He lifted the heavy watch and opened the cover. The face was opal, with gold-carved numbers under perfectly smooth glass. He turned it over in his hands, his pulse quickening. He had not ordered this. Who on earth…? The inscription on the back of the cover left him in no doubt. It was nothing more than a date, written out in full.
It was the day on which Henry had met Richard at Madam Dorlet’s. More specifically, it was the
next
day, for it had been after midnight when he had set eyes on Richard for the first time.
“Damn…” Henry’s voice broke and died away. He closed the watch fast and pressed it between his hands, tears filling his eyes.
Damn him!
In an attempt to quash the traitorous delight that already had his heart racing, he tried to view the gift in some kind of negative light.
Men do not send such gifts to each other
, he told himself firmly. Why, this was the kind of display better suited to some young girl just out in society. It was insulting! As if to give weight to the ridiculous sentiments, he tossed the watch back into its velvet bed and slammed the lid shut. Feigning outrage to an empty room, however, was as futile as it was silly.
In a kind of numb haze, for he could not feel bad and would not allow himself to feel good, he opened the box and arranged the watch in a more deliberate manner. He then closed the lid gently and slid the box to the corner of his desk. He tried to ignore it, forced himself to continue with the paperwork that he had intended to be done with for the night, but he could swear the box radiated heat like a little oven, drawing him. When he went up to bed later that night at an embarrassingly early hour, he tucked the box into the bottom drawer of his nightstand, where his valet never looked.
Oddly enough, the thought of returning the watch or destroying it never occurred to him.
The next day, London awoke from its dreary reprieve to glistening streets and air filled with the scent of wet stone. Henry had promised to meet Sir William Shrap for lunch at White’s and could think of no good excuse to cancel. Besides, he could not—
would
not—go back into hiding, for that was precisely what he had done by staying in the country all those years. He could no longer fool himself about that.
As he dressed that morning and crossed his room to collect a cravat pin from the nightstand, he stopped and stared at the bottom drawer. He could kick himself for even being tempted. Of course he would not wear the watch. He couldn’t, for so many reasons. But as he turned away and patted his coat pocket to see where his handkerchief was, his eyes went to the stationary box on the side table. When he opened it, Richard’s handkerchief was still there, crumpled in a ball just as it had been when Henry had tossed it there after that horrible night at the ball.
He wasn’t sure why he took it. In a silly way, he almost convinced himself that it was a kind of compromise for not wearing the watch. He smoothed out the handkerchief as best he could, folded it into a quick square, and shoved it into his breast pocket. It was just a handkerchief, like any other. He could not very well leave the house without one.
Who are you fooling, Henry?
On his way to White’s, he stopped by a florist shop and ordered a dozen lilies to be sent to Lady Anne, cursing himself for not having thought of the gesture sooner. He needed to keep driving forward with his plan, even if the plan now felt more like a wind pushing him along rather than something he was pursuing. He intended to send a card as well, but finding himself at a loss for anything to write, he had the flowers sent with just his name. At White’s he found Sir William cloistered behind a newspaper in one of the gaming rooms.
“I wonder that you choose to read in here and not in the reading room, sir,” Henry said with a greeting smile.
Sir William brushed his paper aside like a curtain. “Ah, there you are, Brenleigh! I was wondering if you meant to come at all.”
Henry lifted his brow in amusement. “I am five minutes early.”
“I never read in the reading room or the library,” Sir William declared, seeming not to hear Henry’s last reply. “Too damn quiet. One can hear every footstep and cough like a fire bell. This is much better. All the noise is more of a hum.”
The sunlit room was dotted with half a dozen card tables, four of which were currently occupied by laughing players already sipping port and writing their vowels despite it barely being past noon. Henry had a half-amused, half-disapproving notion that several of them had not actually been to bed yet from the night before.
“I agree, sir,” Henry said. “And it also appears to be a prime location from which to see and hear very much without having to participate.”
Sir William released a booming laugh and rose from his seat. “Ah, I get your meaning, my boy. Yes, yes, I do have a weakness for gossip, but I assure you that there are far worse vices to have and I stay well clear of those.”
