—The Social Gazette, 1894
The scrape of the coal scuttle woke him far too soon. Rhys rolled onto his stomach and covered his head with a pillow, cursing the efficiency of English household routine. In Italy, a servant wouldn’t dream of intruding upon a gentleman’s rest until the sun had moved to the western side of the horizon. No such luck in England.
He took a peek from beneath the bedclothes and saw beside the fireplace the unmistakable striped gray dress, white apron, and cap of a chambermaid. Only the most obtuse servant could have failed to notice that there were two people in the bed, and with a pretty wench beside him, he hardly needed the warmth of a fire, but Rhys didn’t point that out. Speaking seemed too much of an effort at the ungodly hour of eight o’clock in the morning, especially since he’d fallen asleep less than an hour ago. He closed his eyes again.
The second time he was awakened, it was by his valet, a servant who damned well ought to have known better.
“Fane,” he muttered, shrugging off the hand on his shoulder, “if you don’t remove yourself from my room this instant, I will sack you.”
An empty threat, since he owed the fellow at least six months’ wages and couldn’t afford to find someone new, at least not someone loyal enough to stick with him as Fane had. The valet was clearly aware of this, too, for he didn’t leave. Instead, he gave Rhys another gentle shake.
“Sir, I’m terribly sorry,” he murmured, “but it seems there is a domestic crisis that requires your immediate attention.”
“Domestic crisis? Have Hollister take care of it. He’s Milbray’s butler, isn’t he?” Rolling away from the persistent shaking of the valet, he wrapped one leg and one arm around the slumbering woman beside him and began drifting back to sleep. “I have no intention of leaving this bed until at least two o’clock this afternoon unless it is the end of the world.”
“Your mother is in the drawing room, and footmen are bringing in her trunks. She appears to be moving in.”
“Good God.” Rhys rolled onto his back and sat up, staring at Fane in horror. “It is the end of the world. Don’t just stand there, man. Fetch my dressing gown at once.”
Five minutes later Sally was on her way home in a cab and Rhys was dressed—more or less. In trousers, shirt, and dressing gown, he headed down a flight of stairs to the drawing room, pausing along the way to peer over the rail at the foyer below, confirming that there was indeed a pile of trunks, valises, and hat boxes stacked there. His mouth set in a grim line as he watched a pair of footmen maneuver another trunk through the front door.
He strode to the drawing room, wondering how Letitia could think for one moment he would allow her to stay under the same roof as himself. He’d spent the past twelve years on the Continent for the sole purpose of keeping as far from her and her lecherous brother-in-law as possible. Thankfully, Uncle Evelyn was dead, but Rhys was still as intent on avoiding his mother as ever. He hadn’t been able to stomach more than five minutes in her company since he was twelve. She was equally fond of him.
When he entered the drawing room, she was sitting in one of the chairs closest to the fire, and as she rose and turned to face him, he was startled by how much the years had aged her. As far back as he could remember, Letitia had been a stunning woman, a dazzling ice-blond beauty who, when he was a small boy, reminded him of the magical and remote Snow Queen. Now, only the vestiges of her beauty remained. Her papery skin had a sallow hue, and her cheeks were sunken beneath those high, perfect cheekbones. She was rail thin and haggard, making her seem far older than her fifty-six years. But her eyes, the same gray-green color as his, had not changed. They studied him with all the warmth of an arctic glacier as he crossed the room and paused before her. She gave him no smile of greeting.
“St. Cyres,” she said with the barest of curtsies.
He didn’t even bother to offer an answering bow. “Mother. How delightful to see you.”
His voice dripped mockery, but Letitia was far too callous to be bothered by it. They stood silent, studying each other a bit like duelists en garde, and he noticed that she had not yet taken off her cape and hat. Her umbrella was in her gloved hand. It was almost as if she had come merely to pay a call.
Too late, he realized the truth. “You have no intention at all of moving in, do you?”
She didn’t even hesitate before replying. “Live with you? God, no.”
He made a wry face at the distaste in her voice. “As always, your maternal affection warms my heart.”
