“The only offense Mr. Cortland committed, if any, my lord, was that he was your heir.” Beck sighed as if his words held all the meaning. When Henry continued to stare at him, bewildered, he said slowly, “His Lordship feared… That is, he expressed to me a very deep concern that you might not choose to marry and continue the family line if you did not have a, um, proper motivation.”
Henry frowned, unable to discern any meaning. “Proper motivation,” he repeated.
“Yes, my lord.” Beck picked up a pen on his desk and began turning it over in his hands. He seemed incapable of looking up. “His Lordship believed, quite firmly, that you were not
inclined
to marry. Ever.”
And then, like a spark from a flint, it was there. Henry’s breath rushed from his lungs, and his limbs turned to ice. The word—
motivation
—rang in his ears like a curse. Oh, yes, he had indeed been motivated for a long time, had he not? The fear of his dependent relations being beggared by a black-hearted gamester, his grandmother and his spinster aunt being reduced to the dregs of genteel poverty. The fear of his loyal servants being dismissed, and of the elderly ones seeing their pensions revoked when the coffers ran dry. It had all been very effective motivation for a man who otherwise would not have married of his own accord.
You knew, Papa.
Henry thought he was going to be sick. “What did he say to you?” he demanded. “I want to know his
exact words
.”
“My lord, please—”
“Tell me what he said!” Henry slammed his fist on the back of the chair. “No pretty euphemisms, Mr. Beck!”
The old man rested his hands flat on the desk top as if to steady himself. “He said…he said,
‘My son is unnatural. He will never take a wife unless he is forced. He will humiliate the family one day without a wife to cover his…his disgusting proclivity
—’” Beck broke off, fumbling in his coat pocket for a handkerchief to press to his glistening forehead.
Through his hurt and anger, Henry felt instantly guilty. He had just essentially forced an old man to call a peer of the realm a sodomite to his face.
“Mr. Beck, do not alarm yourself, sir,” Henry said gently, ignoring the pain threatening to spill from his eyes. “You are blameless. Then and now. I thank you for your assistance. I believe I have my answer.”
“Forgive me, my lord. Do forgive me. He was quite wrong, of course. I tried to talk sense to him, but it was as if he had gone mad!”
“I take no insult from you, sir, be sure of that. I will leave you to your retirement now, Mr. Beck. Having served such as my father for so long, you have no doubt earned the rest.”
Henry left him then, assured that Beck would recover his nerves before long. Henry passed the few sheepish clerks who had probably heard his shouting, and made his way down to the street and the blustery day that went with it. He was thankful that he had taken a hackney. He had no desire to face his coachman or anyone else.
The numbness that had served him after he left Richard at Tattersalls was threatening to surround him again. It was tempting to give in to the fog coming over him for he now had to contend with the knowledge that his father had known what he was and had despised him for it. Perhaps his father had known even before Henry knew himself. What could it have been that told him? Had Henry looked at men a certain way and not realized it? Had he said something or done something? Or perhaps it was more instinctual than that. Did he
look
like he preferred men?
It doesn’t matter now
. He stopped midstride on the sidewalk and took a deep breath. He said it again to himself, silently.
It doesn’t matter now
. And it really did not. Had he discovered while his father was still alive that he knew about his nature, no doubt it would have crippled him with fear, but there was no threat of that now. He felt no fear, only a depressing sense of loss that the man he had thought he knew and loved had been so callously flawed. It was not for himself that he was upset—Henry had no illusions about society’s view of what he was—but rather for Franklin. His father had destroyed Franklin’s life and sent his family into near destitution, all for the sake of concocting an elaborate lie.
And he had arranged the marriage to Culfrey’s daughter.
“I am such a damn fool,” Henry muttered aloud. The skies were getting dark. It looked perhaps as if the storm that had shuttered the city a few weeks ago would present a twin later that evening. Henry would welcome it. He had a lot to think about, and the hum of rain pelting the roof and windows would be a welcome companion. The only other companion who would be more welcome now hated him.
I’m so sorry, Richard. I will fix this. I will!
He pressed his hat more firmly onto his head and leaned into the biting wind as he walked.
