Her gaze never left Kesseley’s form, hastening to him at the end of every dance, being sure he had a drink when he wanted one, introducing him to dance partners. He repeated his futile desire to dance with her because it made her smile a flustered, natural smile that should have always been on her face, but waned as her eyes slid to her husband.

As the clock hand pushed two o’clock, most of the candles on the chandeliers had burned out, and many guests had left. The orchestra took a break. Kesseley searched for a footman. “May I have a brandy?” he asked.

The footman bowed and disappeared, but it was Bucky’s cousin who returned with a brimming, amber glass she held on level with her generous breasts. Their fingers touched as she handed it to him. She watched him drink.

“Thank you for coming,” she said, biting the lower edge of her lip.

“Don’t look at me like that. Where’s your beautiful smile?”

She tried to smile just as her husband fell from his chair onto the floor and awakened with a glazed, stupid look. “Where’s the music? I paid for music, damn it.”

“I hate him,” she whispered, keeping her beautiful face as still as stone.

“I’ll take care of this,” he said, heading off like a drunken knight.

“Come, man, let’s have some manly conversation in your chamber,” Kesseley said, taking the man by his arm and pulling him up. “I think we’ve both had a little too much.”

It took three of them—Kesseley, the butler and a footman pushing from behind—to get the rotund man up the stairs. Kesseley could hear the hostess below, reassuring guests who suddenly hastened to leave that they could stay. Her voice was shrill, barely containing her panic.

They dumped the man into his bed. His chamber smelled like smoke and chamber pot. He fell back asleep, snoring through his fat lips. Kesseley let the servants take care of the man and stumbled back into the stairs, wanting to get the hell away.

The hostess was coming up the stairs, stopping his progress.

“I’m sorry, Lord Kesseley.” Her voice was a sad whisper.

“It’s nothing,” he said.

She took his hand, turned it over, and her fingers traced along the lines of his hand. The servants were extinguishing the candles. The residual smoke drifted up and the hallway grew dimmer.

Where was Bucky?

She started talking, the words coming out so fast, as if they had been fermenting in her brain for a long time. He was too drunk to understand her dialogue, but he knew what she was saying anyway. When she finished, she stood silent, awkward, waiting.

He exhaled and put his arms about her, drawing her away from the stairwell and the eyes of the servants below. She had tiny bones, frail to his touch, and smelled faintly like citrus in the winter. His penis grew hard with a drunk erection.

“Damn it!” He backed away, his palms up. “I’m sorry.”

“No, no,” she cried, taking his hand again and caressing it with her thumb.

“I’m too drunk. I can’t,” he protested, but he didn’t drop her hand, nor did he try to stop her when she led him to her chamber.

He could just see the faintest outlines from the dim light of the night and the city. Floral wallpaper, floral bed, delicate furniture, paintings, everything crowded, leaving no empty spaces.

She sat on the edge of the bed, drew his palm to her face, circling it around her cheek.

“Tell me I’m pretty again.”

“You’re lovely.”

She drew his head down, pressing her trembling, unsure lips to his jaw.

“Please,” she said, her fingers gathering the skirt of her gown. He felt the silk of her stockings against his thighs. “I’ve only known him.”

“I-I can’t.”

“Try, please,” she whispered, reaching for the button of his breeches.

He thrust at her thighs with his weak drunken erection, failing to find that spot of dark oblivion between her legs.