“Mabel was canny,” Kit said. “She started having me serve in the Golden Lily, dressed provocatively. Got me known amongst her customers, then started up a bidding war on me.” He laughed drily.
Henry closed his eyes. He was beginning to feel queasy.
Kit’s hand landed on his knee, and he opened his eyes, meeting Kit’s concerned gaze.
“Don’t feel bad,” Kit said almost angrily. “By the time I met you I’d had my virginity auctioned to the highest bidder and completed my first three contracts. I can assure you, by the time you and I met, I knew everything there was to know about my trade.”
That didn’t make Henry feel better.
“What about after me?” Henry asked hoarsely.
Kit looked away. “You already know about that.”
“Not really,” Henry said. “I know you took up with Skelton, and that he hurt you.”
Kit leaned back on the sofa and stared at the ceiling. “I’m not sure I see the point of this, Henry.”
“Is it true that, after what happened with us, some people thought you’d done something untrustworthy?”
Kit’s head jerked up. “Who told you that?”
“Is it true?” Henry asked again.
Kit stared at him for several long moments, then he sighed. “Some people assumed you’d thrown me over early because of something I’d done. And then, when I wouldn’t let Mabel come after you, that just seemed to convince them more. Mabel and I argued over it—I told you about how I was determined to pay her off. The trouble was, I couldn’t get a new protector after you left. So when Skelton made me an offer, I accepted. It was stupid, but it was only meant to be for six months. I didn't realise he would be so violent.”
The sudden rage that surged in Henry at hearing that shocked him. He was not a man who was quick to anger, but the thought of Lionel Skelton laying violent hands on Kit was unbearable. “You stayed the six months?”
Kit shook his head. “Three and a half. The violence began after a few weeks, but it was only when I said I was going to leave that he really hurt me.”
“What happened?” Henry asked faintly.
“I’d said something he didn’t like—he hit me and I decided I’d had enough. I told him I was leaving, and he said I was his till the end of our contract, and if I tried to go, he’d kill me. We struggled, but he was a lot bigger than me. He ended up beating me badly and leaving me locked inside the house while he went out to meet his friends. If I’d still been there when he returned, I suspect he’d have finished me off. Thankfully, he didn’t think to lock the kitchen door, and I managed to escape.”
“Where did you go?”
“To Mabel. We hadn’t spoken for a while, but when she saw the state of me she took me back in. She sorted everything out with Skelton. Then she found me a new contract.”
“Another contract for her to profit from?” Henry said bitterly.
Kit raised his brows. “What else was she to do for me? She was the madam of a brothel—it was all she knew. As it was, she pressed my case quite hard with Phin to persuade him to take me. I don’t think he really wanted another boy at that point.”
“This was Phineas Warren?”
Kit glanced at him sharply.
“How do you know that?”
Henry shrugged. “People talk.”
Kit sighed and nodded. “That they do.”
“What was he like? Warren, I mean.”
“He was… very kind to me, actually. He had some rather eccentric ideas, but he was not a demanding man—hell, he wasn’t actually capable of much in the bedchamber by then—but he kept me for several years and gave me a very handsome pay-off at the end, including the property where Redford’s is located. It was his generosity that enabled me to finally get off the game.”
Henry was hit by a hot bolt of shame so intense it stole his breath. Why had it never occurred to him that that might be something Kit would want? Had he really wanted to believe so badly that the man could desire nothing more than to be at Henry’s beck and call?
“Henry?”
He looked up to find Kit watching him with a curious expression.
“Is something wrong?” Kit asked and Henry shook his head mutely, unable to find words.
Kit was silent a moment, then he asked quietly, “Henry, why did you come here today?”
Henry gave a helpless, humourless laugh. “I don’t really know.” He pressed at the spot between his eyebrows where his headache always gathered. “I was walking in the park and thinking about the things—the feelings—that have risen up in me since I saw you again… I decided that I wanted—that is, I needed to say—” He broke off, staring down at his hands. Was it right to speak these words aloud? None of this probably mattered to Kit. Not anymore.
