"If you're certain, Your Grace?" Howard said, his usually impassive face wearing a look of concern, as he took in the stumbling duke.
"It'll do me the world of good," Raff replied, before weaving, in a dizzy line, out the door.
St James' Square was quiet and Raff kept his head down as he walked the short distance to White's, which was just around the corner. The club was quiet, given the hour, though seated in a plush armchair Raff spotted just the man he wanted to see.
"Coachford," he slurred, weaving his way around the furniture—had there always been this much?—to his friend.
"By Jove," the marquess looked up, the smile on his face faltering as he saw the state that Raff was in, "What are we celebrating?"
"Not celebrating," Raff said, throwing himself into the seat opposite his friend, "Commiserating."
"Oh, dear..." Coachford discreetly nodded to a nearby footman who disappeared before quickly reappearing with a bottle of brandy and two glasses. "Should I assume that this has something to do with Lady Emily?" Coachford asked, as he handed his friend a glass filled with a more than generous measure.
"I told her the reason I wanted to marry her was for her fine pedigree," Raff replied, as he morosely downed his drink.
"Lud, man," Coachford looked horrified, "What were you thinking?"
"I think we can safely surmise that I wasn't thinking," Raff said with a dour laugh, before refilling his glass again. The alcohol had certainly helped with his anxiety, though it did little to dampen the shame which filled him at the memory of what he had said.
"Well, if I know women," Coachford said confidently, after a pause. "It's that it's always best to avoid them for a day or two, when you've annoyed them like that."
"And then she will forgive me?" Raff looked at his friend hopefully.
"Er," Coachford shrugged, "You might have to grovel."
"I can do that."
"On your knees," his friend continued, casting an unsure look at Raff.
"If needs be," Raff replied pragmatically.
"And be prepared for screaming, histrionics and..."
"Yes?"
"Does your Lady Emily have a particularly good aim?"
Lud. Should he expect missiles the next time he met Emily? Raff recalled her angry, hurt voice, and decided that a vase or two launched at his head, was more than he deserved for upsetting her so.
But, his mind prodded him gently, she said she could not marry you before you opened your big mouth and insulted her.
This memory caused him to frown, though his brandy addled brain soon became distracted by Coachford, who began to wax lyrical about his own tempestuous love life.
"It's a numbers game," Coachford said with a hiccough, as he finished his tale, "Namely—the more women you are involved with at the same time, the more likely you are to end up with a black eye."
"Indeed," Raff replied restlessly. The brandy had cleared his head, but he still felt on edge. He wanted to move, to pace, to be somewhere more lively than White's, for the near empty club was rendering him contemplative. The last thing he wanted to do, was to spend the rest of the night brooding over how idiotic he had been with Lady Emily.
"What's say we find somewhere more exciting?" Raff asked, pouring out the last of the brandy into two glasses.
"Sounds like a plan," Coachford replied, a smile lighting up his tawny eyes.
The two men stumbled from White's into Coachford's carriage, which took them down the road to Pickering Place. The notorious square—the smallest in London—was located down a dark alley just off St James' Street. One would assume, when walking by, that the arched walkway merely gave way to a small residential courtyard, but one would be wrong.
The secluded square was actually home to some of London's most notorious gaming hells, and as well as these establishments, Pickering Place was also a notorious spot for bear-baiting, duels and fistfights. Even Brummel had fought there once, which of course had secured Pickering Place's infamous reputation. As Raff and Coachford made their way down the alleyway, the sound of music, shouting, and general drunken revelry greeted them.
"Crockford's?" Raff asked his friend, though there really was no question as to what establishment they would be visiting.
Crockford's was owned by a man named William Crockford—also known as The Shark—who had been born a fishmonger's son but, thanks to his exceptional skill at cards, had managed to rise up from a life of poverty, to open what was London's most exclusive gaming hells.
From the cellars to the top floor, Crockford's oozed grandeur and luxury, and it was here, amongst the well mannered servants dressed in livery, that high class men came to spend their fortunes. Hazard, cribbage, and any game of chance one could think of, were played in the opulent rooms of Crockey's, and should one fancy a bite to eat, there was a French chef on hand to serve up culinary delights.