She sank back down in the chair, and it did not escape his notice that she leaned heavily on her umbrella as she did so. “You have ignored my letters. I have called upon you three times since you arrived in town, and each time, you have refused to receive me. Threatening to move in with you was the only way I could think of to garner your attention.”
“Trunks in the foyer is carrying things a bit far, don’t you think? Besides, you have never seemed particularly eager for my attention. Why, I think we’ve spoken less than a dozen times in my entire life. Why the sudden pressing need for my company?”
“I’m here to make you aware of the family situation.”
Rhys did not reply. Instead, he rested his forearms on the top of the wing-back chair opposite hers and studied her resolute expression as he weighed the two alternatives open to him. He could toss her out on her ear right now, or he could endure the unpleasant, but inevitable, discussion of their financial status and have it over and done. He decided on the latter route. Though not as satisfying, it would prove less aggravating in the long run. Circling to the front of the chair, he sat down.
“The family has a situation?” he asked in a murmur as he leaned back. Elbows on the arms of his chair, he steepled his fingers together, his head tilted to one side, his pose deceptively relaxed. “How ominous that sounds.”
“Let’s not waste time beating about the bush. I know you’ve already been to see Mr. Hodges and that he made you aware of where things stand.”
“Astonishing how you ferret things out, Mama. Since you already know I’ve seen the family solicitor and you’re aware of what he told me, your purpose in coming here was obviously not to apprise me of the family situation.” He gave her his most provoking smile. “Come for a touch, have you?”
“Must you be vulgar?”
“Your efforts are in vain,” he was delighted to inform her. “You carted all those trunks over here to no purpose. My dear, I haven’t a bean.”
She made a sound of contempt. “You are such a liar.”
“Yes, so you’ve told me before.” Rhys pressed his fingers tighter together, so tight his hands began to ache. His smile, however, did not falter. “But in this case, I’m not making any attempt to deceive you. I’m absolutely flat.”
She gave him a hard stare, as if to determine the verity of that statement. “The money from your father is gone, then? You’ve squandered it all?”
“Every shilling,” he confessed with cheer. “Had jolly good fun doing it, too, shameless libertine that I am.”
She paled, seeming to grow older right before his eyes. “The debts incurred by the estates are enormous, and our credit is already extended as far as it can be. You have to do something.”
“What would you suggest? I thought about earning a living, but I decided I simply couldn’t subject you to that. It would shame you beyond belief if I took on a profession. Besides, I should have to work.” He shuddered. “A very bad habit. I try never to engage in it.”
“Don’t be absurd!” she snapped. “You’re the Duke of St. Cyres. Of course a profession is out of the question.”
“You and I in agreement about something? The warm climes of Italy have made me far too easygoing and amenable, I see. But to return to the matter at hand, we have very few options. I could appeal to the Salvation Army to come to our aid, I suppose, though I doubt they’d help a family of bankrupt aristocrats. Awfully uncharitable of a charity to be so stingy, but—”
“Everything is
mortgaged to the hilt,” his mother interrupted, reiterating the material point as if he were too dim-witted to appreciate its significance. “Interest payments take what little income we have from the land rents, and the creditors have been circling like vultures for several years. They’ll be hovering over you as well before the week is out.”
He didn’t tell her they already were.
“Unless you act, and quickly, they will call our loans and take what little we have left. We will be destitute.”
Rhys did not respond. Perhaps it was his innate laziness, but he’d never seen the point of beating dead horses.
In the wake of his silence, his mother stirred with impatience. “Well?” she prompted. “What are you going to do?”
“What I always do when faced with a crisis,” he answered, then rose to his feet and walked to the liquor cabinet. “I’m going to have a drink.”
“A drink?” she repeated with contempt. “You think a drink is an appropriate response to our difficulties?”
“No,” he answered as he poured himself a stiff measure of whiskey. “It’s an appropriate response to my difficulties.” Turning, he met her gaze and smiled. “About your difficulties, dear Mama, I couldn’t care shit.”
