Kit stared at the linen clutched between his hands. He couldn’t look at the other man. Didn’t want Henry to see how raw he felt.
“Yes?”
“May I come back?”
Kit squeezed his eyes closed.
“Please,” Henry said into the silence. “I don’t want this to be the end, Kit.”
And when he put it like that, neither did Kit. There was something unfinished between them. Something to be settled before he could close the door on his ill-fated affair with Henry Asquith, once and for all.
“All right,” he said. “You can come back next week.”
18
Henry
A few days later, Simon Reid called upon Henry while he was having breakfast.
“Do you have some news for me?” Henry asked, once Reid was settled at the table with some tea.
“I do,” Reid said. “I’ve looked into the situation with the solicitors in Lambeth. The rent’s been collected regularly since Parkinson’s death—I expect it’ll turn out to be an associate of Parkinson’s, perhaps a family member or friend. The senior partner of the firm is desperate to resolve the matter—he’s assured me he’ll get the bottom of it, though we may have to wait till the next rent falls due on Midsummer Day if we’re not to alert the culprit.”
Henry nodded. “That makes sense. What about the tenant? Have you spoken with him.”
Reid grimaced. “I have. He’s not willing to give the house up, I’m afraid. And having perused the lease, it will be several years before you are able to terminate it—unless you wish to challenge its validity in court.” Reid’s expression told Henry what he thought of that idea.
Henry shook his head. “No, I don’t want to do that. I'm willing to leave the lease in place as long as he wishes to stay—it’s been the man’s home a long time now.”
Reid looked briefly curious, then nodded. “I’ll let him know. I take it you don't need the property back now?”
Henry shrugged. “Kit will have none of it,” he said. “I wanted to make good my debt to him but he will not accept any compensation. Nevertheless, the house needs to be taken care of and the rent collected, so I’d be grateful if you would take over its management. And my other city properties, if you are willing.”
Reid smiled, plainly pleased with this development. “Very willing, your grace,” he said, toasting Henry with his coffee cup.
They talked for a while longer, then Reid took his leave.
Only a short while later, the door opened again. It was Freddy this time, and once again he was looking very much the worse for wear.
Henry watched silently as Freddy made himself up a breakfast plate and sat himself down at the table.
He’d always been the most energetic of Henry’s children. Unlike his older brother, and to the despair of his tutors, he hadn’t shown the least bit of academic prowess. However, in every physical skill, he excelled. He was a neck-or-nothing rider, a fearless swimmer, an intrepid climber. Henry had long ago resigned himself to unmitigated worry that Freddy might suffer some injury on one of his escapades. He had not, however, foreseen the worries that this new Freddy—the fashionable young man about town—would bring. His enjoyment of prizefighting and racing were entirely unsurprising and of no great concern. But the heavy drinking, and gambling were rather more worrying.
Henry watched in silence as Freddy attempted to eat his breakfast. He soon abandoned the effort, setting down his cutlery and seeking sanctuary in his tea cup.
“Were you out last night?” Henry asked at last, though it was obvious he had been.
Freddy nodded. “A few of us made up a party at Vauxhall Gardens.”
“I’m surprised you’re up so early, then.”
“I’d have stayed in bed, but Fenchurch and Grantham are racing today,” Freddy said. “We’re going to watch.”
“We being you and Bartlett?” Henry asked.
“Yes. I shan’t be home for dinner, incidentally. A group of us are going on to Sharp’s.”
“Sharp’s?” Henry echoed, frowning. “Don’t you think you’re spending rather too much time in gaming hells?”
“Sharp’s isn’t a gaming hell,” Freddy scoffed. “Besides, I’m not going to play. Percy has a game arranged with someone or other, so we’re dining there, then after his game we may go on”—he waved his hand vaguely—“somewhere else.”
