by J. A. Rock
“Why not?” Gale asked. “You have cousins, do you not? You’re hardly the last Hartwell in the world, and Warry’s not the last Warrington. I mean, it would be a terrible match but equally terrible, which ought to count for something.”
Hartwell snorted. “My father would not see it so.”
“Well, assuredly not.” Gale waved his hand as though it didn’t matter a whit. “But he would hardly disown you over such a thing, would he?”
“I wouldn’t like to gamble on it, actually.”
“Ah,” Gale said. “But what’s the worst thing that would happen if he called your bluff?”
“The worst…” Hartwell’s brow creased. “Well, that is the worst thing. He would disown me. I would no longer be the Marquess of Danbury or the next Duke of Ancaster.”
“Oh.” Gale downed his glass of sherry. “That is all.”
“That is all?” Hartwell exclaimed, reeling.
“Yes,” Gale said. “That is all. You have an income via your mother’s side, don’t you?”
“I…Yes.” Hartwell frowned. “How do you know that?”
“I know most things,” Gale said with a tired shrug. “But this is all nothing more than an exercise in hypotheticals, of course, since your father would never disown you.”
“Now that you cannot know.”
“Good Lord, Hartwell.” Gale sighed. “A man as proud as your father?”
“Exactly so!”
“Remind me to play faro with you more often. You are so easily bluffed. My dear Hartwell, a man as proud as your father would never disown you over a marriage with another peer, man or not, because to do so would be to publicly admit he has no control over you, as a father ought to have over his son.”
“What? No, that’s utter nonsense.”
“He would be a laughingstock.” Gale’s mouth quirked. “Well, that is what I think at least. Besides, as I said, this is all nothing more than a game of hypotheticals because of course you don’t even want to marry little Joseph Warrington at all, do you?”
Hartwell glared at him. “No, of course I do not.”
“Well then. I suppose it doesn’t matter that a quarter of an hour ago he went into a private part of the house and Balfour followed him.”
Hartwell’s blood ran cold. “What?”
“Oh, no,” Gale said, craning his neck. “There he is again, looking like a startled little rabbit. And right on his heels again is our host.”
Hartwell whirled, then immediately cursed himself. He could feel Gale smirk behind him.
“The little fool is determined to ruin himself,” Hartwell snapped.
“Good thing he is not your problem.”
“Yes, good thing.”
But Hartwell’s stomach would not unclench as he watched Warry cross the ballroom, Balfour behind him.
“What of you?” he asked, determinedly focusing his attention on Gale. “I should never have thought you’d attend a gathering of this size except under duress. Are you here for Clarissa or Anne-Marie? Or is your presence something to do with that tall fellow you’ve been exchanging glances with all night?”
“Ah, so you are capable of having a thought without Warrington’s name attached to it? That, my friend, is an arrangement that is strictly business.”
“Your case?”
“I have told you, Hartwell—”
“Your enquiry. Your research. Your mild espionage.”
“I am not at liberty to confirm or deny. What do you remember of the du Bourg hoax?”
“The what?” Hartwell asked.
“The du Bourg hoax,” Gale said with the long-suffering sigh he reserved for those he considered his intellectual inferiors. Which was everyone. “Lord Cochrane and the stock exchange fraud? Good Lord, Hartwell, it was only four years ago. It was in all the papers!”
Hartwell wrinkled his nose.
“Bonaparte is dead!”
Hartwell jolted. “Is he? When?”
“No, that was the hoax!” Gale rolled his eyes. “And certain investments were made on the strength of the rumour, do you remember?”
“It’s not ringing any bells,” Hartwell said. His attention wandered back to Warry and then to Balfour. No man in all the world ever looked like such a self-satisfied toad. Why were the Warringtons supporting this match, especially when Lady Warrington seemed so bitter about it? What was it his mother had said about Balfour and the Warringtons’ former valet? Warry’s former valet? That she didn’t see why the Warringtons would allow their son to marry an associate of the man who’d stolen from them. He recalled the day last year when Wilkes had been dismissed. Warry had gone on and on about it, talking excitedly of the silverware and the snuff box that were missing, and how his father had raged at Wilkes loudly enough for the whole house to hear until Becca told him to keep private matters private.