They stared at each other for a long time. He kept his stance relaxed. His mouth kept smiling. Letitia was the one who looked away. “Rhys, your uncle hasn’t paid my jointure for four years.”
He flicked a glance over her, noting her luxurious fur-trimmed cape and the jeweled pin that held it closed at her collar. “Yes, you appear awfully down-at-heel.”
She looked at him again, and when she saw the direction of his gaze, she lifted her hand to her throat. “It’s paste. All my jewels are paste. I’ve been selling the real ones, one by one. Now, there are none left to sell. I haven’t enough money to last the spring.”
Hodges hadn’t told him that. Rhys set his jaw and lifted his gaze to her face. “Once again you are assuming I give a damn.”
She stiffened in her chair, and her momentary attempt to play on his sympathy went to the wall. “Still thinking only of yourself, I see,” she said with the disdain he knew so well. “You were always selfish, even as a boy.”
Her voice was as sharp and cutting as a razor, but Rhys had developed his thick skin years ago. “Terribly selfish,” he agreed, and raised his glass. “And a liar. Let’s not forget that.”
One elegant blond brow lifted, a sure sign that she was about to fire off the heavy guns. “If Thomas were still alive, he would never have allowed this to happen to me,” she said. “Thomas was a good boy, always. Unlike you, he respected his mother. He would not have abandoned me and run away to Italy.”
The reference to his younger brother shattered Rhys’s carefully cultivated nonchalance in an instant. His smile vanished. He slammed down the glass, straightened away from the liquor cabinet, and took an involuntary step toward her. Satisfaction curved the corners of her lips, and he stopped. Some things never change, he thought, as angry with himself as he was with her. No one, no one, could flick him on the raw like Letitia.
He pasted his smile back on. “Ah, but Thomas did run away, didn’t he, Mama?” he countered softly, watching her satisfaction fade. “He ran as far as he could go. Heaven’s a pretty fair distance north of here, I’d say.”
She didn’t answer. Rhys leaned back, flattening his palms on the polished marble top of the cabinet, striving to regain an easy, relaxed demeanor. “I just love these family reunions,” he drawled. “So heartwarming. Since you are in a mood to reminisce, shall we talk about the day Thomas hanged himself?”
She flushed a dull, deep red.
“Shall I tell you how he looked when I found him?” As he spoke, he worked to keep just the right note of careless indifference in his voice. “I can describe the scene for you, if you like. His body was hanging over the stairwell—neck broken, of course. Really, he looked like a marionette on a string, and his skin was the oddest shade of blue—”
“Stop it.”
“Don’t want the physical description? Then perhaps we should talk about the reason why he did it. Do you ever wonder about that, Mama?”
The tip of her umbrella hit the floor and she jerked to her feet. “I said stop it!”
“You brought up the topic.”
Letitia’s eyes narrowed. When he was a small boy, that glittering gaze had held the power to shred him to ribbons. Rhys was heartily glad he’d grown up.
“God,” she choked, “how did I spawn such a son as you?”
“With the devil. How else?” He stretched out his arm to yank the bell pull on the wall nearby. “It certainly wasn’t from something as distasteful as bedding your own husband.”
She opened her mouth to reply, but before she could do so, Hollister appeared in the doorway. “Your Grace?” he inquired.
Rhys spoke to the servant without removing his gaze from Letitia’s. “My mother has changed her mind. She will be staying elsewhere for the season. Please show her out, and arrange to have her trunks sent wherever she intends to stay.”
With a sound of contempt, Letitia turned and started for the door.
As she walked away, he called after her, “Does this mean I won’t have the pleasure of seeing you again for another twelve years, Mama?”
The drawing room door slammed behind her, which he hoped was an affirmative answer. He reached for his glass, downed the remainder of his whiskey in one swallow, then leaned back against the cabinet and closed his eyes, pressing the cool glass against his forehead.
He drew deep breaths, striving to banish the image of his brother’s lifeless body from his mind, forcing all the rage and pain back down deep where they belonged, working bit by bit until he was numb again. He stood there a long, long time.
