When he came back from having cast up his accounts a second time, Reid ordered that his plate be cleared. He didn’t eat anything else and eventually left the room.
Callum, Kendal, and Owen assembled in the ballroom of Follett House a little before eight o’clock and waited for Reid. In Callum’s coat pocket was a hip flask filled with whisky that he had purchased earlier that day and hidden under the mattress in his bedroom. Eliza was still enforcing her no alcohol in the bedrooms rule.
He pulled the flask out and took a sip. He didn’t plan to get seriously drunk until after the show; the whisky was purely just to keep him on the happy side of inebriation. “What do we know of this Mrs. Scott?” he asked.
When Kendal and Owen exchanged sheepish grins, Callum narrowed his eyes. “Oh. And Reid as well?”
Owen nodded. “She is a woman in possession of some particular talents in the bedroom. She taught me a few new tricks. Mind you, I didn’t go back for a second round with her, but I think Reid may have at some point.”
Kendal blushed. “She showed me some things I hadn’t thought were physically possible. By all means, feel free to sample her charms, but I would caution you to leave your morals at the bedroom door.”
Callum held the hip flask to his lips but stopped before he took another drink. “What do you mean?”
Owen snickered and leaned in close. “Put it this way. If she offers to bring in a footman at some point, just say no.”
By the time Reid stepped through the door of the ballroom a few minutes later, Callum had firmly decided that he would decline any private invitation Mrs. Scott might extend to him.
Reid was ashen-faced, and he quickly declined the hip flask when Callum offered it to him. Owen took a sip and handed it back, while Kendal, who had wandered over to his piano, waved it away.
“I need to be at my best. I, for one, could not abide the idea of the Italians thinking my performance was anything less than outstanding,” he said.
The other three turned and faced him. Their women-stealing rivals were going to be in attendance?
“What?” said Reid.
“Didn’t I tell you? The Italians are coming tonight. Word has got out about the Noble Lords and I expect they are coming to size us up,” replied Kendal.
Owen gave an understanding nod. “Well, they are the reason why we formed the Noble Lords. And if they suspect that we intend to take them on at their musically seductive game, then of course it makes sense for them to give us a look over.”
Reid looked stricken at this unexpected revelation. He was going to have to make his singing debut in front of Marco Calvino, a masterful countertenor.
Callum did not envy him, but as for himself, he was more than ready to take the fight to the musical interlopers. “At least we get to tackle the Italians right from the beginning. No point hanging back in the rearguard.”
Owen and Reid’s worried looks told him he was alone in his thinking.
Callum glanced at Reid as they stepped through the door of Mrs. Scott’s elegant town house. His fellow Noble Lord was now sporting a green tinge to his face. Things had been bad enough earlier in the evening, but after Kendal’s revelation, he had become even more of a nervous wreck.
“You might want to down a couple of stiff drinks,” suggested Callum.
Reid shook his head and dragged him away from the footman who was carrying a tray of filled glasses. They entered into the main ballroom and Reid pointed toward a slender, middle-aged woman who was talking to a group of people. “That is our hostess, Mrs. Scott,” he said.
Callum nodded, but his gaze was soon captured by a large green, red, and gold wall-hanging. “What a magnificent Persian tapestry. Look at that intricate stitching.”
As a young man, his father had travelled to the Middle East and brought a number of expensive tapestries and Persian rugs back to England; as a result, Callum had a good understanding of what constituted a quality piece of work. The tapestry on Mrs. Scott’s wall was one of the finest that money could buy.
He headed toward the wall, intent on examining it closely, but Reid grabbed him tightly by the arm and steered him in the direction of Mrs. Scott.
Their hostess eyed the Noble Lords up one by one, smiling at each of them. Owen and Kendal both shifted uncomfortably on their feet as Reid made the introductions. When Callum caught Mrs. Scott’s gaze, she batted her eyelids at him, sending a clear message.
She ignored Reid’s low bow and offered Callum her hand. He reluctantly took it.