Henry frowned, unhappy, but said nothing. Freddy was only doing the same as any other young man of the ton, but Henry could not help but worry about the idle existence he was presently leading. Despite being born into great wealth, Henry had been expected to play an active role in managing the ducal estate and to learn what that entailed from a young age. He had never been, as Freddy seemed to be, entirely lacking in purpose.
Except, a small voice inside Henry said, he is not entirely lacking in purpose, is he? You know what he wants to do with his life.
Henry sighed and rubbed at the tense spot between his brows.
“Is something wrong, Father? Do you have a headache?”
Henry looked up at that, and for an instant he caught a glimpse of the old Freddy in his son’s concerned gaze. The impulsive, affectionate little boy who had so often cheered Henry in his lowest moments.
“A bit of one,” he said. “I think I’ll go and have a walk. The fresh air will do me good.” He stood and, on his way past Freddy, paused to squeeze his shoulder, wishing he could embrace him the way he used to, when Freddy was little. Things had been so much easier then. “Enjoy the race,” he said, and headed for the door.
Curzon Street was located very close to Hyde Park Corner, a circumstance for which Henry had been very grateful since he arrived in town. He greatly missed Wiltshire, where it was his habit to ride or walk most days. But at least he could be in the park within a few minutes, and it was sizeable enough to provide him with some reasonable exercise.
He began a brisk circuit, enjoying the sunshine and the light breeze.
It wasn’t long before his mind circled back to thoughts of Kit and their last encounter. Their extraordinary, unforgettable last encounter. Remembering what they’d done together made his cock harden with lust even as a wary anxiety churned in his gut that he’d shared too much, made himself too naked, too vulnerable.
But when he was with Kit, it almost felt as though the last eighteen years hadn’t happened. As much as he had changed, at heart Kit seemed to Henry to be fundamentally unaltered. He was the same kind-hearted, perceptive man that Henry had known all those years ago. A little harder, yes. A little more suspicious, certainly. But incredibly, neither bitter nor vengeful.
And that last night together, he had given Henry something that Henry hadn’t even known he wanted, no, needed. In mastering Henry, Kit had given him pleasure like he’d never known, and brought him peace that he’d never dreamed of.
There was no one else in the world Henry would have trusted to ask for such a thing.
As Henry walked, his mind poked carefully at that thought.
Henry might feel unsure and wary now, but when he’d been with Kit, he’d had no such concerns. He’d trusted him, despite everything that had happened.
Was he a fool to believe that Kit would not wantonly hurt him? When he had done so much, albeit unintentionally, to hurt Kit?
Ah, but the past was a battlefield of old hurts. When he thought back all those years ago to when Caroline had first asked him to give Kit up—that had broken his heart, but he hadn’t even felt entitled to acknowledge as much. He’d told himself he was selfish to grieve and buried the pain deep, letting it grow cankerous inside him, a stifled, unacknowledged sorrow.
For years he'd thought his feelings entirely one-sided. But Kit had disabused him of that.
“When you left me, it felt as though my whole world had broken in two.”
He wasn't sure if that made matters better or worse—certainly right now it was making his chest ache and his stomach churn.
The wind was getting up no
w. Henry put down his head and walked stoically on. He thought of Kit’s bleak expression as he’d listened to Henry’s confession about what he'd written in his letter.
“I told you… how very much I cared for you…”
Cared for you.
Such mealy-mouthed words—all these years and he was still limiting himself to careful half-truths. Lying to Kit. Lying to himself.
He’d loved Kit.
All of a sudden, hot tears were pressing behind his eyes and gathering in a solid ball in his throat. He wasn’t sure why he—a man who rarely wept—felt suddenly as though he could drop to his knees and soak the earth. All he knew was that something was rising in him, feelings that he'd been pushing down, relentlessly, for too many years. Powerful emotions he had thought were spent were surging to the surface again, as though seeing Kit Redford had lit a flame under him and now everything was about to boil over.
