Julian chuckled as he accepted the imported French brandy from the footman, then nodded lazily to where a small string orchestra was resting for a brief interval. Claudia was perched on the edge of a French settee, her elbows on her knees as she pressed home what was an undoubtedly very important point to the rather vapid Lord Perry. “I predict Perry will hand over everything he’s got in the three-percents before he even realizes what has happened,” Julian said, hiding a proud smile behind his snifter. Arthur had no doubt that was true. If there was a force in London who could raise funds for worthy causes, it was Lady Kettering. She had the ability to charm a man right out of his stockings—literally, in Julian’s case. He was about to comment as much when Barnaby suddenly appeared at his elbow. “Beggin’ your pardon, my lord, but Lord Rothembow insists upon a word.”
Rothembow. The name evoked a flash of his dream last night—a ballroom just like this, glimpses of Phillip, trying to catch him to demand an explanation, a reason.
Bloody hell.
Arthur exchanged a look with Julian as he set aside his champagne flute. “Show him to the morning room,” he instructed Barnaby, and turned only to see Rothembow pushing through the crowd, bearing down on them. The crowd seemed to turn as one toward the three men as Rothembow came to an exaggerated stop in front of them. It was exceedingly awkward; Rothembow had not been invited; his dress clearly indicated as much. But regardless of what anyone thought, Arthur would not deny the man entrance, he would not deny him anything, really, and simply nodded his head in greeting, “My lord.”
Rothembow’s thick gray eyebrows shot together in one long frown. A full head shorter than Arthur, the rotund man snapped his head back to better glare at them. “Christian, I would have a word if you please,” he said gruffly, and reached into his coat pocket, withdrawing a folded paper. “I have in my hand a matter of some consequence. It would seem that the Christian solicitation offices have failed me once again.”
Arthur exchanged a quick, wary look with Julian. “I beg your pardon, sir, but if this is a matter of business perhaps it best would be discussed—”
“I will not be put off, my lord!” he angrily interjected. “I received this letter just today, and while the contents of it were quite disturbing, let me assure you it came as no surprise to me to learn that at least one of you was involved—”
“Shall we adjourn to the morning room?” Julian asked sharply. Rothembow paused, mouth open, then thought better of what he would say and quickly shut it. With a curt nod of his head, he stepped aside so Arthur could lead the way.
Arthur could hardly fault the man for despising the Rogues as he did; he supposed it was quite natural for a man to assign blame when he lost a son, particularly in the manner Rothembow lost his. But the same Lord Rothembow who had once taught four young boys to play cricket now made his disdain for them known at every opportunity, and even publicly refused to be in the same room with Adrian. As Arthur stepped into the crowd, his thoughts and old despair carefully masked, he felt the old but familiar sense of anger with Phillip he had harbored these three long years now.
They moved silently down the thickly carpeted corridor with Barnaby hurrying ahead, and paused as one just across the threshold of the morning room, waiting patiently for Barnaby to light several candelabrum. As the door shut silently behind Barnaby, Arthur turned and looked at Rothembow. “My lord?” he asked coolly.
Rothembow’s small blue eyes turned to ice. “You wouldn’t stop him, would you? Not as long as you stood to gain a pound or two,” he spat and tossed the folded paper onto the desk. It slid across the highly polished oak until Arthur caught it. “I am quite certain you were aware of this … of this lunacy!”
Julian cast a questioning glance at Arthur as he quickly unfolded the paper. It was a letter addressed to the Christian Brothers’ offices, signed by a Mr. Jamie Regis, Esquire, of Stirling, Scotland, dated July 1, 1835—almost two years past. Scanning the words neatly penned on the thick vellum, words like debt and arrears and taxes leapt out at Arthur, and slowly, he began to understand what he was reading.
Phillip’s cattle.
This had to do with the land and cattle in the central highlands of Scotland in which Phillip had invested only weeks before his death. Arthur had forgotten about it, but he saw now that his instincts at the time had been correct—it was, apparently, a very foolish investment. He shoved the letter toward Julian, turned away from Rothembow, and walked to the hearth, his mind whirling with sober memories. Oh he had known of it, all right, and had thought it a terribly ill-advised thing to do, sight unseen, particularly when, over the last several years, many cattle enterprises in Scotland had been lost to sheep farming.
