But Lord Westby’s unease with Henri-Antoine ran much deeper. Just under the surface of his conviviality there raged a seething lava flow of resentment. Westby was envious of Henri-Antoine’s person, his effortless pretension, but most of all the independence his great wealth afforded him. Bully put it more bluntly:
Face facts, Seb. Harry is handsome, arrogant, and rich. You’re none of those things and never will be. He dresses impeccably; you’d think his voice was coated in treacle, it turns females liquid; and his pater left him a fortune—rumor puts it at a hundred thousand pounds. Can you imagine?! One. Hundred. Thousand. Pounds. To do with as he pleases.
But you, my dear Seb, have to beg, borrow, and steal from your pater, because you’re up to your eyeballs in debt, and always will be. And if that isn’t enough to boil your blood, Harry can and does have any woman he fancies. He merely has to look their way and they’re tripping over themselves to get to him first! So it’s no surprise, is it, that he’s bedded more women than all of the Brotherhood combined.
The only reason you’ve managed to keep a hold on a celebrated actress as your mistress is because you—you, Seb, not Harry—agreed to her terms. If you don’t share her with Harry, she’s off! You pretend you don’t care. You say that in the spirit of the Brotherhood what’s yours is his. But that’s complete pig’s pap. It’s a beggarly arrangement, Seb, and you know it. You suffer it because you’d rather cut off your blind boy as let him think you care a groat. No small wonder then that you hate him. If I were in your shoes, I’d hate him too. But when all’s said and done, none of it is Harry’s fault, is it? And that’s what’s eating away at you the most.
Despite the truth in his friend’s blunt assessment, Seb continued to think of himself as the injured party. And while he managed to conceal his bitter jealousy for the sake of the Brotherhood, he failed miserably when inebriated. Today, having toasted Jack’s upcoming nuptials with enough fine claret to keep a ship buoyant, Seb was drunk beyond circumspection. At today’s Brotherhood gathering he was determined to say what he honestly thought—consequences be damned, and Henri-Antoine along with it. Today he would end the terms set down by his mistress, and banish his rival from ever again caressing her luscious feminine curves. He would show Henri-Antoine who was master in this house, and it wasn’t Henri-bloody-Antoine-bloody-high-and-mighty-bloody-Hesham.
First he needed to fortify himself with a few more glasses of claret. So it was fortuitous when at the end of that thought his butler poked his long face around the door.
“More bottles, Packer! And be quick about it. And have this mess cleared away. Room smells like Billingsgate. Can’t have Harris’s harlots mistaking us for a bunch of salty sea dogs—”
“—or pirates, Seb. They could mistake us for pirates.”
“Pirates, Bully? Well, I wouldn’t mind being mistaken for a pirate. Still. Don’t want to stink like one.”
“Most definitely not.”
“Pirates stink of fish.”
“And oysters, Bully. Fish and oysters and-and—seaweed.”
“But if the harlots were mermaids, well! It would be a different story entirely, wouldn’t it?” Bully said confidently. “I’ll wager they’d like us smelling of fish then.”
“How much?”
“How much what?”
“How much do you want to wager?”
“Wager?”
“A guinea says the harlots won’t care that we smell of fish.”
“And oysters, Seb. We smell of oysters.”
“Oysters then. A guinea that—”
“A salty sea dog is a pirate,” Lord Henri-Antoine cut in. “And the harlots are paid to perform regardless of your stench. Packer? Get rid of this detritus… Brandy would be appreciated.”
“Yes, my lord. At once,” the butler replied.
Packer said something over his shoulder, then stepped to one side to allow two footmen to clear away the silver trays piled with oyster shells, squeezed lemons, baskets of bread crumbs, stack of used plates, and clusters of empty wine bottles. And while this was being carried out, he squinted into the smoke-filled haze to locate its occupants, and found Lord Westby collapsed on a sofa, his disheveled person under a mound of maps and opened guidebooks. His master’s neckcloth was unraveled, and he had an empty wine glass in one hand and in the other a smoldering cheroot.
His Lordship’s three friends were in similar repose.