A bird screeched overheard, making Henry glance up. He realised that he’d walked almost all the way around the park, and was now at the other corner next to Edgeware Road, barely a mile from Kit’s house.
Kit was not expecting to see Henry so soon—or for Henry to call upon him at his home. When Henry had asked to see him again, Kit had told him to return to Redford’s.
He should not go to Kit’s house.
But he wanted to see him—and he wanted to see him now, while he still felt the rawness of the emotions that had been overwhelming him.
While he might still feel brave enough to share them with Kit.
If Kit wanted to send him away, he would go without complaint—he would always respect Kit’s wishes. But if nothing else, he wanted to at least say aloud what his true feelings had been eighteen years before. And he wanted to say those things to Kit. To tell him how important, how vital, he had been to Henry’s happiness.
With that conviction at the forefront of his mind, Henry set off again, at a more determined pace.
Less than quarter an hour later, he was approaching Kit’s front door—a door that, as he drew closer, opened.
The first two figures to emerge were a pretty young woman and a little boy. A moment later, they were joined by an elegantly dressed man.
Kit.
The boy, who looked to be five or six, was talking in a high, animated voice, making both Kit and the young woman laugh. He was holding the young woman’s hand, but as Kit drew level with them, he thrust out his other arm, demanding Kit’s hand too. Kit laughed, and let him have it, and then they were swinging the boy back and forth between them, making him squeal with laughter.
The fond way Kit looked at the child, his eyes alight with merriment… this was a side of the man Henry had not seen before. Was this child his? Was the young woman his wife?
Henry stood, rooted to the spot, with nowhere to go. Knowing Kit would see him in a moment. Had he made a terrible mistake in coming here? Should he turn on his heel and go? The questions rushed through his mind, but before he could come to any kind of conclusion, the small party was upon him and Kit, looking up from smiling at the little boy, saw him.
His step stalled, making the boy’s swing stutter and the young woman’s step falter too. The boy began making some piping complaint about Kit’s inattentiveness, but the young woman ignored him. She followed Kit’s gaze to Henry, her own expression quite curious.
“Henry,” Kit said. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
Did he sound put out? Henry wasn’t sure.
“I’ve come at an inconvenient time,” Henry said. “My apologies.”
Kit opened his mouth, but it was the young woman who spoke. “Not at all. We were only going for a walk.” She glanced at Kit and said, “I can take Peter on my own.”
“Clara—”
She smiled ruefully. “Tom can come if it makes you feel better.”
The child glared at her. “I want Uncle Kit to come!”
The young woman gave him a level look and he subsided, though not gracefully, kicking at the ground with one foot. The young woman glanced at Kit then, brows raised expectantly.
Kit sighed, but turned to Henry. “May I introduce my friend, Mrs. Marsden, and her son, Peter?”
Henry’s tension eased. Plainly she was not Kit’s wife.
Kit looked at the young woman. “Clara, this is Henry Asquith, the Duke of Avesbury.”
Henry bowed to her. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Marsden.”
“Charmed, your grace,” Mrs. Marsden said pleasantly with a small curtsey, and a lack of obsequiousness Henry admired. “Peter, say good afternoon.”
Peter stared at Henry balefully. “Good afternoon,” he said flatly, clearly unimpressed.
Henry bit his lip against a smile. The boy reminded him of Freddy at the same age.
“Good afternoon, Peter,” he replied gravely.
Peter ignored him. He looked at the young woman. “May we go now, Mama?”
“We’ll go back and get Tom first, but yes,” she said. “We may.” And with that she nodded to Kit and Henry, and led the boy back into the house.
“I’m sorry to have interrupted your day,” Henry said. “I can come back later if you’d rather.”
Kit shook his head. “No, no, you’re here now. Come in.”
He turned on his heel, leaving Henry to follow him.
Was he annoyed, Henry wondered? He didn’t seem to be, but then Kit had never been one for shows of temper.
By the time they entered the house, there was no sign of Mrs. Marsden or her son—presumably they’d gone in search of the man called Tom.
