A Season for Sin (2 page)

“Viscount Fenwick, my lord.”

He gaped at the butler. “You jest.”

“No, my lord.”

Bell shuttered his expression. “Thank you, Thompson. That will be all.”

He walked out into the foggy night and instructed the driver to take him to White’s, where he intended to meet his friend Fordham. After entering his waiting carriage, he removed his hat and set it aside in a state of disbelief. As the carriage rolled off, his shoulders shook from the absurdity of it all.

Marguerite had replaced him with an eighty-year-old man.

When the carriage rolled to a stop before White’s, Bell descended just as three young bucks swaggered past. One of them pulled out a flask and drank from it. In the light of the gas lamps, the lanky one had longish, wheat-colored hair. None of them looked above eighteen. They were probably looking for trouble and would likely find it. He remembered a time long ago when he and his two closest friends were about their age and made their way into a gaming hell. His father had found out and restricted him for a fortnight, as he’d thought it far worse punishment than a caning.

He inhaled. Now and again, some odd happenstance, like tonight, would catch him unaware, but he’d learned to shove the memories into the farthest corners of his brain.

The past was dead. There was only the here and now.

He took a deep breath and strode into the club, where he sat at his usual table. Bell caught the eye of a waiter, who brought him his favorite brandy. He swirled the glass and inhaled the aroma. Bell looked forward to regaling his friend with the tale of his latest mistress disaster—just the ticket to enliven Fordham.

Bell sipped his drink and spoke briefly to a few of his passing acquaintances regarding tomorrow’s session in Parliament. After they left, he retrieved his watch. Thirty minutes had passed. Ah, well. Fordham was habitually late and always had a ridiculous excuse, usually involving some calamity.

After tucking his watch in his inner coat pocket, Bell looked up to find Stovington and Lindmoore approaching. “Will you join me?” he asked.

“Thank you,” Stovington said as he claimed a chair. Lindmoore hailed the waiter, who brought brandies for all.

Lindmoore swirled his drink and looked at Bell. “So, what news do you have?”

Bell set his brandy aside. “Nothing of any significance.”

Stovington exchanged an amused glance with Lindmoore before returning his attention to Bell. “How is Mrs. Lamont? Still bewitching, I hope?”

Bell kept his expression impassive. Clearly, they had heard rumors about Marguerite and Fenwick, but he’d be damned before he affirmed it. “I’ve no idea,” he said in a bored tone. “I dismissed her.”

Lindmoore frowned and cleared his throat. “We heard an odd rumor about you…”

He gave the pair a patronizing smile. “Gentlemen, there are always rumors about me. I pay them no heed.” He paused and added, “Why should you?”

The two men regarded each other with raised brows. Bell ignored them and checked his watch again. Where the devil was Fordham?

Stovington persisted. “Yes, but this particular bit of news involves Fenwick.”

“Fenwick? Ah, his family planted him at long last, did they?” Bell put his watch away. “I’ll send my condolences to his jubilant heir. Garstone must have waited thirty years or more to inherit.”

Lindmoore scowled. “Fenwick is alive.”

Bell kept his expression closed, but he couldn’t resist tormenting them for wagging their tongues. “Perhaps I should send condolences after all.”

“I don’t follow you,” Stovington said.

“Really? What a pity.” Bell looked up as a different waiter approached with a note on a tray. He broke the seal and read the missive. Fordham had been detained longer than expected at a family gathering and couldn’t escape. Bell sighed and tucked the note into an inner coat pocket. He drained his glass, rose, and inclined his head. “Gentlemen, excuse me. I’ve another engagement.”

When he approached his carriage, he instructed the driver to take him to the bridge leading to Vauxhall Gardens where he could walk across. There was a fireworks display planned, but more important, there were always women of the demimonde at hand. Perhaps he would meet a suitable and even-tempered courtesan to set up as his next mistress.

Bell descended the carriage and strolled across the bridge with dozens of other chattering people. Many had thick accents, and their clothing marked them as part of the lower class. A loud searing sounded along with popping. The sky lit up again and again. He walked along the avenues where people gathered in the boxes. After the fireworks display, an orchestra struck up a lively tune. He stopped to watch the crowd of dancers, remembering to keep his wits about him. Vauxhall was a notorious place for pickpockets and other criminals. Fortunately, the lanterns in the tall trees and the fireworks kept the place lit up sufficiently. He retrieved a case from his inner coat pocket and lit a cheroot from one of the lanterns. He’d no sooner inhaled when a woman approached him.

“Hello, deary.”

He regarded her with distaste as she moved closer. Her cheap perfume did not mask the scent of perspiration. When the sky lit up again, he noted she’d rouged her cheeks and wore a bedraggled gown.

She stroked his arm. “You’re a handsome one. If you’re looking for a bit of fun, I can give you a standup for a fiver, if you take my meaning.”

Most likely, she’d give him the French pox. “No, thank you.”

“Are you sure, now? Me name is Nan, and I’m lonesome this evening.”

He turned and walked away, wondering how many Nans were desperate enough tonight to proposition strange men. The encounter disgusted him and put him off the idea of finding a new mistress here. He would be better off waiting to attend one of the numerous entertainments given by the demimonde.

After he ground out his cheroot, he strode back toward the bridge. He decided to return home and spend the rest of the evening reading and enjoying a fine brandy in his favorite chair. He would feel better in the comfort of his own home, though he acknowledged that he’d begun to feel a bit too isolated lately.

Well, he certainly wasn’t the sort of fellow who insisted upon surrounding himself with hordes of acquaintances and sycophants who would fawn over him because of his title. He preferred his privacy to balls and routs, but even he had to put in appearances in order to maintain his political alliances.