Chapter Eleven
Arrangements
One of the saving graces of life in London was that a man could easily lose himself in activity from the moment he woke to the moment he went to bed. Or in the case of many gentlemen, till the moment they passed out drunk. Richard was doing an excellent job of proving that fact.
“Bets, gentlemen?”
Richard downed the remains of his brandy and tossed some coins onto the square he had been eyeing. He hated roulette. He hated any game that relied on blind luck and absolutely no skill. Cards, at least, allowed a man to talk with his fellow players, to size them up and make something human out of it. But Richard did not feel like being human, so he watched the wheel spin.
“Twenty-six black. Congratulations, sir,” the purser said to him, raising his voice over the moans of the other players.
Richard snorted and rolled his eyes. Imagine that. Was he supposed to be pleased that fate had chosen to sprinkle some water on his lips after casting him off into the desert? He scooped the money up with one hand and shoved it into his pocket, not caring that a few of the coins escaped and rolled away over the filthy floor. He set his empty glass down on the edge of the table and turned away.
He told himself that he was not hiding in his cups; it was just that there wasn’t much else to do in such a squalid place. If he was hiding at all, it wasn’t at the bottom of a bottle. It was in the filthy gaming house, occupied by professional gamblers, hopeless addicts of multiple varieties, and whores of an even larger variety, who now surrounded him. It was the kind of place to which he would never typically go, the kind of place in which he would usually be embarrassed to be seen. It was the kind of place where he was very unlikely to see Henry.
Leaving the table behind, Richard pressed his way through the jumble of tables, chairs, and raucous, drunk men. A few ladies, if one were generous with the term, ran their hands over his chest and offered their services in husky voices. He assured them, rather loudly, that he was too drunk to mount a flight of stairs, let alone a woman, and was met with thunderous laughs all around.
He was making his way to the dark hallway that led off from the entrance, where he would hopefully find a privy, when his attention was pulled toward an alcove not far from the foyer. A loud catcall of approval drew him, followed by a glimpse of delicate cuff lace being swung around.
“Well, well! Ain’t ye a pretty piece!” A tall, lean man with a nose like a vulture’s beak had someone pressed into the alcove, blocking his escape and holding him by the wrist. The fact that the man was accosting a
he
did not raise so much as an eyebrow in the room, for that particular slimy gaming hell was known for being devoid of taboos.
Richard could not see the smaller man, whose head barely reached his assailant’s shoulders, nor could he hear whatever reply was made. Richard was about to mind his own business and carry on when the vulture spoke again and pressed his prey more firmly against the wall.
“Oh, a right fine gentleman, sure ye are! Whatever ye say,
sir
.” He laughed. “I like me a bit o’ pretendin’.”
“Don’t touch me!” came the angry reply, shouted and yet still barely cutting through the din. It was just loud enough for Richard to recognize the voice immediately.
“Shove off!” Richard growled, grabbing the assailant by the shoulder and jerking him back.
Julian pushed himself away from the wall and rubbed his wrist as soon as he was free. He glared angrily and stepped forward as if he meant to present his own defense, but Richard quickly blocked him. The vulture fellow’s eyes blazed down at Richard, for he had several inches on him. But what Richard lacked in height he more than made up for in weight.
“Oi!” The man looked Richard up and down. “Think ’cause ye be some fine gent that ye get first pickin’s, do ye? Wait yer turn!”
A group of men and low women, who were obviously his companions, sitting at the closest table sent up whoops of laughter.
Julian raised his nose with every ounce of his aristocratic bearing and made a big show of smoothing his silk evening clothes. “I would correct your assumption and direct you to an actual whore,
sir
, but I could never inflict someone so offensive onto any member of that honorable profession.”
The more intelligent among the man’s friends snickered, while his anger only grew with his confusion. He stepped forward as if to strike Julian, but Richard grabbed his dingy cravat and jerked him to one side.
“Allow me to translate my friend’s words. You smell like an ass and look worse than one.” He shoved the man backward into a chair, which tipped over and sent him sprawling with his legs up.