“Sir Callum, congratulations on your knighthood. I hear it was well deserved for bravery. I like a man who is not afraid to step into the heat of battle. I expect you like a challenge,” she said.
The mention of battle had Callum sucking in a deep breath as a tinge of red edged his vision. He tried to shake it clear, doing his best to stave off the threatening panic attack.
Owen shot him a warning look over Mrs. Scott’s head.
“I was simply following orders,” he replied. Christ, I could kill for a drink right now. Where is a whisky when you need one?
“I am sure that it was more than just doing as you were told. You don’t look like a man who lets anyone tell him what to do. Or are you?” she purred.
Yes, I really do need a bloody drink. And to get the hell away from this woman.
“I’m just a musician these days, Mrs. Scott. Would you please excuse me?” He made his escape as quickly and politely as he could, nodding his agreement to have a private word with their hostess later in the evening.
Guests began to pour into the room and it soon became crowded and hot. The noise rose to an uncomfortable level. The panic attack was back.
Before Waterloo, Callum had never had any issues with crowds. But the press of people in the room had him reliving the violent struggle to free himself from the bodies of his fallen comrades. Of being stuck at the bottom of a pile of dead and dying men. His breath came in short sharp bursts, his head growing light as he sucked in too much oxygen.
Fuck. I need to get out of here now. I can’t breathe.
With great determination and the strategic use of his elbows, he fought through the gathering, pushing people aside as he made his way to the outside terrace.
The cool, sweet night air kissed his face and he sighed with relief. He had found sanctuary. “Thank God,” he muttered.
At this point in the evening, the garden was mostly empty of guests. The odd couple were scattered about the paved terrace area making small talk with one another or sharing soft words of affection. No one paid him any mind.
He pulled the whisky flask out of his pocket and downed the last of it. Then, turning his attention to his other jacket pocket, he took out a small cannabis cigar. Earlier in the afternoon, he had ventured over to a stall in Covent Garden Market and discreetly procured what the shopkeeper called ganjah—the Tamil word for dry hemp.
While some gentlemen liked to add the dry leaves of the drug to their tobacco and only get a small high, Callum had developed the habit of smoking it pure and thereby maximizing its effect. He had made several cigars while in his room this afternoon in preparation for tonight.
Out in the garden and away from his friends, he could indulge without being seen. Polite society didn’t have a favorable opinion of the intoxicating plant and its narcotic qualities; Callum couldn’t care less. All that mattered was its ability to calm his nerves.
He lit the cigar and then drew back deeply on it. The combination of alcohol and narcotic had him closing his eyes and resting his head against the back wall of the house. He just had to keep things together for a few more hours. Once the performance with the Noble Lords was done, he could forget about restraint and seek the bottom of a bottle.
“There you are. I have been looking all over for you. Anyone would think you were playing hard to get.”
Startled, he opened his eyes and caught sight of Mrs. Scott standing in the pale light from the ballroom.
“I just needed some fresh
air,” he replied.
Mrs. Scott stepped in close and placed a hand on the lapel of his jacket. She brushed away a small piece of weed which had fallen from the cigar.
“Really? My husband has a penchant for those particular kinds of cigars, so I know you are trying to seek a level of euphoria. Of course, there are other ways to find such pleasure,” she said.
He swallowed as she lowered her gaze and it settled on his trousers. Mrs. Scott was not making any attempt to be subtle with her sexual overtures.
The majority of single ton men would have taken Mrs. Scott up on her offer without a moment’s hesitation. But Callum just wanted to be left alone. The sort of bedroom activity that Mrs. Scott was likely to offer was a cruel parody of what he and Eliza had once shared.
If he couldn’t have Eliza, he didn’t want anyone.
She stepped closer and brushed her hand over the placket of his trousers, Callum gently pushed her. “Thank you, but no.”