Mr. Knatchbull was sprawled out on the rug at Lord Westby’s feet, his stubby legs spread-eagled under a low table laden with the remnants of the oyster supper. He was perusing the pages of a small book, Harris’s List of Covent Garden Ladies, held almost at arm’s length, and like his best friend, was in his shirtsleeves. He made no effort to move out of the way of the footmen and continued reading while they did their best not to step on him or spill oyster shells and lemons over him.
The other occupants were slumped in wingchairs either side of a cold fireplace. Sir John Cavendish MP, copper curls falling into his eyes, had his long legs stuck straight out before him, with his heels seemingly dug into the floorboards to stop himself sliding forwards and off the chair. While seated cross-legged opposite was the only one of the Brotherhood not in his shirtsleeves, and unlike his fellows, who had pulled their stocks free from their throats as if needing air, his cravat was still neatly wrapped about his throat. In fact, the butler was not surprised to see that this gentleman as neat in his appearance as if he had just stepped away from his valet.
Lord Henri-Antoine was always at his sartorial best on any given day, at any given hour. And while his friends’ waistcoats showed evidence of the oyster feast, His Lordship’s black merino breeches were without creases, and his intricately-embroidered waistcoat and frock coat pristine. He was swirling the last drop of wine in his glass, head back against the chair, with his eyes closed. Yet, it only took an injudicious remark from one of his fellows for them to realize that while his eyes were closed, his ears were very much open to the conversation. Reason Seb and Bully’s guinea wager was abandoned before it was placed.
Given their steady intake of alcohol over several hours, the butler was not surprised the gentlemen looked frayed about the edges. And while they might talk up the impending arrival of a clutch of high-class whores, the smoke and empty wine bottles were a truer indication of their physical fitness for such a venture. He did not doubt their alcohol consumption meant a wild over-estimation of their sexual prowess.
What a difference three hours made. When Lord Westby had eagerly pressed a list of names and addresses on his butler and ordered the carriage be sent to collect Harris’s harlots, the gentlemen had been throwing back oysters and reminiscing about their time on the Continent. There was much chortling and guffawing about a particular incident at a brothel in Padua, and with anticipatory rubbing of hands together more than a few proclamations were made of repeating that escapade here. The prospect of receiving all manner of sexual favors from the best Harris’s List had to offer had Bully jumping up on the sofa, holding aloft his wig and reciting a well-known bawdy ditty. Much laughter ensued and Packer had departed the room with the list, gaze to the ceiling.
But as Packer’s gaze swept the carnage of an afternoon of continual celebration, he wondered if any of the Brotherhood were capable of walking unaided, and was certain they were about to waste the sixty pounds spent to lure the whores from their places of employment to visit Lord Westby’s townhouse. But it wasn’t his coin, or his business to comment, so he left the gentlemen to continue breathing air thick with tobacco smoke and sent a footman to the cellar for more claret, and a bottle of brandy.
THREE
THE DOOR WAS barely closed on the butler’s back when Jack lifted his chin off his chest and frowned across at his best friend. “Do you think that wise?” When Henri-Antoine made no comment he hissed loudly, “Harry?! Harry?! Do you think—”
“I’m doing my best not to think.”
“—you should have a brandy after so many bot
tles of claret?”
“You’ve been counting.”
“No! Of course not!”
At this hot denial, Henri-Antoine opened an eye. The quick flush to his best friend’s cheeks exposed the fib. He stared at Jack long enough to make him aware of his disapproval, then closed his accusatory eye.
“Oh, all right! I’ll admit to it,” Jack confessed, folding his legs back and sitting forward, a glance over at Seb and Bully, who were now huddled together on the sofa leafing through the pages of Harris’s List. Confident they were otherwise occupied, he added defensively, “You can’t blame me, can you?”
“It’s not your concern.”
“No thanks then for watching your back?”
“You want gratitude?”
“No! Yes! No! Of course not! But perhaps you should have Michel fetched, to take you home—”
“—and ruin this splendid gathering? Michel’s not here. He’s at the Portland auction, buying shells.”