The crowd revelry receded as he neared the bridge, but soon he heard the raucous laughter of men near the river. Harsh shouts in a lower-class accent made Bell frown. He walked closer, only to see a waterman arguing with two well-dressed gentlemen in a boat. One man leaned back, and his hat fell in the river. His friend guffawed. There was no doubt in Bell’s mind that the men were in their cups.

The one still wearing his hat addressed the waterman. “I swear we’re good for the money,” he said, raising his voice.

His hatless companion swigged from a flask and tried to offer it to the waterman. “See, we’re not so very bad.”

“I don’t want it. Get out of me boat,” the waterman shouted. “You nobles are all the same. I take coin, not promises.”

The hatless man who had offered the flask tried to stand. Then he fell on his arse and grabbed the oar, presumably to steady himself. The waterman shouted again, wrestled for the oar, and accidentally knocked the man in the river. “Damn you. Look what you done made me do.”

His friend leaned over the boat. “Harry, where are you?” he shouted.”Damn it, he’ll drown.” Then he discarded his hat, stood, and dove into the river. A moment later, he surfaced with a gasp, and dove again.

The waterman dug his oars into the river. Bell ran to the shoreline and shouted, “You, waterman, come back here.”

The waterman looked over his shoulder. Then he dug his oars faster and faster.

His heart raced. “Bloody bastard.”

Harry’s friend surfaced, gasping for air.

“I’ll help,” Bell shouted. Then he shucked off his boots, hat, and coat. Holding his breath, he dived into the foul river. He pulled the one named Harry to the surface. Harry coughed and spat out water. “Don’t fight me,” Bell said, grabbing his collar.

The other man swam alongside his friend, and he and Bell managed to pull Harry to the shore. After Bell heaved himself out of the stinking river, he helped the other man drag Harry up the grassy slope.

“Are you unwell?” Bell asked Harry.

Harry blinked. “Lord, it’s my savior.”

Despite the stench and the cold water, Bell snorted. “You’re alive.”

Harry heaved, and then he rolled onto his back. “Everything is spinning.”

“Only your head,” Bell grumbled. His shirt stuck to his skin like glue and stank of the filthy river.

“He’s drunk,” his friend said. “Doesn’t like to admit he can’t hold his liquor. Lord knows the swim sobered me.” Then he squinted. “Damn me. You’re Bellingham. I’ve seen you before. Angelo’s Academy?”

Bell pulled on his boots and grimaced because his stockings were wet. “Sorry, I don’t recollect.”

“Colin Brockhurst, Earl of Ravenshire, courtesy title of course,” he said. “And that buffle-headed fellow is my friend, Harry Norcliffe, Viscount Evermore—also a courtesy title.” He paused and said, “I’m much obliged to you for your aid.”

“You would have done the same, I’m sure. What the devil happened back there?” Bell asked.

“Harry offered to bring the purse tonight, since he was in funds for a change. Then he managed to lose it,” Colin said. “He was awfully drunk, so I suggested taking a boat rather than walking over the bridge and hailing a hackney. Harry realized his lack of coin after we got in the boat.”

Bell frowned. “How did he lose the purse?”

“It’s a sorry story,” Colin said. “We swore to pay the waterman, but he didn’t believe us.”

“I suppose he’s been stiffed before,” Bell said.

Colin rummaged in his soaking coat, produced a flask, and offered it to Bell. “For your gallant service.”

“Thank you.” Bell took the flask, sipped the whiskey, and handed it back to Colin. “It’s deuced cold out here in these wet clothes.”

Colin swigged from the flask. “Ah, a bit of heat.”

When the wind picked up, Bell shivered. He put his coat on, but it didn’t help much since his shirt was soaked.

Colin sipped again, and then he returned his gaze to his friend. “Harry, are you alive over there?”

Harry snored.

Bell considered leaving them, but Colin seemed a decent enough fellow, and Harry clearly was in bad shape. “My carriage is on the other side of the bridge. If you can rouse Harry, I’ll give you a ride.”

“That’s sporting of you,” Colin said. “I’ll wake him. Can’t leave him out in the cold.” Colin put his flask back in his wet coat and rose from the grass. Then he walked over to his friend and nudged him with his boot. “Harry, wake up.”

Harry continued to snore.

Bell strode over to the inert Harry and shook his shoulder.

Harry sat up with a gasp. “Where am I?”

“In hell with the rest of us,” Bell said. “Can you stand?”

Harry moaned.

Colin and Bell managed to get Harry upright, though he staggered a bit.

“Bellingham is giving us a ride in his carriage, Harry,” Colin said. “Best put your arm round my shoulders, that’s a good fellow.”

“Thanks,” Harry muttered. “Hope it’s not far.”

Bell regarded Colin. “Do you need help?”

“I can manage,” Colin said. “Harry, let me know if you’re going to get sick.”

“Follow me,” Bell said, striding off. A few minutes later, a guttural sound stopped him. He looked back. Sure enough, Harry was bent over, vomiting. Better the road than his carriage.

Colin managed to propel his staggering friend across the bridge. When they reached the carriage, Bell’s driver got down and assisted Harry onto the seat, where he promptly curled up and started snoring again. Bell turned to Colin. “Where to?”

“The Albany.”

Bell followed Colin inside the vehicle and knocked on the roof. When the carriage jerked into motion, Harry groaned. Bell worried the driver would never get the stench of the river out of the carriage.

When they finally arrived at the famous gentlemen’s quarters, Bell helped Colin drag Harry out of the carriage. Harry was none too steady on his feet, even with his arm slung around Colin’s shoulder.