“Yes?” Kit prompted.
Henry took a deep breath and tried to begin again, more calmly.
“The last time I saw you, I told you that I had cared for you when we were together.”
Kit said nothing, only watched him, a faint frown between his brows.
“But that wasn’t the whole truth,” Henry said. “I was being careful with my words. Miserly, in fact. But today I realised that I had to be honest with you. Truly honest. Because you deserve to know the whole truth of the past. I wasn’t just fond of you, Kit. I loved you.”
Kit stared at him, seeming genuinely shocked. “Henry—” he began, only to cut himself off and stare at Henry in silence.
Henry smiled sadly, “Don’t worry, I don’t expect you to reciprocate. I realise that, given what happened after I left, any fondness you ever had for me was probably killed stone dead. But I just… wanted to tell you. I wanted you to know—to really understand—how much you meant to me, and that leaving you was truly the hardest thing I ever did. You deserve to know that, Kit.”
Kit looked anguished. “Henry,” he said again. He shook his head and looked away, staring out of the window. After a long pause he said, “I wish I’d known.”
Henry felt oddly breathless. “Why?”
Kit turned back to meet his gaze. “Because I loved you, and when you left, it felt like I’d meant nothing to you. Perhaps if I’d known…” He trailed off, his expression agonised.
“You loved me?” Henry whispered in disbelief.
Kit nodded, his eyes shadowed with old grief. “I did. I thought it was pathetically obvious.”
“It wasn’t obvious to me,” Henry said. “Sometimes I wondered, but then we’d part and I’d tell myself I was just another client to you, nobody special.”
Kit gave a harsh laugh. “Christ, Henry. You were probably the most interesting man I’d ever met—you talked to me about things that no one else had before, like I was just as worthy of having opinions as anyone else. And you were affectionate and sweet to me in ways I’d never experienced. Not just in bed, though of course, I loved everything we did in bed—I never had to pretend anything with you.”
Henry stared at him, astonished.
“The real question,” Kit continued, “is why you loved me—a common prostitute with nothing to commend him but a pretty face.”
“Nothing but a pretty face?” Henry repeated incredulously. He got out his chair and went to his knees before Kit. “Oh, you were very beautiful, Kit—you still are—but you were so much more than your appearance.” He took hold of Kit’s right hand in his own and pressed a kiss to the back of it. “You were kind and decent and sweet-natured.” He swallowed hard. “You still are all of those things. These last weeks, you could have put me through the mill—you know I’d have let you do it—but instead you’ve shown me nothing but kindness and understanding.”
Kit’s eyes swam with sudden tears. “You credit me with too much,” he said. “I can assure you, I have entertained plenty of unkind thoughts.”
“You credit yourself too little,” Henry said fiercely. “You always did.” He took hold of Kit’s other hand and bent his head over it, pressing his lips passionately to the knuckles. “C
hristopher,” he whispered. “Kit.”
His throat closed up so completely, he could say no more, but he felt like he might burst with the words inside him. Passionate, reckless words.
I love you still.
Was that true?
Was he still in love with Christopher Redford? Was it madness to be thinking that way so soon? To be wondering if they could build some kind of life together after all these long years apart, when they’d only just met again?
Henry looked up to find Kit gazing down at him warily.
He wanted to ask Kit if he thought he could ever love him again, but his courage was running out, and then—before he could utter another word—there was a knock at the door.
Kit tugged his hands free and Henry reluctantly rose to his feet.
When Kit bid the person on the other side to enter, a maid peeped her head round the door. “Pardon for interrupting, sir, but Mr. Gardiner's here.”
Kit hesitated for a moment, then he said. “Show him into the drawing room.”
Once the maid had withdrawn, Kit turned to Henry, his expression apologetic. “My neighbour,” he said by way of explanation. “It'll be about the roof repairs, I expect.”