“Was that sensible?”
“Sensible? To trust Michel with the buying of shells?”
“Haha! No! Him there; you here.”
At that Henri-Antoine opened both eyes with some effort. The thud to his temple was becoming unbearable. But bear it he would, and ignore it, and hope that this time the outcome would be different. That if he could just control the warning signs, then all would be well. But it was a futile hope. Still, he’d drunk enough wine and smoked enough cheroots in the past couple of hours to believe in fairy tale outcomes. What surprised him was that he had lasted this long without the onset of a full-blown seizure. But he was determined to make it through the afternoon because it was his best friend’s bachelor send-off, and that only happened once in a lifetime. Thus he made light of Jack’s concern, so he would not worry, and to mask how he felt.
“I’m glad you’re getting married. Time to put your worry to good use… about something, not nothing.”
Jack ignored the sarcasm. “You are not nothing, Harry,” he said quietly. “Never have been, never will be. You should’ve gone to the auction.”
“I’ve been every day for three weeks. Seen enough shells, minerals, and dead things, to numb the most ardent collector. But Elsie will have her shells… There was one in particular… A nautilus… I hope I remembered correctly… I seem… I seem to have misplaced my catalog…”
Jack caught Henri-Antoine’s grimace, and was not fooled when he made a quick recover by pretending to brush lint from the upturned cuff of his metallic-embroidered lilac silk frock coat. He knew him too well, and knew the signs to watch out for. He’d been Henri-Antoine’s best friend since they were nine years old, and he’d never broken his confidence. Not that Henri-Antoine had confided in him, but Jack had been witness to the onset of his seizures several times before being ushered away by his minders.
Henri-Antoine’s affliction had remained an open family secret throughout his boyhood and was treated accordingly. The old Duke of Roxton had surrounded his youngest son with physicians, nurses, attendants, and servants. And he was watched over by his parents, his brother, close family, and had never been left alone a day in his life. Any medical specialist who professed to be an expert in the treatment of the falling sickness had been consulted, from London to Constantinople. There was no known cure, but by the time Henri-Antoine had reached his teens, he had managed to convince his mother and his brother that his malady had cured itself.
It was a lie.
Jack had bought into the lie because he knew how important it was to his best friend to be thought of as just the same as every other fellow his age. Yet, it remained a mystery how he had convinced his physician to lie, too, and before his ducal parents. Henri-Antoine had even told his father he was cured, and the old Duke graciously believed him. But Jack now suspected—and he was sure Henri-Antoine did too—the old Duke had bought into the lie because he was dying, and that his young son hoped that by telling him he was cured it would somehow make his cancer go away. Henri-Antoine had loved his father so very much. The old Duke died a few weeks later. Henri-Antoine never spoke of his father again.
But the intensely private younger brother of the present Duke of Roxton still struggled with the falling sickness. Not every day, as had been the case when he was a boy, but often enough for him to employ a coterie of servants to help him maintain the charade that he was as vigorous and as healthy as any young man of five-and-twenty. Which he was, in every respect, if he ignored the malady he’d been born with.
Jack understood Henri-Antoine’s need for concealment, because the falling sickness carried great social stigma for sufferers and their families. He well remembered when, as boys, hushed conversations and sidelong glances were directed at his best friend. There were whispers amongst servants about a tainted bloodline; that the old Duke was to blame, paying for past sins with his young son’s affliction. When a physician had hinted at madness, he was instantly dismissed. And when a Papist priest had suggested demonic possession and the need for exorcism, he was bundled from the Duke’s Parisian mansion without his feet ever touching the polished parquetry. Jack and Henri-Antoine took great delight in watching the eviction, peeking out from behind a fat column in the old Duke’s library.
Jack knew the last thing Henri-Antoine wanted was for his family to be the subject of scandal or ridicule because of his affliction, and so did everything his wealth could provide to ensure his falling sickness remained a closely-guarded secret. This meant Jack surreptitiously watched for signs of the onset of a fit almost as assiduously as did his best friend’s household. But when he’d had a few drinks, his anxiety increased tenfold, and he was prone to vocalizing his fears, much to Henri-Antoine’s chagrin.