“Far be it from me to criticize,” Henry assured him with good humor. “To show you how amenable I am, you may feel free to regale me with every
on-dit
you can think of over lunch.”
“Just so!”
A few minutes later and they were seated in the dining room at a comfortable round table near the windows. The boisterous room, filled near to capacity with diners, had sent a wave of apprehension up Henry’s spine. But a quick examination of the room brought no one he recognized, and he relaxed. He also scolded himself. It was perfectly possible that Sam or Richard might have been there, and Henry would simply have to deal with it if they were. A liveried footman took their menu selections after they were seated, then disappeared.
“You have dined at White’s before?” Sir William asked.
“Twice only since I have been in town.”
“And never before that.” Sir William shook his head. “Buried out there in the country like that. Unthinkable.”
“I enjoy the country, sir. As my father did.”
“Bah!” Sir William waved his hand. “Liking is one thing, but a young man rusticating his youth away in the rural counties is quite another. And before you start talking to me about the peace and quiet and all that rot, I will tell you that your father once had quite a liking for London, I assure you. Why, when we were your age, we ran wild from London to Brighton.”
Henry widened his eyes. “
My
father?”
“Just so!” Sir William took a sip of his port, eyes twinkling. “There are some men who are the same all their lives, and some who change dramatically at every new stage in life. Your father was the latter sort.”
Henry drank his port and took the moment of silence to think. He could not image the late earl being anything but the stern, sober man he had been. Perhaps marriage had changed him.
“As for liking the country, my boy, you’ll forgive my bluntness when I say that it is difficult—damn difficult—for a young man to live life as he ought in such, eh, limited company. London has much more to offer than the local tavern inn, if you get my meaning.”
Henry got his meaning very well. Some mischievous devil in the back of his mind made him smile. “I’m afraid I can’t defend country living where that is concerned. I have already seen how much more London has to offer.”
Sir William laughed. “Ah, to be young again! You make me feel old, my boy, which of course I am, damn it. A change of subject, then, before I start crying into my port?”
Henry laughed with delight. To think that this man had been one of his father’s closest friends. It was a revelation. “By all means.”
“I saw your cousin at Gunter’s day before last. Surely it wouldn’t have been yesterday. So damn miserable that even the rats were hunkered down, I swear. Meant to share a word with him, but her ladyship was eager to be off.”
“My cousin?” Henry said, taken aback. “What was he—”
He broke off as the shadow of a footman crossed the table, two other men standing in its wake.
The footman bowed. “If Sir and His Lordship are agreeable to sharing their table, I am afraid the dining room is full at the moment.”
“Ah, what’s this?” Sir William waved toward the two empty seats. “By all means, gentlemen. A man has to eat. Sit. How are you, Claiborne?”
The taller man, a blond Viking sort with sharp blue eyes, shook Sir William’s hand and edged toward his seat. But Henry hardly noticed these things, as his attention was fixed on the other man. They stared at each other for a moment.
“Julian Garrott,” Julian said as he shook Sir William’s hand in turn.
“Ah, yes! Nash’s boy. Haven’t seen you in an age.” Sir William slapped his thigh. “This is Lord Brenleigh. I knew his father going years back.”
Henry held his breath as Julian executed an elegant bow. “Lord Brenleigh and I were introduced at Lady Glennbury’s ball.” The Viking cleared his throat, instantly drawing Julian’s attention. Julian glanced at him, then went on. “My lord, allow me to introduce you to Mr. Devon Claiborne.”
“Sir.” Henry greeted Claiborne cordially enough, but he was sure he detected a kind of moody strain around the man’s eyes. Henry almost lost his reserve when the man had the effrontery to actually look him up and down.
“I had heard that you had come to town,” Mr. Claiborne said in an offhand way. “One always hears about the comings and goings of new people, and I understand that you haven’t been much in London.”
“No, I haven’t,” Henry replied flatly. The man was examining him in the most disconcerting way, yet casual enough for Sir William to be oblivious.
Sir William immediately launched into a litany of reminiscing—for apparently he and Claiborne knew each other through investment circles—and Henry was left to turn his reluctant attention to Julian.