But Phillip had been ecstatic, his boyish enthusiasm for the venture making him almost giddy. Apparently, a Scot farmer, up to his neck in debt, had offered part of his holdings in exchange for a cash infusion. Phillip had been so enamored of the deal that he had offered to subsidize the purchase of cattle, believing that the cattle market would be revived and make him a rich man, provide him a means for getting out from under his own mountain of debt. Arthur had warned him that it would take years of profits to reduce his debt, during which time the interest would continue to mount. But Phillip had cavalierly waved him off as if that was no concern and proceeded to arrange the purchase through the Christian Brothers’ offices. And Arthur, as he was so damn good at doing, had kept his mouth shut and thereby allowed Phillip to dig his hole a little deeper. That ridiculous purchase had been some sort of desperate grope for sanity on Phillip’s part, an attempt to turn his life around and make a fresh start … an attempt at equilibrium.
“I don’t understand,” Julian said behind him. “This letter is two years old.”
“Apparently it has been misdirected for some time,” Rothembow muttered.
“I wasn’t aware that Phillip had invested in land in Scotland,” Julian said, more to himself.
“Yes, my lord, he purchased a worthless herd of cattle and an even less desirable parcel of land only weeks before he was killed!” Rothembow fairly shouted. “And now I am to pay in excess of twenty thousand pounds for it, but God save me if that will be all!”
Arthur glanced over his shoulder; Rothembow fixed an angry glare on him and continued. “You knew about this, Christian! He entered that ridiculous venture through your offices!”
“Yes, I knew it.”
“Then you knew he was throwing good money down a rat hole! My God, how in good conscience could you have allowed it? Surely you could have at least stopped him from making such a foolish purchase!”
Surely he could have at least stopped Phillip from killing himself. That’s what Rothembow wanted to say, and they both knew it.
“Here now, my lord,” Julian quickly interjected. “Phillip was a grown man, responsible for his own actions!”
Rothembow turned on him. “He was a drunkard! A worthless, penniless drunk! He was doomed from the moment he met the likes of you,” he said, gesturing wildly at both of them. “My Phillip was a good boy until then, a very good boy, but you ruined him! The Rogues ruined him, and now … now …” Rothembow’s voice suddenly trailed off; his blue eyes skirted the walls and ceiling before his shoulders slumped. He glanced blindly down at his feet like a defeated man and exhaled a long, weary sigh.
The three men stood in silence for a long moment until Arthur asked quietly, “What would you have us do?”
The small sound of grief from Rothembow scored Arthur’s heart. “I would that you give me back my son, Christian,” he said hoarsely, and lifted a watery gaze. “Short of that, I would very much appreciate it if you would instruct your offices to handle this unseemly matter at once and clear my son’s name. Do whatever it takes, but dear God, at least allow my son’s name to be respected in one corner of the kingdom! Let him have his peace somewhere!”
Arthur glanced at the letter lying on the library table. “I don’t know what can be done, but I give you my word, I shall endeavo
r to repair it, my lord.”
With another subdued sigh, Rothembow looked at Julian, then turned and walked slowly to the door. “I fear this will never end,” he said raggedly as he reached for the handle. “My son will never rest in peace.” He closed the door loudly behind him.
“If his son never rests in peace, it is his own damn doing, not ours!” Arthur muttered resentfully at the closed door.
With a halfhearted shrug, Julian moved to a drink cart and poured two whiskeys, holding one out to Arthur. “Rothembow will always believe we killed him. Nothing will ever change that.”
“Phillip killed himself! And he made his own foolish decisions,” Arthur responded, gesturing angrily toward the letter. “Why in God’s name would he buy a herd of Highland cattle?” To have something to hold, something to make him normal. Arthur strode angrily to the table and picked up the paper. The lawyer’s neat script detailing the troubled property made the indignation mount, but for who or what, Arthur suddenly wasn’t sure. It seemed that everything Phillip tried ended in one disaster or another, as if the heavens were dead set against him. He folded the paper and put it in his coat pocket, then tossed the whiskey down his throat.