Wilkes. Hartwell suddenly recalled seeing the weasel-faced man at the Four-in-Hand that night, hovering near Balfour as Hartwell had dragged Warry away.
His head buzzed. Something was not right. Something had not been right for a very long time, but he had been too thick-skulled to see what.
Gale drained the last of his sherry. “Yes, well, it was quite a—”
“Excuse me,” he murmured, stepping away. He held up one finger to Gale. “I do want to hear all about it. I do. I’ll be back.” He did not know what he meant to do as he followed Warry’s path. He heard a commotion nearby—some fellow had spilled punch on his coat, apparently—but he ignored it. Hartwell might not have a mind like Gale’s, capable of putting pieces together to make some sordid whole, but the disjointed fragments of this puzzle were troubling enough.
And yet the puzzle, whatever it was, was not his business. He had promised to stay away from Warry in the future.
He stopped, his legs no longer sure whether to obey him.
“Lord Hartwell?” Hartwell turned to see Sylvie Lancaster peering up at him. A sweet-tempered eldest daughter from a good family, her smile was not unappealing, and he imagined Lady Warrington would approve of her small, straight nose. He reminded himself of his vow that he would choose a wife tonight. He was hardly in the mood to socialise, and yet every moment he spent concentrating on Sylvie Lancaster was a moment he did not spend concentrating on Joseph Warrington, who somehow, over the course of the last minute, had disappeared again.
Hartwell must not pursue him. Whatever choices he had made, Warry was an adult, not the boy Hartwell had once known.
Let him go.
“Miss Lancaster.” Hartwell bowed. “It is a pleasure to see you again.”
Sylvie’s smile was so bright it cleared the shadows from his mind. Perhaps whatever was troubling him about Warry and Balfour and that night at the Four-in-Hand was the design of his overactive imagination. At the very least it was none of his concern.
Let him go, Hartwell. For Christ’s sake.
Soon he and Sylvie were dancing. He hoped Gale was not watching. The man would have no choice but to resort to violence if he spied Hartwell dancing the quadrille.
He was surprised to find he enjoyed his time with Sylvie, and he realised, quite breathlessly, that his stress of late—his melancholy, his short temper—all of it was the fault of the Warringtons. He had bound himself so tightly to that family for so long. Now that he was no longer of consequence to Becca or her brother, he found himself oddly free.
When the quadrille finished, he danced with Emily Pearson and after that, Olivia Wilton. As he danced with Olivia, he noticed Becca was now dancing with Emily Pearson, a bright smile on her face. Another pang went through him, but he was in such fine spirits that he felt wonderfully happy for her. He danced and laughed and drank punch until he looked up in surprise to see throngs of people leaving. A sour-faced butler was directing traffic out the front doors. Hartwell pulled out his watch. Good Lord, the hour was late. He had not sought out the fathers of any of his dancing partners to ask permission to propose, so that was a bit of a failure on his part, but he had
drunk vast quantities of punch and was much in need of relief. Balfour had made his life hell these past few weeks. The least the man could do was allow Hartwell to linger to use the privy.
He glanced around, a bit disoriented. A gaggle of young ladies called goodnight to him, and he called it back to them. With a start, Hartwell spied Warry hovering in a corner near the staircase and quickly turned away. Where was the room he sought?
When he turned again, Warry was slinking upstairs. What the devil? Hartwell’s bladder was near to bursting, and yet he wavered between finding the privy and finding out where Warry was skulking off to.
“Hartwell!” Becca approached, weaving through the tide of people heading out. Hartwell cast another glance over his shoulder as Warry ducked under the rope at the top of the stairs and disappeared down the dark hall. Hartwell’s earlier vow to let the brat go yielded to the sense that watching Warry disappear into that black hall was troublingly similar to watching him disappear beneath the water of the frog pond all those years ago.