Julian sipped his water glass and listened politely to the exchange between Claiborne and Sir William, which quickly entered investment territory that even Henry found dull to follow. As Henry observed Julian anxiously, he could not help but take note of his appearance. Julian was below average height and slight of build, though not at all spindly or weak looking. His raven-black hair was long enough to graze his collar and brush his eyebrows when he moved. A fair complexion and blue eyes so dark they were almost violet combined to make him remarkably beautiful, even pretty.
“I am sorry our card game ran short at the Glennburys the other evening,” Julian said softly, flicking his gaze up under long lashes.
Henry started, not just from the reference to that awkward meeting, but because he had been quite openly staring.
Julian continued. “You must forgive Sir Samuel, I hope. He is not usually so…forgetful about prior engagements. I find it most curious.”
That Julian was speaking in codes and euphemisms was obvious to Henry. Nevertheless, a trickle of sweat formed between his shoulder blades and ran down his back, making him shiver. “It’s just as well,” he muttered.
“Had you met Sir Samuel before the Glennbury ball?”
Please speak of something else.
“Years ago, in our school days.” Henry swallowed a mouthful of port. Sir William and Claiborne appeared still deeply engaged, so he added, “I did not get the impression that Sir Samuel and Ri—Lord Avery play cards often.”
Julian shook his head. “Oh, no. They despise each other.”
Henry nearly gasped. Before he could remember that he wanted the line of conversation to end, he asked, “Why is that?”
Julian lowered his gaze to the table and reached for his glass again.
“As I understand it,” Claiborne said, his deep voice cutting between them, “Avery and Shaw were enjoying the favors of the same…friend…at one point, and Avery took exception. Jealousy does mad things to people.”
The way Julian closed his eyes and breathed slowly through his nose, his posture utterly still, left Henry in little doubt who the
friend
was. Claiborne was staring right at Julian, his lips twisted up in a show of amusement. Had Henry not been sitting, he might have fallen. A wave of pure, near-sickening jealousy swirled in his gut. Julian, this beautiful creature with eyes the color of indigo, had been with Richard.
“Ah, young bucks will be fools and fight over a bit of muslin.” Sir William sighed, oblivious to the atmosphere now churning around him. “Why, did you know your own father, Mr. Garrott, Lord Nash, once gave the cut direct to Baron Hendworth because of a row they had over a mistress? It was quite the scandal at the time.”
“That is fascinating, sir,” Julian choked out, his placid demeanor seeming to crack. Henry watched him force a smile as he said, “What was the woman’s name again? I forget.”
As planned, this sent Sir William off on a thorough retelling of the whole scandal. The tale continued through the delivery of their meals. Henry and Julian ate sparingly and remained mostly silent, for Claiborne seemed more than willing to encourage Sir William in one direction or another with well-placed comments and strategic questions. Every now and then the man would shoot Julian a look of self-satisfied amusement, then favor Henry with a look of contempt.
It was infuriating and confounding at once. The man obviously—
obviously
—knew that Julian and he preferred men, leading Henry to be almost certain that he did as well. The three of them were privy to the uncomfortable strain in the air, but only this Claiborne fellow appeared to be enjoying it. Henry was tempted to lean over and ask Julian how he knew this man, and how on earth he could bear his company, but he remembered that Julian had been with Richard, and the jealousy held him back.
“Too true, sir,” Claiborne said with a grin. “This Season is littered with new beauties, though one less than we would enjoy. As I hear it, Lord Brenleigh here has his sights set on Lady Anne Avery, and not another man has a chance with her.”
Henry snapped his head up. Damn, but he had been lost in his thoughts and hardly listening. Claiborne’s look of knowing amusement was now firmly on him, and Henry’s sense of panic was growing worse.
He knows. He knows, and he doesn’t like me for some reason.
Henry swallowed hard. “Lady Anne is a fine lady.”
“To be sure,” Claiborne agreed. “And her brother, Culfrey, is rather high in the instep. Still, if he’s given you leave to pay addresses to his sister, he must have learned
everything
about you beforehand.”