Beau Bainbridge’s braid. A picture of the handsome, laughing young lieutenant filled Hugo’s vision. He wanted to puke.
“A cannonball took the head off of the man beside me,” he said tersely. “He’d pushed in beside me moments before it landed. By rights, I should have been the one to die.”
The surgeon looked delighted. “That’s it, then. You’ve been walking around with a bit of his uniform in you all this time.”
Hugo swallowed the sour taste of nausea. Poor, bloody Beau. If Hugo had been a better leader, firmer with the lad, perhaps the boy might still be alive. Along with the rest of his men. Hugo dragged himself back from the smell of gunpowder and the sound of cannon. That part of his life was over, best forgotten, like so much of his history.
The surgeon dropped the bloody piece of braid on the tray. “All we have to do now is clean the wound and suture it, and you will be almost as good as new. Unless it becomes infected. Then we will have to have the leg off.”
Did he have to sound so bloody hopeful? Hugo tensed, ready.
“Are you sure you don’t want something for the pain? This is going to hurt.”
“No.”
The surgeon threaded his needle. “You know, if you had left this much longer, I would have been looking at gangrene. You had a narrow escape, my lord.”
Then he had Lucinda to thank for his worthless life. And he’d found the perfect way to do it. It had occurred to him the night of the fête. Since she already had a child, she wouldn’t hanker for another. He could marry her safe in the knowledge she’d never have to suffer the torment of a Wanstead bride.
He allowed a cautious hope for the future to blot out the pain of the past. He shoved the leather back between his teeth as the doctor began his gruesome work.
• • •
Two weeks after the operation, the pain had faded to a distant memory. Finally on his own two feet instead of leaning on Trent, Hugo strode through the crowds on Bond Street with a spring in his step and a cheerful swing of his cane. Pedestrians parted around him, like a cavalry charge around a cannon. One more errand to run and one obligatory visit to a gambling hell with Arthur, and then he would go home. To Lucinda.
The anticipation of seeing her face when he asked her to marry him made him want to dance in the street. Now, wouldn’t that look fine? He grinned at the street sweeper who cleared his path across the road and flicked him a shilling. The boy pocketed the coin as if fearing Hugo would notice his mistake.
The alley he sought opened on his right. He picked up his pace until he found the sign he sought above a discreet shop door. Mrs. Syms, Purveyor of Gentlemen’s Needs. The doorbell tinkled as he stepped inside.
“Good afternoon, sir,” said the motherly middle-aged woman behind the counter. “How can I help you?”
“Condoms.”
“Yes, sir. How many?”
“I’d like a standing order delivered to my house. A dozen.”
“Yes, sir. Would that be every three months?”
Hell, he hoped not. “One month. Send the bill to this address.” He handed the woman his calling card.
Her sagging face smirked. “Planning to keep the old soldier at attention and on parade on a regular basis then, sir?”
He stared into her knowing muddy eyes blankly, and then realized she was talking about his anatomy and not his former occupation. A grin spread across his face. “Yes. I am.”
She wheezed a chuckle. “Want to take the first month’s supply with you then, sir?”
“Good idea.” He dug for his money.
“Don’t worry about that, sir. I’ll add it to your bill. The order’ll arrive the first of every month without fail. If you finds you need more, just send me a note.”
More. “Perhaps I better make it two dozen. Just to be on the safe side.”
“Ah. New romance, is it? I can’t imagine a gent like you’d be opening a brothel.”
“Good God. Certainly not.”
“And I don’t imagine you needs to be visiting one three times a day.”
“Madame, that is none of your business.”
The woman cocked her head. “And if she’s your regular, she shouldn’t be a’giving you the French disease. So you’re using them to stop from havin’ children. Mighty considerate of you”— she glanced down at his card—“Lord Wanstead. It ain’t every gentleman who thinks about the plight of his light o’ love havin’ his bastards.”
Wife. She would be his wife. He almost patted the pocket with the special license he’d picked up from the Doctor’s Commons before his visit to the surgeon.
The woman didn’t seem to expect an answer, because she took a box from the shelf behind her and set it on the counter. “That should keep you going until the first order arrives. They come wrapped in brown paper, no return address, and marked personal and confidential. Is there anything else I can get fer yer lordship today?” She nodded at a glass case containing everything from pills offering increased stamina to dildos of every size.