“Have you seen my brother?” Becca asked.
“I…” Hartwell did not know what to say. He swayed on his aching feet.
“He said he would go to Bucknall’s after this. I was hoping to catch him before he left.”
“I do not know,” Hartwell heard himself say. Why had Warry told his sister he was going to Bucknall’s when he was in fact trespassing once more in the private area of Balfour’s home?
“Hartwell, do not stand there staring like a dumb beast. It does not suit you.”
“I did not know we were on speaking terms,” he said, for that at least was the truth.
She coloured up slightly. “We are not. I only wanted to ask you that question.” And yet she stood there, gazing at him as though there was much she wanted to say. There was much he wanted to say as well, and if he had any sense left in him, he would open his mouth and say it.
But no sooner had his lips parted when he saw Balfour cross the emptying ballroom, headed for the stairs. His heart began to pound as a memory returned to him. That night by the theatre. Hartwell had been covered in shit and nearly too drunk to stand. The gas lamps had flickered, casting winged spectres on the street before him. And Warry had defied Balfour and got in a hack with him. Hartwell could recall feeling the coldness coming off Balfour as though it were a physical chill. “If you accompany that filthy drunk anywhere,” Balfour had said to Warry, “you will regret it.”
That was not something a man said to someone for whom he held tremendous affection. To someone he meant to care for as a husband. And while Hartwell knew he himself had said many things to Warry that a man ought not to say to one he cared for, he had never made a threat such as that.
Had Balfour already made Warry regret it? Or was that what he meant to do now?
“Becca,” he began. But then a new voice cut the air.
“Lord Hartwell! It was such a pleasure dancing with you tonight.” Olivia Wilton extended a gloved hand to him. “I am most excited about our excursion tomorrow.”
Hartwell turned his blank gaze to Olivia. He did vaguely recall promising to take her for a drive through the park tomorrow afternoon. That conversation seemed to have taken place ages ago. His mind raced as a hare set upon by hounds.
“If I did…?” Warry had asked in response to Hartwell’s assurance that he could break his courtship with Balfour if he so wished.
For weeks now, he had watched Warry and Balfour together, unable to concentrate on anything but his own jealousy. He had missed what was right before him. Warry was afraid. And not merely afraid because he believed God would smite him for so much as looking at the cut of Balfour’s coat with admiration but well and truly afraid of Balfour himself.
How could he have been so blind?
Warry’s ill-fated trip to St. Giles. The robbery. Warry’s sudden interest in gaming hells and his encounter with Balfour at the first one he visited. Wilkes’s presence there. There could be no doubt about it: Balfour was pulling Warry’s strings as he might a marionette.
“Yes,” he said faintly, trying to focus on Olivia. “Tomorrow. Excursion.”
Olivia shot a cool glance at Becca. “Lady Rebecca. It is good to see you still making an effort to participate in Society, even after having sat so long on the shelf.”
She beamed again at Hartwell and waved her gloved fingers. “Until tomorrow!” she called gaily.
Becca glared at Hartwell for a moment, then turned and stalked away.
“Becca, wait!” Hartwell chased her through the crowd but kept getting snagged on small groups wishing each other good night and making plans for the morrow. He finally battled his way outside, just as Becca was climbing into her carriage. “Becca!”
She did not even glance through the window at him. The carriage door was shut behind her. One of the harnessed bays snorted. All around him, hooves clopped, and people chattered and laughed. Any moment now, Becca’s carriage would depart.
“I think he is in trouble!” Hartwell shouted over the heads of the revellers. Several people turned toward him. Becca turned too. He stared at her helplessly as her driver flicked the reins and her carriage trundled forward. He stood there for a moment, panting, and then spun and made for the house once more.
“Is somebody in trouble?” inquired a small, frail voice behind him. He turned. Lady Agatha Watson tottered toward him, leaning on her walking stick.
“No, Lady Agatha, everything is fine.”
“I have simply been dying for a scandal to start the Season,” Lady Agatha declared. “This evening was so very dull. I documented not a single indiscretion.”
