Rakes and Radishes (19 page)

***

Kesseley fled the duke’s house like wolves were at his heels. He revisited the conversation, looking for any slip, any phrase that could be misunderstood as an intention to marry Lady Sara. His heart was flip-flapping with fear, just imagining a life shackled to her.

He slipped into a gambling hell on St. James. Passing the money collectors waiting in the front room, he disappeared into the paneled parlors filled with the haze of smoke and the smell of spirits. All the wall sconces and chandeliers were lit, illuminating paintings of pale-skinned goddess baring their breasts. He found a corner table and downed a brandy, feeling the gaze of a raven-haired lady on him. He raked his eyes over her. She was small, trim, with straight hair falling down in wisps. Her pale skin and dark eyes reminded him of Henrietta and anger swelled inside him.

He shook his head. Sorry, no black-haired beauties for him.

Bucky and some of his friends found Kesseley on the fourth brandy, and they removed to the faro table. Bucky quickly lost fifty pounds and had to leave the game, but Kesseley remained, drinking more, spending the afternoon losing and winning back three hundred pounds. He gambled until he grew bored, finding easy diversion in a vibrant redhead and a green-eyed blonde who sauntered in and sat beside their raven-haired friend. She glowered at Kesseley, still stung by his rejection. What the hell? She was a courtesan. It was just business. She was selling herself, and he wasn’t interested in the merchandise.

The three ladies exchanged some words. The raven-haired chit shook her head. The redhead shrugged, and she and her blonde friend approached the table, leaving their dark friend behind.

“Pardon, are you Lord Kesseley?” the pretty redhead asked very sweetly.

His gaze flickered back to their friend. She looked away, angry. “Is that who you want? Lord Kesseley?”

Red looked flustered, as if she had made a mistake. Kesseley took her hand and kissed her smooth, cool skin, but kept his gaze on the black-haired lightskirt. She wasn’t going to look at him. “I am Kesseley. But I do not know who you are.”

Lydia. The blonde was Aimee with the French spelling.

“Our friend, Josephine, is in a play off Drury Lane this evening,” French Aimee said with a heavy Yorkshire accent. She nodded her head to the angry, dark friend, who turned her head at the sound of her name.

“We have a box and desire some company,” Aimee continued, her eyes sweeping across the table to include Bucky and his friends. They eagerly accepted.

Kesseley did not. He locked his gaze on Josephine’s chocolate eyes. Not as glittery as Henrietta’s, but rather skittish.

“Your friends are coming,” Lydia urged him.

“I may have other plans,” he said, then cocked his head, speaking loud enough for Josephine to hear. “Is your friend a good actress? Will I be amused? Or will she waste my time?”

The men at the table blew low whistles over their cards. Josephine pulled her reticule off the table and walked out.

“I think I will go to the play after all,” Kesseley said, watching her retreating back.

***

In the afternoon, Henrietta exchanged her sacklike morning dress for an equally unappealing evening gown, intending to sit in the darkness of a theatre box and pass the evening pretending to be invisible. She watched the front door, waiting for Kesseley to come home. Although she didn’t know what she would say except
I love you
and
I’m sorry.
The ladies took the carriage to Lady Winslow’s for dinner. She lived in a quaint townhome on Cavendish Square, smaller than Lady Kesseley’s.

The ground-floor rooms resembled over-stuffed closets of
objets d’art.
Henrietta could scarce see the parlor walls for all the paintings and illustrations. The tables were cluttered with colorful glass vases and interesting sculptures. She could spend the evening sitting in this room, silently taking in each piece.

Unfortunately she was quickly ushered into the dining room, where the portrait of a rather small intense man with intellectual eyes presided over the dinner table. Lady Winslow sat beneath him.

When she asked about the striking gentleman, Lady Winslow’s face softened and she replied, “My husband.” Then she flicked her wrist to a portrait hanging over the princess’s head. It was a man in hunting clothes beside a horse. “And that was the other one,” she said flatly.

After dinner, they headed out for an “intimate” little theatre off Drury Lane.

They had to wait behind the carriages headed for Haymarket before they cut through the small, winding Drury Lane. Soon they came to a stop in front of a shadowy, brown building with cracked painted plaster where people entered a low door lit by a single gas torch.