“Come on, then. Your guests will wonder where you’ve gone off to,” Julian said.
Arthur glared at the door. “Heaven knows I have tried to understand why he did it, but I can find no reaxon for it. Nonetheless, I didn’t force him onto that field any more than you or Adrian, and I am sick unto death of taking the blame for it, I swear to God that I am!”
“Then don’t, Arthur,” Julian said quietly. “We can never understand why he did what he did.” He opened the door, waiting for Arthur. “And a man could make himself insane trying.”
For the rest of the evening, Arthur ignored the letter burning in the inside pocket of his coat. Almost mindlessly, he did what was expected of him—he spoke at length to the dimwitted Perry, despite feeling as if he was talking to the wall. He bantered a bit with Sir Fox about the horse races, charmed a group of young ladies who giggled like children, and suffered through two quadrilles. In the dining room, where tables and chairs had been set up for the dancers, he talked amicably with Miss Amelia, Warrenton’s homely, but well-endowed daughter—both physically and financially, as Julian discreetly pointed out—over a plate of goose and asparagus awash in French crème sauce.
He played his part well, but he scarcely recalled a thing he heard or said—he could not stop thinking about Phillip. He hadn’t thought about him like this in months, had managed to push his anger and resentment down until he could pass several days without thinking of him. Until another dream would come, unwanted.
But now this—honestly, had Phillip really believed that an ill-advised venture in Scotland would make a difference to his situation? Why hadn’t he asked for advice, sought counsel on his growing debt from the finest solicitation offices in the kingdom? Offices that just happened to belong to one of his closest friends? Why did he kill himself?
When several of the guests returned to the dancing, and a few select men gathered in the library, Arthur watched Julian turn a beaming smile to Claudia as she glided past. He could see the adoration shining in Julian’s eyes and felt a faintly familiar tug in his chest that felt, oddly, a bit like envy. It could not be envy, however—Arthur Christian did not envy men their wives. All he had to do was look at Portia to remember why that was.
After the men had exhausted their talk of politics in the library and had vowed to support Alex in his reform efforts in the Lords, they rejoined the ball. Arthur followed, filled to the brim now with a growing anger at Phillip, and worse, the old anguish buried deep inside him that Rothembow had stirred. He stood alone like some abandoned soul, staring morosely at the dancers, anxious for the evening to end.
When he had at last made himself quite miserable with the incessant rumination of Phillip and life and what might have been, he slipped out of the ballroom and onto the terrace behind the mansion’s breakfast room, away from the guests who had filtered into the gardens.
The flare of a match caught him by surprise; he glanced over his shoulder as Julian extended a cheroot toward him. “Made with the finest blend of American tobacco. Delivered just this morning.”
Arthur took the cheroot and inhaled, then watched the smoke slowly rise up to the ink-black sky.
“I take it then you are finished with the dancing,” Julian remarked.
Arthur shrugged. “I needed some air.”
“You’ve allowed Rothembow to unsettle you.”
Arthur shot a curious look at Julian; he shrugged, exhaled the smoke of his cheroot. “Face it, Christian, you’ve always been a bit too sentimental for your own good.”
“Dear God, here we go again,” Arthur snorted. “From one sentimental fool to another.”
Julian ignored that. “I wasn’t aware that he had invested cattle or land in Scotland.”
Frowning lightly, Arthur shoved his hands in his pockets. “I knew,” he admitted quietly. “It just seemed … at the time he seemed quite desperate for it, as if that bloody land would solve some monumental problem. The worst of it is that I didn’t advise him against it in spite of seeing that it was a rather foolish thing to do.”
“Phillip Rothembow was responsible for his own affairs, Arthur, not you. You can’t punish yourself forever.”