“It’s the smoke as well as the alcohol,” Jack postulated, another furtive glance over at Seb and Bully. “Neither is good for you, and when combined—”
“This concern is touching, but unnecessary.”
“Let me have a window opened, get you a flask of boiled lemon water—”
“For God’s sake, Jack! Don’t—don’t—fuss.”
Jack sat back but was undeterred, and persistent. “It’s time you confided in Roxton—”
“No.”
“—because, as you rightly pointed out, once I’m married, I’ll have other concerns—a wife, and hopefully in the not too distant future, children. I want children, Harry. That means I won’t be around as much, and you need—”
“What I need is for you to—to…”
Henri-Antoine paused and drew in breath, willing himself to ignore the pain. He averted his face, giving Jack a view of his strong aquiline profile, and momentarily stared at the fireplace littered with the ash and discarded tips from half-a-dozen smoked India cheroots.
“What do you need me to do, Harry?” Jack whispered loudly, hoping against hope that, like him, fueled by alcohol, Henri-Antoine’s guard was down and he would confide in him. It was a hollow hope, and after all these years he should have known better. “Ask. Anything. You know I’m here for you—always.”
“If you think I can’t function without you… think again,” Henri-Antoine said with quiet menace, which was much more effective than had he shouted. But he never raised his voice. “I’m not your cast-off lover… I’m not weeping buckets because you’ve forsaken me. Keep your concern for those deserving of it. Live your life… with your bride and brace of brats in the Cotswolds—wherever the hell that is—and never give me another thought. My life… My life shall… shall go on perfectly well without you—Ah! The brandy!” he announced in an altogether different tone.
He tapped the table at his elbow for the footman to set down the silver tray holding decanter and glasses. He then bestirred himself to splash a generous drop of the amber fluid into each, and offered one to Jack. But when Jack hesitated to take it, Henri-Antoine peered at him. Jack’s color had deepened, and through the untidy curls his eyes were glazed, mouth drawn in a thin line.
“Take it, Jack,” Henri-Antoine urged softly, and wi
th a rare smile. “I want to toast our friendship.”
Jack took the glass, swallowing down the lump in his throat. But his voice was still raw with emotion. “You can be vile at times, Harry. Do you know that?”
“I’ve never been anything less, dear fellow. Reason you are my only friend.” He raised his glass. “To Jack. Dependable. Loyal. Responsible. Loving… Your bride is deserving of the very best, and you are the best, Jack.”
Jack grinned sheepishly, losing his petulance, and the friends clinked glasses. They savored the brandy.
“Thank you, Harry. You’ll always be my best friend. It’s just—It’s just—”
“—you’ve found your mate. More correctly, she found you. I am exceedingly happy for you both… I hope you are blessed with a brood.”
“I wish—I wish you could be as happy as I am… That you, too, had found your soul mate.”
Henri-Antoine pulled a face. “Me? A soul mate? And fairies are real! I grant I am excellent marriage mart material… But… what poor wretch would willingly take on the care and watering of such a pathetic creature?”
“I believe there is someone out there for you. I do,” Jack said earnestly, eyes glassy again because this admission was the closest his friend had ever come to acknowledging the weakness of his affliction. “You just haven’t found her—and she hasn’t found you—yet!”
“Oh, don’t be forlorn,” Henri-Antoine said dismissively. “I’m not you. I can’t imagine restricting my carnal appetite to a single female. There are too many beauties deserving of my—um—largesse. What is it, Bully?” he drawled, catching sight of Randall Knatchbull waving Harris’s List above his head in an effort to attract attention.
“Are there six or eight nymphs coming to entertain us, Harry?”
“Eight,” Henri-Antoine replied. “Jack gets first pick—”
Jack’s face burned. “Not me. Not ever again.”
Henri-Antoine looked at the drop of brandy in his glass, then lifted his gaze and teased Jack mercilessly.
Satyr’s Son: A Georgian Historical Romance (Roxton Family Saga Book 5) Page 3