“No. Thank you.”
She ran her gaze over him. “Reckon not. You look like you got all the equipment you need.”
Such was his mood, he didn’t have it in him to take offense. “Good day, Mrs. Syms.”
“Good day, Lord Wanstead.”
Stepping out into the street, Hugo felt a trickle of sweat run down his back. Well, what did he expect? Ordering vast quantities of condoms was bound to incite a comment. One thing he knew, he didn’t dare get anywhere near Lucinda without a supply. He would not repeat his mistake of that last night, no matter how aroused. He was not going to be responsible for yet another death.
When he reached the corner, the street sweeper had loped off. Probably off at the local inn, gloating over the crazy man who had thrown away good coin. He avoided a dollop of dung steaming on the cobbles, dodged a coal heaver’s dray and a hackney bent on locking wheels like a couple of sparring bulls, and strolled back to his hotel.
One more night in this stinking noisome place and he could get back to the Grange.
Home.
Suddenly, after all these years, he desperately wanted to go home. He could scarcely believe it, and it was all Lucinda’s fault. He strode on, not caring who saw his idiot smile.
Chapter Sixteen
Trent brushed a piece of lint off Hugo’s coat and stepped back. “Anything else, my lord?”
“No. Go off and enjoy yourself.” Hugo pointed to the package on the bed. “Help yourself to a couple of those. Don’t forget to put them in soak for a couple of hours.”
Trent grimaced. “I hate using them. It’s like bathing in Hessian boots.”
“Better than having it drop off.”
Trent’s handsome face twisted in disgust. He scooped up a couple of the French letters and tucked them in his pocket. “Thank you, my lord.”
A knock sounded at the door to the outer chamber that Hugo had rented alongside the bedroom.
“That will be Mr. Dawson,” Hugo said. “Let him in and you can go.”
“Yes, sir.” Trent saluted, then winced. “Sorry, my lord,” he mumbled and strode off.
Old habits died hard, Hugo mused.
The deep rumble of voices came from the parlor, and then the outer door closed. Hugo gave himself one last glance in the mirror. In a coat of blue superfine and a fancy knot in his cravat, he should pass muster with Arthur’s friends, even if he wasn’t a fashionable fribble. He was too big to be a dandy so he’d settled for Weston’s coats and well-cut beige pantaloons. He wanted a look at these friends of Arthur’s, either to set the squire’s mind at rest or warn Arthur off. Satisfied with his appearance, Hugo strolled through the adjoining door to find Arthur lounging in a chair with a fashionably bored expression. “Trent says you have nothing to drink in here?”
The thought of a good stiff drink made Hugo’s skin clammy. “I don’t.” He shoved his hands in his pockets to stop them from fidgeting. “So, where are you taking me tonight? Some hell, I think you
said?”
Arthur’s face brightened. He stood up. “This club is all the crack, I assure you. It only opened a few month’s ago. Vale is particular about membership. It’s taken me weeks to gain entrance.”
Mentally Hugo sighed. This had all the markings of a very tedious evening. No doubt he’d be pulling Arthur out of the River Tick and carrying him home in his cups. But a promise made must be kept.
He retrieved his hat and cane from the stand by the door. “Do we walk or take a hackney?”
“Walk,” Arthur said. “It is not far. No point in cramming a man of your size into a stinking cab.”
“My sentiments exactly.” Hugo clapped him on the shoulder. “Lead the way.”
Evening time in London. Despite summer’s heat, dandies and drunks crowded the streets. Colorful prostitutes jockeyed for position on street corners, and the stink of offal and expensive cologne pervaded all. Thank God Almack’s was closed for the season. Not that Arthur could have dragged him anywhere near the place.
They strolled through Mayfair’s grimy dusk chatting about Wellington’s capture of Salamanca a few days before.
“How can you bear to miss the excitement?” Arthur asked. “Now the tide has finally turned.” He colored. “Of course, you can’t, not with your wound. But I wish I had a part in it.”