His so-called friends laughed and banged the table, with one even standing to look down at him. “Oi! Serves ye right, Drew, for chattin’ up them sods when there be plenty of girlies for the havin’! I been warnin’ ye ’bout yer strange ways since we was lads!”
“Oh!” Julian cringed and looked up at Richard. “This place is disgusting!”
Richard put his arm behind Julian’s shoulders and quickly herded him away before the fool scrambling on the floor could regain his feet. They shouldered their way past some laughing onlookers and didn’t stop until they were well into the dark hallway Richard had been previously aiming for.
“God, Julian! What are you doing here?” Richard demanded, pulling Julian into a dark alcove rather like the one he had just escaped. A branch of candles placed before a mirror several feet away cast enough light for them to see each other.
“I would ask you the same question. What a filthy hole!” Julian wrinkled his nose and screwed up his features in a rare break of his usually graceful countenance. Richard had seen it a few times before, and it always made Julian look unaccountably adorable.
Richard began laughing giddily.
“Richard, you’re foxed.” Julian sighed.
“So?” He chuckled. His head had been growing progressively fuzzy all night, but the exertions of the past minutes had brought his intoxication to the fore. He saw Julian through his narrowing vision, all elegant lines and pink lips. Richard reached out and brushed the backs of his fingers over Julian’s cheek.
“Richard…” Julian turned his face away.
“You always have been hard to resist, Jules,” Richard drawled. Maybe this was what he needed. Maybe he just needed to remind himself that the kind of mind-expanding pleasure he had found with Henry could be had elsewhere. He was almost drunk enough to believe it.
“Do you remember that first night, at Grimble’s party?” Richard continued, grinning. “I had to cover your mouth to stifle the moans.”
“Richard, stop.” Julian huffed. “I’m here because I was looking for you.”
“And here I am, Jules.” Richard laughed, mostly to cover his unease. He was a little disturbed by the intense urge he had to grab Julian and drag him to the nearest empty room, to lose himself in some rough, mindless pleasure. No. He was just drunk and stupid.
And lonely.
“Why were you looking for me?” Richard said, shaking the urges away. “And how the hell did you know I was here?”
“Your coachman,” Julian said, as if it was obvious. “Richard, I’m worried about you. This place…”
“Not exactly good ton, is it?” Richard said sarcastically.
“Hardly. So what are you doing here?”
“What am I doing?” Richard scoffed. “I’m drinking and throwing my fortune away at the tables. What do you think?”
“You could do both of those at White’s, or a dozen other places that don’t reek of piss and have scarred brutes guarding the door.” Julian frowned and shifted his eyes somewhat awkwardly before adding, “You’re avoiding Brenleigh, aren’t you?”
A good deal of Richard’s fuzziness cleared and was replaced with hot anger. “I’m fine,” he ground out through his teeth. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have more brandy to drink before I go home and give my loose-lipped coachman the sack.”
“Oh, please. You’re too softhearted to do any such thing,” Julian countered. “Besides, my man had to buy him three pints at the tavern before he finally spilled his concerns. Yes, Richard, you heard right. Even your own servants are worried about you.”
“It’s none of their concern!” Richard snapped. “Or yours. So unless you’ve tracked me down for a good fuck, leave me alone.”
Julian recoiled like a whipped dog, his eyes glistening with hurt. “Fine.” His voice was thick. “Stay here, then.” He pushed past to leave.
“Julian…” Richard groaned, grabbing for Julian’s arm. “I’m sorry. Damn it! I didn’t mean to speak that way to you.”
For a moment he thought Julian would just keep walking, but Julian sighed eventually and lifted his eyes. “
Are
you trying to hurt yourself, Rich? Because that is how it seems. It’s obvious that you’re avoiding Brenleigh.”
“Obvious?” Richard’s voice was laced with worry.
“All right, that was the wrong word. Not obvious in general, but obvious to me. And to Sam.”
“Sam Shaw?” Richard sneered. He did not want to think about that particular thorn. The idea that he and Sam Shaw were mates in misery, so to speak, was a lowering thought.
“I won’t ask what exactly happened between you and Brenleigh, but you haven’t seen him lately. He doesn’t look very good. He doesn’t look like someone who…well…”