It was a well-known fact in London that omnibuses were like cats, for whenever it was pouring rain, both made themselves scarce. Prudence rose up on her toes and leaned out over the curb, keeping her umbrella carefully over her sewing basket to protect the piecework it contained from the deluge as she studied the various vehicles lumbering up New Oxford Street.
After a moment she fell back onto her heels with a discouraged sigh. Not an omnibus in sight. Either she would have to stand here and wait, or she would have to take a hansom. Cabs cost so much, and she and Maria had already splurged on the luxury of one twelve hours earlier, but Prudence was so tired, she couldn’t bear the thought of walking even part of the way to Holborn. Nor did she want to stand here on a cold, rainy afternoon waiting for an omnibus to pass by. After the ball last night and a full day at the showroom, she was utterly done in.
She once again leaned out over the curb and scanned the traffic to her left, this time looking for a hansom cab. If only she could afford to take hansoms every day, she thought with longing, then immediately shook off such wasteful wishes. Wanting what one couldn’t have was such a pointless game, and yet, on days like this, it was such a tempting one to play. If only she could afford to leave Madame and find a better post. If only she could afford not to work so hard. If only she were rich…
Just then a clatter of wheels to her right warned her a vehicle was coming around the corner. She jumped back, dropping her umbrella and cannoning into the person behind her as a luxurious brougham rolled past. With no way to escape the inevitable, Prudence lifted her basket high overhead to protect her piecework, turning her face to the side as she was doused with a spray of cold, muddy water from the gutter.
“Oh!” She looked down at her dress, impossible dreams forgotten as she stared in outraged dismay at the brown stains across the pretty beige and white stripes of her skirt. Gutter mud was awful. She would have to launder the garment the moment she got home or the stains would set and her best showroom dress would be ruined. Then she’d have to buy a new one from Madame and have the cost taken out of her wages. That meant she’d have to work even harder next week to make up the difference. Suddenly, everything in the world seemed too overwhelming to bear, and Prude
nce felt the stupid desire to weep.
Instead, she gave vent to her feelings by shouting one of Maria’s best curses after the inconsiderate driver of the brougham, then picked up her umbrella, hailed a hansom, fought mightily with the two horrid men who tried to jump into it ahead of her, and went home.
She fell asleep and was jolted awake three times before the cab reached the lodging house in Little Russell Street where she lived. She paid the driver and went inside, wanting only to wash out her dress and fall into bed, but when she stepped into the foyer, she found that sleep was destined to elude her a little while longer.
Just inside the door, she was greeted by her landlady, Mrs. Morris, who must have been watching for her arrival from the window. “You have a visitor,” the older woman informed her, closing the front door as Prudence set her dripping umbrella on one side of the coatrack and her sewing basket on the other. “A gentleman caller,” she added in an animated whisper, her face alight with understandable curiosity. This was a respectable ladies’ lodging house. Gentlemen callers were infrequent, and always generated a great fluttering of excitement and speculation.
Even so, Prudence was too tired to find this news exciting, especially since she knew it had to be some sort of mistake. She was a twenty-eight-year-old spinster of average looks who worked twelve-hour days in a post where she was surrounded by women. She never had gentlemen callers because she didn’t know any gentlemen. “Who is he?”
“He says his name is Mr. Whitfield, and he has been waiting for you for nearly an hour.” She glanced downward. “Oh, heavens, look at your dress. Perhaps you should change.”
Prudence had no intention of going to that sort of trouble for a stranger. Pulling at the ribbons of her hat, she removed the damp concoction of straw and feathers and set it on a hook of the coatrack, then leaned sideways and peeked around the doorjamb into the parlor.
Seated on the horsehair settee was an older gentleman with a precisely groomed goatee. His hat, a fine felt bowler, was beside him, and his hands were folded over an ebony and gold walking stick. A black leather dispatch case sat at his feet. He met her gaze with a genial smile, and Prudence ducked back out of sight.
The Wicked Ways of a Duke Page 3