All in all, it was a very fine establishment, though sadly its guests were often too inebriated to appreciate the splendour.
"What'll it be?' Coachford asked, as they entered the main gaming room, which was teeming with young bloods, "Cards, drink, women—or all three?"
Raff watched as Coachford's attention was distracted by a blonde light-skirt, who caught the marquess' eye and gave a saucy smile.
"Another drink," Raff said dryly, "Then you can abandon me for what seems to be your preferred choice."
The two men made their way further into the crowd, settling themselves at the periphery of the cribbage table to watch as the Duke of Belmont—who was famous for his luck—bested young Theodore Bellhurst. The dapper young man had none of his customary swagger about him and it was clear—even to a brandy sodden Raff—that the lad was in over his head.
"Another game?" Bellhurst called, as the duke laid out his winning hand.
"I don't offer credit, boy," Belmont replied with a cool stare, which raised a chorus of laughter from the gentlemen watching. Raff rather thought the duke, who had a reputation as being cold and ruthless, was doing the young dandy a favour. From beside him he heard whispers that Bellhurst had lost thousands to the duke—a sum that no third son could afford to wager.
Theodore Bellhurst threw down his cards in disgust at Bellmont's words, and rose from the table in a huff. There was a clamour as the waiting crowd jostled to take his place, but Bellmont held up a hand.
"That's me done for the night," he said, to no one in particular, and he too stood and left the table.
"Lud, Kilbride, if I had known you were here I would have stayed for another game," Bellmont said as he spotted Raff, "It's been an age since I played against a man who can afford to lose to me."
"Unfortunately for you," Raff replied easily, "I'm also a man who is acutely aware that he has no skill at cards, and, as such, shouldn't risk his fortune against a charlatan like you."
"There's very few with your restraint here," Bellmont said with a guffaw, as his eyes surveyed the crowd, "Though I must say that winning is sweeter when one is certain they have not bankrupted their opponent." The duke fell silent, his dark brows drawing into a deep frown, as he spotted someone in the crowd.
"Blazes," Bellmont cursed, casting a despairing glance Raff, "Everywhere I go, there's always someone looking to pester me about something."
Raff followed the line of Bellmont's gaze and saw a familiar face pushing his way through the crowd toward them; Douglas McCasey, the famed thespian.
What on earth did he want with Bellmont, Raff wondered.
"Your Grace," McCasey said, as he finally reached them, before correcting himself as he spotted Raff, "Rather, Your Graces."
"McCasey," Bellmont gave the actor a cold stare, "Just because I am a Whig, does not mean that I wish to be accosted about social reforms at every opportunity. This is a club, have a drink man."
"It will take but a second of your time, Your Grace," McCasey persisted.
He was an excellent actor, Raff observed, for McCasey's relaxed expression did not falter or fail in the face o
f Bellmont's ire. Bellmont was not quite as capable as hiding his emotions, and he gave a snort of annoyance.
"I don't have a second to spare," Bellmont said with a shrug, his eyes lighting up as the blonde light-skirt whom Coachford had been eyeing earlier, sashayed past, "If you'll excuse me gentlemen, I want to share young Bellhurst's annual allowance with Miss Flora—I'm sure she'll appreciate it more than he did."
With a nudge and a wink, Bellmont disappeared after the busty blonde, presumably to one of the private rooms upstairs, leaving Raff, Coachford and McCasey alone.
"What was it that you wished to speak to Bellmont about?" Raff asked, more out of pity than actual interest. McCasey, now that Bellmont had disappeared, wore a rather dejected look upon his handsome face, which Raff found strangely touching.
Lud, I'm completely in my cups, he thought to himself with alarm.
"His Grace had offered to sponsor a reform bill that I and my wife have been working on," McCasey said, his eyes now fixing shrewdly on Raff, "It needs to have heavy political clout behind it, if it is even to be heard in Parliament."