It was such a stupidly prosaic thing to interrupt one of the most important conversations of Henry’s life. Perhaps, though, Kit had welcomed the interruption? Perhaps he did not want Henry grovelling at his feet, invoking the past?
Unsure what to do, Henry stared at Kit helplessly. But then, miraculously, Kit said carefully, “I know it’s only been a few days, but do you want to come to Redford’s tonight?”
“Yes,” Henry said quickly, his tension easing at the knowledge he would see Kit again soon. “What time?”
“I have something I must do this evening, for Clara,” Kit said. “But any time after eleven will be fine.”
Excitement for the evening ahead buoyed Henry’s footsteps all the way back to Curzon Street and carried him through dinner with Marianne and Jeremy, even though Jeremy was unusually subdued, and Marianne was peevish and picky with her food.
“You’re not in the best of moods, my dear, are you?” Henry observed mildly when she snapped at him for the third time.
Alarmingly, tears sprang to Marianne’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said miserably. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me! I’ve been feeling blue-devilled all day.”
Henry met Jeremy’s helpless gaze.
Leaning over the table, Henry patted Marianne’s hand. “It’s nothing to worry about, my dear,” he said. “Your mother used to get the same way when she was carrying.”
Marianne dabbed at her face with her napkin and gave him a watery smile, which she extended to her husband. “Perhaps I’ll go to bed. I don’t feel like eating just now. Mary can bring me something later if I'm hungry.”
Jeremy stood up. “I’ll help you upstairs, my dear.”
Left to his own devices, Henry finished his dinner and poured himself another glass of wine. His mind drifted, circling back to his conversation with Kit earlier, and the promise of what would follow later tonight.
A quarter hour later, Jeremy returned to the dining room.
“How is she now?” Henry asked.
“Much happier,” Jeremy said. “She’ll soon be tucked up in bed with a book, and Mary will make sure she eats something later.” He sighed and sank down into a chair. “Did you ever wish you could just have the baby for Caroline?”
Henry nodded, but prudently said no more. There was no need to burden Jeremy with stories of what it was like to hear the screams of one's wife as she laboured through childbirth, and being entirely powerless to help her. That was something he would learn soon enough.
“Henry,” Jeremy said, and Henry looked up at the change in his tone.
“Yes?”
“I heard something today that I think you should probably know about.” His gaze was unhappy.
Henry’s gaze narrowed. “What’s that?”
“It’s about Freddy. Well, more this friend of his, really, but I gather Freddy will be there too.”
“Where?”
“At Sharp’s in Knightsbridge,” Jeremy said, meeting Henry’s gaze. “I know you’ve been worried about Freddy’s gaming, and this Bartlett fellow plays very deep, you know. He’s playing Lionel Skelton again tonight.”
“Skelton?” Henry exclaimed.
Jeremy nodded unhappily.
“I warned Freddy to stay away from him,” Henry said. “And for that matter, I warned Skelton to stay away from Freddy.”
Jeremy watched him, carefully. “Skelton may not know Freddy will be there. It’s Bartlett he's due to play.”
“But he knows Freddy’s part of Bartlett’s circle,” Henry said. He pushed his chair back and stood. “Thank you for telling me, Jeremy.”
“Are you going to Sharp’s?” Jeremy asked. “Do you want me to come with you?”
“I’m going, yes, but there’s no need for you to come. You concentrate on looking after Marianne. I can take care of this. Skelton’s nothing more than a wastrel and a bully.”
And, Henry thought, if he got the chance to deliver some punishment to the man for his old sins against Kit, he would not be holding back.
19
Kit
Kit dressed carefully for his confrontation with Bartlett at Sharp’s that evening. No colourful waistcoats tonight, and no jewellery, only soberly elegant black and white. He wanted to look entirely, irreproachably respectable.
When he arrived at the club, he was taken to Mr. Tait’s office. The man greeted him pleasantly enough, but he was rather less friendly than the last time Kit had met him.
“Jake told me of the favour you asked of him,” Tait said. “I must say, I’m not happy about it, but this is Jake’s establishment, not mine.”