Inside, the fashionable, intellectual and artistic wearily eyed each other as they squeezed into a dimly lit salon smelling of the tallow and dirty carpet, waiting on the door to the theatre to open.

“Henrietta!” a surprised male voice called. She turned to see Edward edging through the shoulders toward her.

Lady Winslow arched a questioning brow at Henrietta. “The poet?”

“Good evening, cousin.” Edward bowed stiffly, his eyes roving about as if looking for someone. “I do not see Kesseley.”

“He is not here.”

Edward let out a relieved breath. “How are you this evening?”

“Very well, thank you,” she lied. “And yourself?”

“Well, I suppose.” But he wasn’t, and his cheerful façade melted away, pain filling his large green eyes. He swallowed and looked at his hands. “I’ve been roaming about the town, writing poetry—dark stuff. I don’t even know why I do it. Did you not see the reviews of my book? It seems I’m the worst poet ever. I just didn’t know what else to do.”

Lady Winslow overheard. “Might I comment upon your poetry, Mr. Watson?” she said before Henrietta could introduce her.

“Please don’t.”

Lady Winslow barreled on. “I do not like your poems.”

“You are not unique in your opinion, ma’am,” he said tersely, turning to Henrietta, thereby giving Lady Winslow his back.

Lady Winslow continued unfazed. “But I think you possess great talent, Mr. Watson, a talent perhaps picked before it had time to bloom. I daresay the poems that you have written this day in your despair may show your true depths. Many artists only discover themselves in their darkest time.”

Edward swung around, searching Lady Winslow with his earnest green eyes. “Yes,” he whispered.

Lady Winslow performed a graceful curtsey, slowly lifting her copper eyes to meet Edward’s, and a silent communication passed between them.

“Lady Winslow, may I introduce Mr. Edward Watson. He is my—”

“I would be honored if you would join us this evening, Mr. Watson, in my box if you are not otherwise engaged,” Lady Winslow said.

“I’m not.” He shook his head, looking almost dazed. “I-I just came here, because— because I didn’t know where to go.”

“Well, we have found you.” Lady Winslow smiled enigmatically.

The ladies recognized several other lost gentlemen in the salon, taking them along to the box that Lady Winslow engaged beside the stage. She insisted that Edward sit next to her. Lady Kesseley and two other gentlemen sat behind her in the coveted back seats, concealed in the shadows, leaving Henrietta the front seat which was so close to the stage she should have been in the playbill.

The curtain opened to a painted vista of Florence. This was a quite serious production about the Medici family. The actresses wore period costumes, long frumpy Renaissance gowns, causing great distress to the gentlemen in the front row, who couldn’t see even the tiniest glimpse of ankles. Halfway through the opening scene, a few frustrated male audience members threw pieces of their dismantled benches onto the stage, causing one actor to lose his performance face and throw some of the Italian set back. A fight ensued, and several men had to be carried away.

As much as Henrietta tried to pay attention to the play, thoughts of Kesseley crept into her mind. Each instance she’d disappointed him or pushed him away returned to haunt her. She didn’t remember a time Kesseley wasn’t there, lingering in the periphery of each moment of her life. So patient, so loyal. Her best friend. She was so horrid and stupid. She didn’t deserve him, she never had.

Across the stage, several loud drunken bucks and their garish lady friends stumbled into a vacant box. Behind the rowdy young men, a taller gentleman waited in the shadows with ladies on either side of him.

Henrietta heard her own sharp intake of breath as Kesseley moved to the front seat.

He wore a crisp white shirt, the tips brushing his hard jaw, his coat and breeches molded to his physique. For a moment all the audience, including the actors on the stage, stopped and admired the Adonis amongst them. He appeared bored, disdainful of the attention. He sat back in his seat, spreading his knees wide, resting his chin on his knuckles. His two beautiful companions, a redhead and a blonde, draped themselves beside him, leaning their generous bosoms on his arms. His lips curled into a slow, appreciative smile.

She felt a hard fist of jealousy clenching in her heart. She couldn’t help but wonder if he smiled the same way when those ladies were naked in his arms. His mouth on their skin. Wasting his love—that she so desperately desired—on some—

“Whores!”

Dear God! Did I say that?
For one horrible moment she thought she had.