"Indeed?" Raff's eyes glazed over at the mention of governmental matters and from the corner of his eye, he saw Coachford edge discreetly away. Turncoat, Raff thought dourly.
"It's regarding child labour laws, Your Grace," McCasey continued quickly, his experience as an actor alerting him to the fact that he was losing his audience. "We are proposing an abolishment of the practice of selling children into indentured servitude. I am sure that Your Grace has heard of young girls from the Lambeth Asylum being sold into bawdy houses, and young boys from the Clapham Orphanage being sold to master chimney sweeps."
Chimney sweeps...a memory echoed through Raff's mind and through his brandy soaked haze he recalled Emily's passionate speech about the poor climbing boys.
"I am sure that welfare of these children must be of a concern to you too, Your Grace," McCasey finished doubtfully.
"It most certainly is," Raff said, excitement sobering him slightly.
"It is?"
"Indeed," Raff replied smoothly, casting McCasey a benevolent smile. While it was true that he was concerned about the welfare of the climbing boys, he was also acutely aware that they were a cause Emily felt strongly about. Coachford had told him that he must grovel, if he were to expect her forgiveness, though this too might help him win back her favour.
"When I think of those young girls..." McCasey said, his green eyes filled with anger as he trailed off in thought. The girls of the Lambeth Asylum must have held some sort of significance for McCasey, for Raff could tell that the anger and sadness McCasey portrayed was not a show, but genuine.
"We shall make it right, never fear," Raff replied earnestly; and hopefully, in the process, he could make things right with Lady Emily.
Chapter Ten
The tick of the clock on Lady Darlington's mantelpiece was so loud that Ava wondered how the poor woman could stick it. Though perhaps the Viscountess Linford was not as perturbed by the silence which filled the drawing room, as Ava was. She certainly didn't seem inclined toward breaking it anyway, Ava thought mutinously, as Lady Darlington silently took another sip of tea.
"The weather has been most agreeable," Ava ventured through gritted teeth. She had been visiting with Lady Darlington for nearly half an hour and so far, any attempts at making conversation with the disagreeable woman, had been met by bland smiles and stony silences. Things were truly bad if she was discussing the weather, Ava thought with despair; Mr Hobbs had always said that conversations about the weather were the last refuge of the unimaginative—but she had tried! Lud, how she had tried.
Tit-bits of gossip, remarks upon the latest fashion plates in The Belle, rumours about Princess Charlotte's health; all these things had been met with indifference by Lady Darlington, and Ava had near given up hope.
"Indeed," Lady Darlington smiled, her paper thin skin stretching over her high cheekbones as she did so, "I find that spring in London is usually quite agreeable—though I can't bear summer here. I insist to Lord Darlington that we leave before the end July, even if Parliament has not finished."
"Of course," Ava replied, delighted that, at last, Lady Darlington had responded to her overtures. "It is most sticky and unpleasant during August. Do you spend much time out of doors, when the weather is fine?"
"I do enjoy the park when the sun is out," Lady Darlington confessed, before touching a hand to her high cheekbone, "Though one must be careful of one's complexion."
"Of course," Ava, whose nose was covered in a dusting of freckles replied, "I rather enjoy the park myself, though I must confess that I am fonder of trips to the theatre. Do you enjoy the theatre at all, Lady Darlington?"
At last, Ava thought with a sigh of relief, she had managed to manoeuvre the conversation in the right direction.
"I can't say that I do," Lady Darlington replied, pursing her mouth in annoyance.
"I adore the theatre," Ava replied, valiantly battling on despite Lady Darlington's facial expression resembling that of a person who smelled something rather unpleasant, "Especially Shakespearean plays. The Duke invited father and I to see Douglas McCasey perform in the Theatre Royal—he's rather well known. Have you heard of him?"
"I can't say that I have," Lady Darlington replied, her voice like ice.
Ava watched as the viscountess' face turned puce with annoyance and her regal face creased into a deep frown. Ava already knew that Lady Darlington was lying, for she had seen her arguing with McCasey on The Row, but now Ava was certain that there was history between the actor and the viscountess—for Lady Darlington looked ready to explode.