The eagerness in the young man’s voice struck Hugo like a blow in the midriff. Bainbridge had that same excited glitter in his eye moments before a spent shot ended his young life. “You are better off here.”
Arthur shot him a look that said he thought Hugo dicked in the nob.
They turned on to St. James. Hugo frowned. “Why did you make such a mystery out of this? I’m a member at White’s and Brooks’s.”
“Oh, nothing so stuffy as that. This way.”
Arthur guided him into an unlit alley beside a tavern. Hugo grimaced as his boot sunk into something with the consistency of treacle. The smell of rotting vegetation hit the back of his throat. Typical London. The alley opened into a court, and Arthur rapped loudly in what sounded like code on a black door in need of a coat of paint.
“Good God, Arthur, what on earth have you got yourself into?”
“Nothing.” He half laughed. “This is my first time here. To be honest, I think it is one of Vale’s jests. He’ll have us all bellows-to-mend in under a week, call it a frightful bore, and head off for Brighton to visit Prinny.”
Before Hugo could suggest they forget the whole stupid idea, the door swung open. A man with a face that looked as if it had been smashed flat by an anvil dropped from a great height peered out at them. The rubbery lips stretched in a smile that revealed toothless gums. “’Evenin’, Mr. Dawson.”
“Good evening, Perkins,” Arthur said, holding out his hat.
“What do you want?” Perkins asked. “Members only.”
Instead of telling the cheeky bugger to go to hell, Arthur flushed. “His grace said I could join him this evening.”
The man rubbed his jaw. “Aar, I remembers now. And this must be the friend you mentioned to ’is grace?”
With a look of relief, Arthur tossed his hat to the waiting meaty fist. “Yes, Perkins. Lord Wanstead.”
“Big’un, ain’t he? Heavyweight. Fists like ’ams. Don’t s’pose you’d want to go a couple of rounds, would you, my lord?”
Hugo stared at the battered face. “I know you. Saw you fight once at Newmarket. Practice bout. Windmill Jack Perkins you were then.”
“Gor blimey. That were years ago. You can’t ’ave been more than a nipper.” He stuck Arthur’s hat on the shelf above.
“Well, Jack Perkins,” Hugo said, “unless you’ve learned to keep your guard up since those days, I’d deaden your lights in under a minute.”
“Aar, sir, but I’d do you a fair bit of damage in that minute, I would.”
Hugo laughed. “To my ribs, you squirt.”
Perkins jabbed with his right, blocked instantly by Hugo. “Gets the bigg’uns down to my level,” Perkins muttered. “Anyways, ’is grace don’t let me use me fives for anything except opening the door and takin’ coats and castors, so give me yourn.”
Divested of his hat, Hugo followed Arthur up a set of narrow stairs. They entered a room with curtains pulled closed and lit by a couple of lanterns hanging from the low, blackened ceiling. A haze of blue smoke hung in the air. Six men lounged around a long table covered in green baize.
At the head of the table, a harsh-faced nobleman with thin lips and eyes like polished steel beneath straight black brows glanced up at their entry. His gaze reminded Hugo of a hawk viewing its prey. “’Fore gad, Arthur. Is this behemoth your soldier friend?” The languid posture and bored tone seemed at odds with the intelligent gaze.
To his right, a fair-haired Adonis giggled.
Toadeater. The word popped to the forefront of Hugo’s mind.
Arthur strolled to the head of the table. “Vale, let me introduce Lord Wanstead, lately a captain of His Majesty’s infantry. Fought at Badajoz. Hugo, this is the Duke of Vale.”
“Your hero worship is showing, Dawson,” Vale said.
Hugo was surprised when the duke rose to a height that almost matched his own and held out his hand with an open smile.
“Wanstead,” his grace said. “I’ve heard good things about you. Welcome to the Missing Countess Club. That is Denbigh.” He pointed to the fair-haired giggler, who stared back with a sullen pout to his lips.
“Pettigrew,” the duke continued the introductions.
The elegant dandy looking over Denbigh’s shoulder executed a sharp bow.
“And these gentlemen are Otford, Sanderson, and Longfield.” The men around the table acknowledged the newcomers with laconic greetings.
