“Well, I shan’t ever fall for that poppycock.”
Ah, to be young again and so stupidly ignorant
. Love, in all its wondrous forms, was what made life worth living. Even the love of family and friends soothed the soul. He may never find that perfect peace again as he had with Anna, but he still hoped to come close. He leaned toward Banks and slapped his shoulder companionably. “I would suggest you do not make such startling pronouncements because if one day you should fall in love I shall tease you mercilessly upon the discovery.” He softened his words with a smile.
Taking on Banks’ education while his uncle was from the country was no great hardship, and he would have some truly wonderful things to tease the young man about later in his life if he did not learn to moderate his startling outbursts.
Banks’ demeanor turned sullen. “So about Singleton?”
Ambrose laughed. “Rest easy. He could be good for your mother. Just think, if she has truly formed a
tendré
for him he will keep her occupied and out of your affairs.”
The boy smiled suddenly. “I never thought of that. I say. That could be very good.”
Ambrose quirked a brow. “Do not get too carried away. She still has eyes in the back of her head.” And if she had discovered her brother-in-laws preference for other men and accepted it without a qualm then there was no secret she couldn’t overturn. “Never underestimate a mother.”
“I won’t.”
Ambrose smiled fondly when Banks took his leave to join a younger group of men across the room, but an odd ache burned in his chest that perhaps Banks didn’t belong here either. He was an amiable man, if prone to sulks, handsome and neat in his habits. He would make a fine duke one day, hopefully after the current Duke of Lewes had lived a long and happier life with his lover, Terrance. As far as Ambrose could tell, Banks knew nothing about that.
“He’s pretty,” a high pitched male voice muttered behind his back where
Redding
should have stood if he were not otherwise engaged.
Ambrose turned and found Lord Silas Flint, last season’s late inductee to the club, scowling after Mr. Banks like a jealous lover. He’d better not let the man get the wrong ideas about Banks’ nature. Not every man admitted to the club dabbled in trousers. And those who didn’t ignored those who did unless they wished to be expelled and vice versa. He wanted no trouble or misunderstanding among the patrons. The club was for pleasure only. “The Duke of Lewes’ heir recently joined our merry band.”
“Ah.” Lord Silas slid into the chair Banks had occupied. “An untouchable then. You must be disappointed he is out of bounds.”
The idea of a liaison with young Banks was revolting. The boy was his friend’s family and certainly not his type. Ambrose wished
Redding
was here to scowl at Lord Silas. His footman was very good at dissuading others from overstepping where they were not wanted. Ambrose had regretted inviting Lord Silas after one short week of membership because the man seemed to think that Ambrose was interested in him personally.
He forced a smile to his lips and ignored Lord Silas’ suggestion. “You’re back in
London
again. Did you enjoy Fletcherly’s house party?”
Lord Silas crossed his legs, nudging Ambrose in the process. “Utterly boring event. I was fooled into believing half the ton would be in attendance. Can’t think of why Fletcherly married that cow faced hag.”
For the money, of course. Fletcherly had been up to his eyebrows in debt before he married. Once he had her funds, he’d resumed extravagant life and week-long house parties were a common event.
Lord Silas scanned the room around them. He smiled suddenly. “But enough of him. Are you engaged for the evening? I thought perhaps we might dine together.” Silas battered his lashes and Ambrose almost laughed as the action caused the opposite effect Lord Silas wished for.
When Ambrose wanted a woman, he bedded a woman. But when he bedded a man, he did not want fluttering lashes or simpering before him. There was no greater cure for lust than a man who tended to foppishness. He liked strong men, confident men.
He sighed heavily with feigned regret. “I have plans for the evening.”
Lord Silas smiled. “Perhaps we are invited to the same entertainment. I should be available to you at any time.” While he spoke, Silas stroked his own arm. Ambrose ignored the signal that everyone in his club learned to recognize as a clandestine invitation for dalliance. Usually the signal was reserved for the footmen, male whores hidden in plain sight. Ambrose wasn’t too keen that Lord Silas made the gesture to him where anyone in the club could see.
He stood and tugged on his waistcoat. “Another time, Lord Silas. Now, if you will excuse me, I have some club business to attend to.”
Ambrose quickly left the public rooms behind with relief. Despite his interest in bedding men on occasion, it had to be the right man. Lord Silas wouldn’t be his choice tonight or any night, but he did need someone and soon to take the edge off his appetite for the forbidden before he did something utterly foolish.
Chapter Two
A man should do his best work at all times or he’ll never respect himself. The ethics of hard work and loyalty was what Francis Redding’s poor farmer father had drilled into him and his brother every day until he died. Albus Redding had been the proudest father when his youngest son had taken up duties at
Tindel
Park
, the Duke of Staines’ country estate. But Francis doubted he would be pleased that he’d become a surgeon to a brothel full of whores at the current duke’s request.
Not that he’d had a chance to be surgeon for anyone else. As a farmer’s son, Francis lacked the formal education to become more than a layman at the task. But he did apply himself as best he could so the duke would never regret his impulsive suggestion that he learn the surgeon’s trade when he’d revealed his curiosity. Outside of farming, Francis was the only
Redding
to have made something of himself beyond harvesting hay.