She mewled with disappointment, then smiled. A sparkle of mischief shone in her eyes. “Not to worry, Sir Callum. I like a man who plays coy with me. It keeps things interesting and makes the eventual win that more delightful. Give it time. You will find your way to my bed.”
After Mrs. Scott headed back inside, Callum stood staring out into the black of the night. The thought of touching a woman other than Eliza repulsed him. He took a drag of his cigar and considered the absurdity of that notion. He had told her it was over between them, broken his solemn promise. Yet here he was, refusing to have anything to do with another woman because he couldn’t get Eliza out of his mind.
He could try and blame his mental fog on the drugs and the whisky, but it would be a waste of time. No matter how stoned or drunk he got, there was still a part of his brain that remained clearheaded enough to remind him that Eliza was very much an important part of his life. He would be a fool to try and convince himself otherwise.
And that kiss this morning—so spontaneous and loving. She had nearly brought him undone.
“Callum Sharp, you are an utter mess of a man. You have to let Eliza go,” he muttered.
He tossed the cigar onto the stone floor of the terrace and crushed it out with his boot. He was wired enough already. Any more of the cannabis and he would struggle to focus on the music.
Whatever had once existed between them was now gone. It lay in the wet, stinking mud of a field in Belgium . . . along with his sanity.
“Ask for the ring. If you ask for it back, she has to know it’s over.”
He bent and picked up the remains of his crumpled cigar, regretting that he had destroyed it. Like so many other things in his life, he was left to lament something he had done. Giving up Eliza would be the hardest thing of all, but he would never regret having loved her.
Chapter Eleven
“Come,” said Eliza.
She looked up from her desk as the Follett House butler entered the room. It was a little after ten o’clock in the morning. She had been trying to grab a private moment for herself before the house got busy. Once the rest of the Noble Lords were up and about, and Reid returned from his singing lesson, there would be the usual round of requests and demands from each and every one of them.
Added to that were the numerous letters and notes which now arrived each morning asking to book the Noble Lords for a performance. In the days since their successful debut, Reid and his friends were fast gaining a solid following of fans.
“What can I do for you, Mister Green?” she asked.
“Could I please have a word in private with you, Lady Eliza?” he replied.
Mister Green closed the door quietly behind him, and Eliza held her breath as it clicked shut. It was never a good sign when the most senior member of the household staff wanted to speak to her privately. A number of unpleasant reasons for his needing to do so popped into her head.
Which of the maids has been making doe eyes at Owen? Has Kendal thrown another of his tantrums? Has Reid asked you to cut back on the orders of cake?
She motioned toward the chair on the other side of her desk. As Mister Green sat, she closed her personal journal and moved it to one side.
The butler cleared his throat. “It is about Sir Callum.”
She bit on her bottom lip. Her heart ached to hear his name. “Yes.”
“I recall you giving strict instructions as to how the matter of alcohol was to be dealt with in the house during the time that Lord Follett’s guests were in residence. There was to be no wine or spirits kept in the bedrooms,” he said.
“I take it that Sir Callum is flouting that rule. One which I know all of our guests have agreed to follow?” she replied.
Bloody hell, Callum. It’s a simple enough instruction. No booze in the bedrooms.
“The gin stash in Sir Callum’s bedroom is one issue. The other is that he has demanded to be allowed to drink before midday. And when I say before midday, I mean now. He is downstairs in the foyer making threats against several of our most trusted footmen.”
Eliza got to her feet.
Callum turned and heaved a loud sigh of relief as Eliza reached the bottom of the stairs. “Oh! Thank God you are here. You have to talk to your servants and get this sorted right away,” he said.
“What the hell is going on?” she demanded.
Callum was standing in front of two of the Follett House footmen. Both servants were holding full bottles of whisky and gin in their hands. In Callum’s left hand, he held a near-empty bottle of Plymouth gin. He brandished the bottle in Eliza’s direction. “They won’t give me a new bottle of gin. And to top it all off, they went through my room and removed all the alcohol I had.”