“Whores!” Lady Kesseley cried again, her pale eyes locked on Kesseley. The gentlemen sitting beside her quickly pulled her into the shadows, and the princess and Lady Winslow fell back to shield her. Henrietta rose and saw the audience’s eyes on her, as if she played the part of “whore” in the play. She looked at Kesseley, who stared back at her, his eyes narrowed under his brows.

Henrietta turned and fled into the corridor where Lady Kesseley leaned against the wall, supported by her friends. “I’ve lost my son,” Lady Kesseley whispered.

***

Henrietta held Lady Kesseley’s arm outside the theatre. A cold breeze whipped through the narrow street, blowing back Henrietta’s pelisse and biting her cheeks and ears. It took ages for the carriage to come. They could have walked home. Lady Winslow, Princess Wilhelmina and Edward were silent. No one knew what to say. All the time, Henrietta kept close to the door, hoping it would swing open and Kesseley would come outside, explain that it was all a terrible joke.

But he never came.

When the carriage rolled to a stop on Curzon Street, Lady Kesseley adamantly refused any company, insisting she wanted to be alone. As Lady Kesseley descended the carriage, Lady Winslow grabbed Henrietta’s arm.

“We shall come by in the morning,” she said. “Send a footman at any time during the night if you require help.”

***

Henrietta escorted Lady Kesseley to her chamber door, her arm weak on Henrietta’s elbow. She gave Henrietta a small kiss on her cheek. Her lips were cold and dry. “I used to resent you because you never loved my son. But now, you are like my own true daughter. Did you know I had two daughters? They died, didn’t live more than a week,” she said, her voice coming in strange waves as if spoken from a far distance.

***

Henrietta hadn’t slept in two days and even as her mind pressed on, her body shut down. She fell into bed as soon as the maid removed her stays. She didn’t even braid her hair. She would brush out the tangles in the morning, like she would all the other tangles in her life.

In her dreams, she sat on a rock with her mother before the Ouse. Heavy deep gray clouds blew over their heads, and she could see the lightning strike the flat horizon. So when the screams first pierced her dreams, she thought it was thunder. A few seconds later, however, she shot up in bed in the darkness with one thought.

Fire.

Not even bothering to reach for her banyan, she ran out into the corridor, instinctively heading for Kesseley’s chamber. It was empty. The screams continued. Henrietta rushed down the stairwell, coming to the landing where Lady Kesseley stood, still in her evening clothes, a glass figurine poised in her raised hand.

Kesseley stood below in the shadows, holding the rail, the fire from the wall sconce flickering in his dark glossy eyes. Henrietta couldn’t tell if he was drunk, but he reeked of alcohol, smoke and perfume.

“Do you think you are going to stay out all night with whores, then sleep in my house? Get out!” Lady Kesseley cried and threw the figurine. It cracked on his collarbone but he didn’t flinch.

“Oh God! Kesseley!” Henrietta ran down the stairs, cutting her foot on a shard of glass.

“Don’t hurt him! He is your son!” she cried, shielding his body with hers. He brushed her aside and continued up the stairs.

“It’s my house, Mother. You get out.” He spoke low, slowly, as if he were moving mountains with his voice. “Why don’t you batten yourself on a lover. Maybe one of them has a nice
pied a terre.
The perfect place for a mistress.”

“No, Kesseley!” Henrietta pleaded, still pulling his arm.

“Stay out of this, Henrietta!” he shouted.

His mother started sobbing. Her cries echoed on the stairwell, and she sank onto the floor, clinging to the rail.

“All those years I told myself everything I gave up was worth it because I had you. And this is how you treat me?”

“No, you don’t mean it,” Henrietta pleaded. “You’re just angry. Please…”

Kesseley ignored her. His mother slowly rose, her shoulders sloped.

“You’ve become him,” she said. “I wish I had never married your father.” She walked away, into the shadows.

***

Kesseley couldn’t even see, everything was black. Inside him, the locks and chains holding back old demons broke under the strain. He felt the ugly truth flood his veins—he couldn’t fight anymore, wasn’t strong enough to hold back this swift, strong current.

“So be it,” he spat.

He felt Henrietta’s hands on his chest. “No,” she cried. “Take it back!”

He couldn’t. He was his father. He turned on his heel and flew back down the stairs, his head pounding, his heart surging on. He was his father. He didn’t know where he was going, but he had to get out, he knew that much.