She clearly hadn’t been looking hard enough. Hartwell started forward again but stumbled upon another bit of commotion. His own mother was propped on the shoulders of two of her friends, singing “No One Shall Govern Me,” while one of the friends laughed nervously and attempted to shush her.
Well. That was a mess that could hopefully be sorted without him. Hartwell ducked his head, dodged past the group, and reached the front door. The sour-faced butler stood there, looking highly unimpressed. “My Lord,” the man said with a lack of affect that would have made Gale envious. “Did you forget something?”
Hartwell racked his mind for an excuse. His bladder twinged again. “No, not exactly. This is quite…You see, I desperately need the privy. I mean desperately.”
The butler’s small eyes shifted sideways. He sighed loudly.
Hartwell gathered himself. “Please, my good man, I beg you.”
The butler exhaled once more and then stepped aside. “Down the main hallway, make a left-hand turn.”
Hartwell raced inside, past the rows of elongated portraits. He did not turn to see whether the butler watched him as he passed the door the man had indicated and entered the ballroom, hastening toward the staircase.
Chapter 17
Balfour’s bedroom was as chilly as a mausoleum. That was the excuse Warry gave for his shaking hands as he unknotted his cravat under Balfour’s intent gaze. The room was a good size with most of the space taken up by the bed. Wide windows looked outside into the darkness, but Warry couldn’t see the view, only the flickering lamp light reflected in the glass panes. He wished a servant had drawn the curtains or that Balfour would. To do it himself would only draw attention to his shame, and he didn’t want to show more of that than he could possibly avoid. He knew instinctively that Balfour would mock him for it.
A washstand stood against the far wall, bookended on either side by a pair of large armoires. There was a small table beside the bed with nothing on it except a lamp. Perhaps Balfour took tea in bed in the mornings and that was where the servants set the cup. Warry thought of his own bedroom and the stack of books piled up on his bedside table because he never knew which one he might want to read before bed, or in the morning, or even in the middle of the night if he woke and couldn’t immediately fall asleep again.
The walls of the bedroom were papered in light blue with flocked da
mask stripes running vertically. Warry imagined the colour would look vibrant in the morning light, but he was glad he would never know. He would not stay in the room a moment longer than was necessary. As soon as he had Becca’s letter in his possession, he would never step foot in Balfour’s foul house ever again.
Balfour crossed to the table and turned the lamp up. The wick spluttered for a moment, throwing strange shadows on the walls, and then the light settled, brighter than before.
“Does it always take you so long to undress?” Balfour asked curiously.
Warry didn’t answer, only wrenched his cravat free and set to work on the buttons of his waistcoat. His coat, which he’d shrugged off upon entering the room, had been discarded on a chair by the door. His shoes lay nearby.
He tried not to think of the last time he’d been intimate with a man. With Hartwell. Hartwell, who had spent the evening dancing with young ladies. Warry had tried not to notice him, but he hadn’t been able to help himself, his gaze drawn unerringly back to Hartwell at every moment. He’d seen Hartwell smiling and talking and laughing as he danced, and he’d burned with both anger and humiliation. He hated Hartwell.
He tugged too hard on a button and the threads snapped. The button landed with a ping on the floor, then bounced off somewhere into the shadows.
“Leave it,” Balfour said with a lazy wave of his hand. “I should like a little keepsake of our tryst tonight.”
“This is not a tryst,” Warry said. “This is merely an exchange.”
“Oh,” Balfour said, “then you’d rather I treated you as a whore than a lover?”
Warry pressed his mouth shut.
“I offered you love, didn’t I?” Balfour asked. “But no, you refused me. You would rather I treat you as a cheap molly. Well, of course, that aligns very happily with my desires.” Balfour’s thin mouth curled in a hateful smirk.
Warry shrugged his waistcoat off, his fingers trembling on the fabric. Then, holding Balfour’s gaze in a manner he hoped was proud rather than alluring, he tugged his shirt over his head and dropped it to the floor.