"He's quite talented," Ava continued, hoping to probe further, but Lady Darlington appeared to have had enough.
"I'm sure that he is," she said, as she rose to stand in one fluid motion, "Though I do not care for the theatre, as I have told you. Now, you must excuse this old lady, I need to rest."
"Of course," Ava replied, not believing for one instant that Lady Darlington was fatigued. In fact, the viscountess appeared twice as energetic as she had on Ava's arrival—though it was an agitated energy, which set Ava on edge.
Ava primly placed her cup down upon the table, before giving Lady Darlington a sickly sweet smile.
"Thank you for tea," she said primly, "We simply must do this again."
Lady Darlington did not reply, she merely inclined her head as Ava fled the room.
Imagine that dragon might be my Grandmother, Ava thought, as she made her way down the hallway to the front door, where Mary sat in an alcove, waiting for her.
The Irish woman was happily drinking a cup of tea and chatting to an older woman whom, judging by her dress, Ava assumed to be Lady Darlington's housekeeper.
"Thank you for the tea, Mrs Blythe," Mary said quickly, as she spotted Ava, before handing the woman her empty cup. "We must talk again soon."
The pair left together in silence, assuming the role of maid and mistress, but once they were alone, walking across Grosvenor Square's garden, they both began to speak in unison.
"Lady Darlington is hiding something," Ava said with excitement.
"Indeed she is," Mary replied, waggling her eyebrows beneath her white cap, "Did you know that just after Lady Anna disappeared, her lady's maid inherited a large sum of money and up and left."
Ava stared blankly back at Mary, who tutted in disapproval as she realised that Ava had not understood her news.
"It's no coincidence, according to Mrs Blythe," Mary continued, as they traipsed along the path, "The woman had never mentioned she had a rich aunt and then two days after Lady Anna vanished, so too did this Harriet Simms, claiming she'd been left enough in her aunt's will to open an inn near the docks."
"Do you think this Harriet will know what happened to Lady Anna?" Ava asked hopefully. She wanted, more than anything, to find out who her mother had been, and even just to know that it was Lady Anna who had given birth to her, would be good enough for Ava. She
certainly did not want to claim a familial link with the unpleasant Lady Darlington after today!
"I'm certain of it," Mary replied, then frowned, "Though how we're going to find her, is anyone's guess. There must be a hundred inns down by the docks..."
"We can go tomorrow," Ava said quickly, "We can ask when we're there if anyone knows where we might find Harriet Simms."
"Do you know what would happen, if anyone were to see Lady Emily Fairfax, daughter of a marquess and future wife of a duke loitering down by the docks?" Mary questioned, scandalised by the mere suggestion.
"But I am not Lady Emily," Ava replied with a smile and a shrug, "I am Ava Smith, and last time I checked, society didn't even know she existed. There's few who would care to be scandalised by the actions of a servant."
It seemed that logic was on Ava's side, for Mary floundered for a moment, as she tried to think of a response.
"I won't go," the Irish woman finally declared, halting in her step and turning to face Ava, her arms folded across her chest and her expression mutinous.
Luckily, the garden was near deserted, so there was no one to witness their altercation; Ava knew she would have a hard time explaining herself, if anyone were to spot her grovelling to her maid—as she was about to do.
"Please," Ava clasped her hands together as she pleaded with the Irish woman, "I need you with me Mary. I'll do anything you want. What have you always wanted to do?"
"Besides wake up at noon and have someone bring me a cup of chocolate in bed?" Mary asked, pausing for a moment as she thought; "An ice in Gunter's."
"Oh, what a splendid idea," Ava cried, for she too had always wanted to visit the famous tea-shop, but had never had the means to do so. "So, it's agreed. Tomorrow we shall search for Harriet, and once we have found her we shall celebrate in Gunter's with an ice."
"I would like it noted, that for the record, I have not agreed to anything," Mary replied with annoyance, though her cheeks were rather pink with excitement and a smile played upon her lips.
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