“We’ll go up to my private sitting room,” Kit said, mounting the stairs. After climbing two flights, Kit led Henry down a short corridor and into a small, much less formal room than the drawing room Henry had been shown into before.
“Take a seat,” Kit said. “Would you like some tea?”
Henry shook his head. “No, thank you.” He settled himself into a small armchair, then immediately wished he’d selected the large chaise longue instead, just to see if Kit would sit beside him. “This is a nice,” he said. “Very cosy.”
“I don’t have many visitors up here,” Kit said. “It’s where I come when I need quiet time.”
Henry felt a warm glow at that—that Kit was allowing him access to this private space of his.
“Do Mrs. Marsden and her son live here too?” he asked carefully.
Kit smiled, seeming mildly amused. “They do.”
“When I first saw you together I thought—wondered, I mean—if you and she were…”
“—married?” Kit completed for him. “People often assume that. And no. We are merely friends.”
“So Peter is…?”
Kit sent him a dry look at the blatant fishing. “Not mine. Officially, we say Clara is my sister, and a widow.”
“And unofficially?”
“She works for me—I took her in at the time she most needed help. Now she’s a very good friend. I consider her and Peter my family, and he is, officially, my godson.”
Henry nodded. “She was an unwed mother then?”
“Through no fault of her own. She’s an educated woman. She had a position as a governess but was raped by the oldest son of the family.”
Henry grimaced. It was an all too common story.
“I’d put up a notice for a junior clerk for Redford’s and she turned up,” Kit said. “She seemed to be such a genteel young lady. I was in the process of telling her she wasn’t quite what I had in mind when she fainted—and I discovered her condition. When she came around, she confessed that she hadn’t been eating, and that her position was quite desperate.”
“So, you gave her the job?”
“I did. And then, when I discovered where she was living, I insisted she move into the club with me—we were in the private apartments I took you up to the other night. Once Peter was born, I bought this house.”
“Why was that? The apartments at the club seemed quite sizeable.”
“
Redford’s is not a suitable place to bring up an infant,” Kit said. “I should know—I was brought up in a brothel.”
Henry stared at him, unable to think what to say to that. It was ridiculous to be taken aback—probably many people in Kit’s situation had similar backgrounds—but somehow Henry had never considered that.
“Your mother?” he managed at last.
“She was a prostitute. She worked at the Golden Lily.”
“The same place—” Henry broke off, and Kit laughed at whatever he saw on his face.
“Yes, the same place where we met.”
“Didn't you tell me you ran away from home?” Henry said faintly.
Kit laughed. “I had to tell you something,” he said. “And most gentleman like the idea of a wholesome farm lad who comes to the city in search of debauchery.”
Guiltily, Henry realised he was one of them.
“Why not just tell the truth?” he asked.
Kit met his eyes, and his own were gentle. “I couldn’t have you feeling sorry for me, could I? Better that you think I ran to London town with stars in my eyes, looking for a handsome prince all of my own.”
“Would I have felt sorry for you?” Henry asked softly.
Kit sighed. “How do I know?”
“Tell me then—about when you were a child.”
Kit made an impatient noise. “Does all that history matter now? It was years ago. Now, I own this house, my own business. Many people born into my circumstances would have ended up little better than beggars. I was lucky.”
“In what way were you lucky?” Henry asked, curious.
Kit’s smile widened, but his green gaze was oddly bleak. “I was born beautiful.”
Henry’s heart ached for him.
“How old were you when you first… worked?”
“Again, I was lucky,” Kit said. “I had my mother till I was almost fifteen, and she provided for me. Then, when she died, she made Mabel promise to look out for me. So, Mabel kept me till I was sixteen, before I had to earn.”
“Sixteen?” Henry said hoarsely. He thought of Freddy at sixteen. What a child he had been.
Restored (Enlightenment Book 5) Page 19