Vale gestured to the empty chair on his left. “Pull up a chair and sit down. Pettigrew there has run out of the ready. Now he is trying to help Denbigh lose his fortune.”
The lantern-jawed Pettigrew pulled at his lower lip. “He don’t need my help.” Beside Denbigh’s elbow lay a pile of vowels ready to join several more in the pool.
Since Hugo couldn’t refuse without insulting a man connected to royalty, or without putting Arthur’s nose out of joint, and because he’d steeled himself for just such an evening, he sat. He refused the offer of brandy. Arthur, looking overly smug, slouched in the seat beside him with a full glass.
Vale pushed some chips into the pot. Longfield, a jolly country-squire sort of a man, folded his cards. “Too rich for me.”
The play went on with Vale as banker.
“I don’t usually get invited to play with Vale,” Arthur murmured in Hugo’s ear. “Not even at White’s.”
Just as well, since they were betting one hundred guineas a hand. Squire Dawson would be bankrupt in a night.
The game ended, and Denbigh scrawled on another slip of paper. “Curse you, Vale. Your luck is in.”
“His luck is always in,” Otford said, getting up and scratching at his unshaved chin. “I’m done up. Not a feather to fly with. I think I’ll call in on Mrs. Bixbey. Perhaps one of her girls can get the old fellow roused.” He winked lewdly. “Coming, Pettigrew?”
The other man swallowed the dregs from his glass and stretched his arms over his head. “Is it morning?”
“No,” Hugo said. “It is early evening.”
“Good God,” Pettigrew said. “We’ve been at the table twenty-four hours straight. Must be some sort of record, what?”
“No,” Vale said. “I hold that at faro. Forty-eight hours in one sitting, five years ago.”
“Did you win?” Arthur asked as wide-eyed as a schoolboy with a jar full of tadpoles.
Vale turned his blade-sharp gaze on Arthur, his eyelids drooping. “Why, I believe I did.”
Longfield cackled. “Bankrupted a hopeful viscount, if I remember rightly.” He paused, coloring. “Killed himself the next day, too,” he mumbled and sent a sheepish glance in Vale’s direction.
“The fool deserved it,” Vale said,
his voice full of frost.
Chilly silence permeated the room, as if someone had left a door ajar on a winter night. Only Vale seemed unaffected as he stacked his winnings and pushed Denbigh’s vowels into an untidy heap.
“Mrs. Bixbey or not?” Otford said.
“Certainly,” Pettigrew said. He linked arms with his friend. “G’night all.”
Vale waved a pale languid hand at their departing backs and dealt another round of cards, including Hugo and Arthur in the play. “A shilling a point?” he said.
Hugo blinked at the huge drop in stakes.
“I say, Vale,” Denbigh protested. “You can’t be—”
Vale raised a brow, and Denbigh snapped his mouth shut.
Hugo stared at the duke. Was the lowering of the stakes for his benefit, or for Arthur’s? Whichever the case, there was something about Vale that engendered unwilling respect. He hadn’t liked the man on sight, but he knew men, and there was more to this one than appeared on the surface. A quick look at his hand showed all high cards. One round and he’d leave.
“Arthur said you were wounded?” Vale said.
Hugo blew out a breath. Alive when he should have been six feet under. At least, so he’d thought not two months ago. “A scratch.”
Denbigh looked at his hand and groaned theatrically.
The corner of Vale’s mouth curled in a sneer. “Got a good hand for a change?”
Hugo almost laughed. Vale, despite his dissipated air, was not nearly as foxed as the others. What the hell was a man like him doing with a bunch of idiotic wastrels?
Hugo laid down his jack of diamonds. “What did you call this club? The Missing Countess?”
Sanderson pointed at Denbigh. “He lost his wife.”
“I didn’t lose her, you bag of wind. She ran off.”
“Legged it,” Longfield said helpfully.
“Don’t suppose you’ve seen her, have you, Wanstead?” Sanderson said with a taunting grin.
“He shouldn’t have left her lyin’ around,” Longfield muttered into his brandy glass. “I wouldn’t have.”
“I did not leave her lying anywhere,” Denbigh said, his voice pitched close to a whine. “The bitch slipped out in the middle of the night.”
The Lady Flees Her Lord Page 25