Francis carefully pulled the stitch tight and tied it off gently. Even so, the whore he worked on whimpered in pain. He studied the damaged quim before him and wiped a smear of blood from her skin. “Almost done, Felicity.”
“I know, sir.” She sniffled, but Francis could understand her worry. The girl had had a rough night and been damaged by Lord Carter’s unnecessary enthusiasm. He’d ripped her as if she’d been a virgin, not the experienced courtesan she was reputed to be. The duke would have to do something about Carter. This was the third girl Francis had worked on in as many weeks requiring some form of attention.
When he was satisfied the stitching was his best work, Francis cleared his instruments away, drew Felicity’s nightgown over her knees and tucked the sheets close around her. He met her gaze. “No customers for you for a while. You’ll need time to heal. I’ll be back tomorrow to check on your progress.”
“Mrs. Marinari won’t like that.”
“Don’t worry about that vixen. I’ll deal with her directly.”
Even sore and battered as she was, Felicity offered him a coy smile. “Thank you, Mr. Redding. When I’m well again you can have me for free. I’m ever so keen to repay your kindness today.”
Francis smiled at the offer, but they both knew he would decline. “Just rest there for as long as you can each day.”
A good surgeon did not bed his customers in exchange for payment, no matter the trade they worked in. The whores at the Hunt Club trusted him to heal their hurts, not molest them when he had them laid out before him. But in all honesty, the sights afforded by a whores spread legs rarely produced an excited rise. Perhaps it was because their favors were given so freely that he did not trust one word of flirting encouragement that came out of their mouths. It was not their fault—they were paid to sound encouraging. And the Duke of Staines, their employer, would fire any of them if they said what was really on their minds.
But Francis would speak up about Lord Carter’s rough ways with the whores. The loss of Felicity, along with the other two, from the roster for the next week would cost the duke quite a sum of money.
Staines
did not like to waste anything in his club and would no doubt become annoyed.
Wearily, Francis returned to his private chamber where he stored his daily needs at the club and tugged on the bell for assistance. Cook would send up hot water for washing now that he was finished with Felicity and then he would resume his post as footman, six paces behind the Duke of Staines. A position he’d held since he was a wide eyed boy of ten among the ducal finery.
These days, he didn’t notice the splendor so much. Strange to think he’d grown so accustomed to the Duke of Staines and his many possessions that he felt a certain pride in the estate. A misplaced sense of ownership that he should disabuse himself of immediately, as soon as the warm sensations began. Yet
Tindel
Park
and the London Townhouse
were
home. He’d lived within those walls for more than thirty years.
Francis methodically unwrapped the bundle of instruments from the bloodied cloth and laid them in the basin for cleaning. The sharp edge of the scissors caught a speck of sunlight from the world outside and their ghastly appearance sent a chill of unease down his spine.
He jumped as someone bumped against the door. “Come.”
A maid rushed in carrying a kettle of hot water and then rushed out again without looking at him with more than a bare glance. Puzzled, he looked down. No wonder. The dark stain of blood marred his pale grey silk waistcoat. The sight of a surgeon smeared with blood would cause anyone nightmares. He must have had some on his hand and accidentally transferred it to the expensive cloth.
Francis ripped his soiled waistcoat off and discovered the blood had seeped through to his newest white shirt, too. Damn the blood. He removed his cravat and shirt too then poured half of the near-boiling water over his instruments and the rest in the washbasin, along with some cold so he did not scald himself.
He sank his hands into the basin, watching the remnants of his surgery mingle with the fresh water. He shuddered. Perhaps it was time to find a new profession. If not for the duke’s need for a discreet surgeon at the club, he would never have begun the trade in the first place. He was heartily sick of the trade and thought longingly of his fantasy of becoming a physician, a position that did not require one to dabble in blood but merely dispense advice from a distance.
He grabbed a washcloth and scrubbed his hands clean, washed his face free of sweat and then wiped at the blood smear on his belly. He had little chance of becoming a physician, even if he did study the lore in every available moment. The role required greater consequence and attendance at a university such as
Cambridge
.
“Now that is a sight worth getting aroused for. Good God, the duke could charge double to have a man like you join our ranks,” a feminine voice purred.
Francis didn’t turn around as the Hunt Club’s abbess invaded his chamber. “Not all of the duke’s servants are destined to be whores, Mrs. Marinari.”
Marinari managed everything about the girls except for their health. She clothed, styled and allocated them for the patron’s pleasure. She could also be a pain in the arse for everyone else in between.
“I cannot see why not.” She flounced into the room with a loud rustle of fabric and perched on his only chair, her pretty face twisted with distaste. “It’s far preferable to stitching them up.”
He sighed and waggled his finger at her. “If I turned whore for the duke then who would clean up your customers mistakes?”
Her smile turned grim. “That man should have his balls removed for his wickedness,” her voice came out as a low pitched growl, reminding Francis that he was actually dealing with a man beneath all that dazzling beauty. There were days when he tended to forget. Or maybe he merely wanted to ignore that some men liked to dress in fine silks and lace and parade about as women. Mrs. Angela Marinari was really Mr. Angelo Marinari, previously of
Italy
and with no other socially acceptable profession he could speak of.