Apparently they were destined to have this conversation again, the one in which Julian would insist Arthur didn’t deserve to shoulder the blame for what had happened to Phillip, that he was sliding too far into isolation where guilt would consume him. And then Julian would insist that what happened to Phillip was his fault, that he had known Phillip better than most, had been close enough to see his demise.
“I don’t disagree, really. But you can’t deny I might have advised him—”
“And you might have let him make his own decisions, like any man. You wouldn’t presume to advise Albright against a purchase like that unless he sought your counsel. You certainly wouldn’t think to tell me to invest in the percents instead of those dusty old manuscripts. Why should Rothembow have been any different?”
Julian’s interminable logic never worked in this conversation. Phillip was different because he was Phillip. Unwilling to argue, Arthur looked away, into the dark beyond them. “Nevertheless, I promised Rothembow I would look into it and do what I could. I suppose I shall have to send someone up there—Redmond, perhaps. He’s done quite well for us. He might enjoy—”
“No. You believe it all your fault? Then you go,” Julian said sharply, and Arthur looked up, surprised. “You go, Arthur, and clear Phillip’s name, do whatever it takes to release this enormous guilt you carry if you think you can.”
“Go to Scotland? Don’t be ridiculous.”
“What’s so ridiculous about it? You rarely leave London. You’ve mentioned a desire to see one of the Scottish clippers that are beating the Christian fleet to every port. And since you insist on bearing Phillip’s death like your own personal cross, what better way to help him now? Really, Arthur, what have you to lose? It’s not as if there is anything to hold you here!”
To his credit, Arthur managed to hide his considerable irritation at that remark with an indulgent smile. “Thank you for your advice, Kettering. I shall consider it.”
With a look of pure disdain, Julian tossed down his cheroot and ground it out with his heel. “Very well, then, wallow in your guilt,” he said irritably, and walked away.
Arthur watched him, almost laughing aloud at the absurdity of his suggestion. But by the time he returned to the ballroom, the smile had faded, replaced by a feeling of distraction.
He couldn’t just up and go. Edinburgh was not an easy journey; it would take some time. And there was far too much to be done here. Or was there? A dozen or more highly trained solicitors handled the Christian family wealth; they hardly needed him for anything other than to lend his signature to papers and bank drafts. And he really was rather keen on examining the Sco
ttish clippers that were outpacing every other ship on the seas.
Still … Arthur shook his head. A journey deep into Scotland was hardly the same thing as popping over to Paris. And it wasn’t as if he knew anyone there at all—he’d be virtually alone. Yet it wasn’t as if he was engaged in any meaningful activity here. His life consisted merely of another Season’s events, which included, he thought with a grimace, the constant parade of unmarried debutantes under his nose, the occasional outing with Julian and Adrian when they weren’t engaged with their families, and the periodic call to Madame Farantino’s to tend to his physical needs. There was nothing: no purpose, no reason for him to be here. He did not really belong here.
A movement to his right caught Arthur’s eye and he glanced across the room, his gaze landing on Portia. She was smiling seductively at him while her husband chatted with another gentleman, fingering the pearl at her bosom again, openly stroking herself.
No, it wasn’t as if there was anything or anyone to hold him in London.
He owed this to Phillip, didn’t he? He had failed him miserably; the least he could do was try and clean up the mess he had left in Scotland and establish his good name again.
Arthur pondered it until the early morning hours when the ball finally began to draw to a close. Julian and Claudia were among the first to escape. As they stood beneath the great stone portico and waited for a runner to fetch their driver, Claudia slipped her hand into Arthur’s and smiled up at him, winking mischievously. “I’ve convinced my stubborn husband that we ought to have a supper party, Wednesday next. Wouldn’t you please come, Arthur? I’m rather keen to invite Miss Wilhelmina Bentson-Fitzmayor. She is a dear friend of mine and her father a rather generous benefactor to the Whitney-Dane School for Girls, but she hasn’t been introduced as of yet. You’d be doing me a great honor.”
Arthur returned Claudia’s bright smile and squeezed her hand affectionately. “I am terribly sorry, but I’m afraid I must decline,” he said smoothly.
Julia London 4 Book Bundle Page 73