He pointed at the bottles the two footmen were holding. “That is my whole personal collection of gin and whisky and I want it back.”
Eliza straightened her spine and met Callum’s gaze. “Four bottles of spirits are hardly what I would call a collection. Besides, a collection should be something of value; not the outward signs of an unhealthy habit. You were told not to keep liquor in your bedroom. The staff were doing exactly as I had instructed.”
The look of shock which appeared on Callum’s face was deeply satisfying. He obviously had expected her to jump when he made his demands.
You are not going to sweet-talk me into helping you get drunk.
“Please, Eliza. I need my gin. You know I cannot function without it,” he pleaded.
Eliza crossed her arms and stared him down. “No. You don’t need gin, or whisky, and especially not at this hour of the day.”
She turned to the footmen. “Please take those bottles and have them locked away in the dining room cabinet. Sir Callum may partake of his collection when he dines with the other houseguests.”
The footmen moved away along with Mister Green, leaving Callum and Eliza alone.
Callum looked down at the bottle in his hand. “You don’t understand, Liz. I need another bottle to get me through the day. I cannot last until supper. I simply can’t.”
She reached out and placed a hand gently on his arm. “You can. You just have to try.”
Her heart skipped a beat as he stepped toward her and looked deep into her eyes. The expression on his face softened, and he leaned in close. Eliza caught a hint of his cologne; the spicy mix of sandalwood, mandarin, and tonka bean filled her senses.
Oh gosh, that is divine.
His pale hair had been well oiled and combed back. The only sign that he was still not getting enough sleep were the small dark bruises under his eyes. Those piercing blue eyes that had always held her captive.
Her gaze dropped to his lips—soft lips she had long dreamt of not only kissing once more, but of having them caress her naked body.
Please, Callum. Just one kiss. No one else is here. It will be another secret between us. Please. Then you might remember how good it used to be.
“I will settle for one bottle. I am not a difficult man,” he murmured.
She reared back. Her gaze landed on t
he bottle of Plymouth gin in his hand and her brain exploded with rage. In one deft motion, she snatched it and launched it at the wall. “Not in my house!” she screeched.
Reid walked through the front door. The bottle whizzed past him and smashed into a thousand tiny pieces. Eliza grimaced. She had come perilously close to braining her brother.
Callum didn’t miss a beat. He turned and hurried over to Reid. Pointing a finger in the general direction of Eliza, he pleaded with him. “She won’t let any of the servants serve alcohol before the hour of midday. And only then if we sit down to dine. Reid, for God’s sake, man, talk some sense into her.”
Eliza forced down her disappointment at Callum’s outrageous demands and pointed a finger back at him. “No decent gentleman imbibes at this time of the day, nor at the earlier hour when you first asked the servants. This is our home, not a gin vault,” she ground out. She turned to her brother in the hope that he would support her.
“Eliza is right. Gin is a foul drink, not becoming of someone of your standing. Eliza runs the household and her rules apply,” said Reid.
Callum huffed loudly as he looked from Reid to Eliza and back again.
“If I had known this was going to be a house of temperance, I wouldn’t have come,” grumbled Callum, throwing his hands out and sloping upstairs.
Reid waited until the dejected Callum had disappeared before coming to Eliza’s side. He sidestepped the broken glass as two footmen appeared, bearing buckets and cleaning cloths.
Thank heavens for Mister Green.
“Sorry about that. He just pushed and pushed,” she said.
Reid nodded. “You did the right thing. He shouldn’t have put you in that position in the first place. Though next time I would ask that you refrain from flinging large bottles of gin around the house. You almost killed me.”
Eliza huffed. “Oh, stop complaining. The bottle was nearly empty. It would have been a minor flesh wound at best.”
As Reid walked away, the servants began to clean up the mess Eliza had created. Under other circumstances she would be thinking about how close she had come to hitting Reid with the bottle, but instead her mind was focused elsewhere.
Callum: Regency Rockstars Page 6