“Do I take it Mr. Sharp is not here?” Kit asked.
“He’ll be along shortly,” Tait said. “He rarely comes by before ten though. Still, he was clear that if you arrived before he did, you were to be allowed onto the floor and left to conduct your business with Bartlett.”
Kit nodded. “I’m grateful. I do understand your concerns, Mr. Tait, but this is something I require a particular sort of audience for. I do not envisage it will disrupt the evening overmuch.”
Tait made a hrrmphing sort of noise which indicated his disbelief. And fair enough, given Kit was hoping his accusations against Bartlett would attract considerable attention.
“He’s at a table in card room two. The staff will direct you if you ask.”
Kit rose from his chair. “My thanks, Mr. Tait. I hope to be out of your hair very shortly.”
Tait just shook his head and turned his attention back to the papers on his desk.
As Tait had promised, one of the staff directed Kit to card room two. Kit was gratified to see it was a reasonably large room with a half dozen tables and a good number of gentlemen playing. He stood in the shadows for a minute or two to get his bearings and soon spotted Bartlett on the far side of the room. He was sitting at a table with two other men, neither of whom Kit could see well. Thankfully Bartlett was in the most visible seat, facing the entrance to the room where Kit was hovering. Kit could only see the backs of the other two players. A fourth chair was empty.
Kit took a deep breath, then strode forward, raising his voice as he approached the table. “Mr. Percival Bartlett?”
Bartlett looked up. “Yes?” he said, irritation in his voice. His shirt points were so high, they obscured half his sideburns and forced him to hold his chin up at an artificial angle. “And who are you, sir?”
“My name is Redford,” Kit said. “And I have something to say to you, sir.”
Bartlett frowned, glancing uneasily at his two companions. “As you can see,” he said shortly, “I am busy. And I do not know you, sir. I suggest you call upon me at my place of residence where we can speak in private.”
“I do not seek privacy,” Kit said in a loud, clear voice. “The reason I came here was t
o say my piece in front of witnesses.”
The men at the other tables were turning in their seats to see what was going on. Bartlett cast a panicky look about the room, searching for one of Sharp’s staff, no doubt, to throw this upstart out. But of course, there were none to be seen.
“Now, look here,” he said to Kit, his colour beginning to rise. “I don’t know who you are, but—”
“I told you, my name is Redford,” Kit said flatly. “I’m here because you have been harassing my employee, a defenceless young woman.”
Bartlett paled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” he exclaimed, but Kit could see he had a sense of what this was about.
“I think you do,” Kit sneered. “Let me help you remember: she was a servant in your father’s house and you ravished her and got her with child—”
Bartlett surged to his feet. “How dare you!”
“—and when she asked you for money to raise that child you sent a thug to warn her off with his fists,” Kit continued relentlessly, his voice rising. “What kind of gentleman does such a thing?”
The room was silent now, but for hushed murmurs at the neighbouring tables.
Bartlett was puce, his slightly protuberant eyes wild.
“If anyone lays a finger on that young woman again,” Kit said in a loud, clear voice, “I will hold you responsible, sir, and I will make it known, far and wide, what you have done and what kind of man you are.”
No sooner had he finished speaking than a voice behind Kit—a horribly familiar voice—said silkily, “Are you going to let this low-born milksop insult you like this, Bartlett?”
Kit whipped around, and there, looming over him, was Lionel Skelton.
His gut roiled, and his heart began to thud in a panicky rhythm. Without meaning to, he stepped backwards, and Skelton’s thin, cruel smile widened into a nasty grin. He always had enjoyed Kit’s fear.
“No, by Jove,” Bartlett snarled, emboldened by Skelton’s intervention, and surged to his feet, his chair screeching against the wooden floor. Kit whirled back to face him, only to realise that Bartlett had already swung at him. An awkward blow landed on Kit’s chin, which, despite its lack of elegance, had enough power to send him to the floor in an ungainly sprawl.
Restored (Enlightenment Book 5) Page 20