Rakes and Radishes (18 page)

“I shall take you to her,” Edward offered.

She clutched his arm, and they cautiously crept into the ballroom as if it were a dangerous jungle full of tigers and panthers. But the most fearful beast of all waited between the card room and his mother. An entourage of young bucks and admiring ladies, including Lady Sara, surrounded him, hanging on his words.

Henrietta felt Edward’s arm tighten. They clung to each other, trying to hurry past unnoticed.

No such luck. Kesseley halted them. “Tell Mama I’ll be joining Bucky and his friends this evening.” He tugged the sleeve of a red-headed man who laughed inanely.

Henrietta could only nod, her throat tight.

A slow, cruel smile twisted Kesseley’s lips. He looked from Edward to Henrietta. “Congratulations on your victory.”

“But I-I didn’t win. I lost every hand,” she whispered.

***

Kesseley marveled how much easier life in London became when he no longer cared. He rode his anger like a curricle at top speed, the wind on his face, not caring if an unseen pothole sent him flying. To hell with them all.

Kesseley followed Bucky and his friends to an entirely different ball at the notorious Argyll rooms. Under the stately bronze goddesses lining the walls and the eighteen chandeliers that ran down the length of the room, the lightskirts danced. Their provocative gowns of sheer white muslin hung low to expose their bosoms and clung to their limbs, giving the inspecting gentlemen a good eyeful of the merchandise.

Kesseley felt that familiar hunger rise up in him. The one that drove him onto the road to Ely some nights to a particular widow’s address. He hadn’t realized how frustrated he had become, locked in the house with Henrietta.

Now he felt her flow away from him, like a receding tide as these lovely feminine figures twirled about, their obscenely low-cut gowns ready to slide down their nipples, across their navels, below that sweet triangle of carnal pleasure.

He figured he needed a reward for turning Lady Sara up so sweet in a single night. His father would have been proud. She fell so easily to all that inane conversation about mystery, poisoned souls and dark secrets.

The only secret to tempt Kesseley waited in the curls between a lovely lady’s legs.

And it wouldn’t take long. In the few moments Bucky and Kesseley stood there, a throng of ladies lit to them like hummingbirds to nectar, teasing those beautiful breasts under their eyes. A variety of ladies to choose from, even removing the raven-haired vixens who reminded him of Henrietta.

In the corner, a doe-eyed auburn stunner regarded Kesseley from under her long lashes. She appeared demure, almost shy. Perfect. He disentangled himself and approached. Her eyes widened with panic as she looked about her for an escape.

Not again!

He halted, ready to turn on his heel. This was lower than he thought possible—to be turned away by a prostitute.

“No, sir, please,” she said. She had a fragile voice, the kind that melted strong men. “I want to dance with you, but there’s someone else…”

Kesseley bowed and gave her a smile, appreciating her kindness.

She looked nervously about, then stepped forward. “My name is Ann,” she said, as if confiding a secret.

“Kesseley, the Earl of Kesseley,” he returned.

“Earl,” she echoed. Her face was even more beautiful when confused.

He couldn’t help himself—he brushed away a dangling auburn curl from her cheek. “Perhaps there isn’t someone else after all,” he said, putting her small hand in his and drawing her onto the floor.

It was a sweet relief to dance in silence with no complicated intentions. She let him graze softly at her lips, her neck and the line between her swelling breasts. Each knew what happened next—he would whisk her away to her chambers and—

He felt a tap on his shoulder. “I believe this lady and I have some unfinished business to complete.”

Kesseley turned to find Gilling standing there, reeking like a distillery, with two other men flanking him. One fair and freckled with shoulders like mountains, and the other one skinny and dark, looking as if he thought he had shoulders like a mountain.

Why the two woodpeckers? Was Gilling afraid Kesseley was going to draw his cork in the middle of the Cyprian Ball?

He kissed his dancing partner’s hand. “My little darling. Should I set you free?”

“No!” she cried, clutching Kesseley, clearly not wanting to return to Gilling.

A nasty smile snaked across Gilling’s lips. “What’s a matter, Tommie?” he asked sweetly. “You have to get a whore because your mother’s little companion won’t open her legs for you?”

Kesseley dropped Ann’s hand. “What did you say?”

Gilling’s two male companions clamped their hands on his shoulders and tried to pull him away, but Gilling brushed them off. “I said, your mother should tell her champion what that sweet hole between her legs is for. Or hell, maybe I’ll just show her.”

Kesseley ran his finger under his cravat. “We can settle this two ways. I’m a pretty good shot, but nothing would suit me better than beating the hell out of you. And your two footmen in turn.”

“Did you hear that?” Gilling asked his mates. “Lord Kesseley wants to dance.”

Kesseley smiled. “That’s right, ladies.”

Gilling shoved the heel of his palm into Kesseley’s shoulder. “Pickering Place. You’ll be on your knees before the Watch can come. I’m giving you twenty minutes to change your mind.”

***

As it turned out, Kesseley had thirty minutes to change his mind. Word of the fight rippled through the crowd like a wildfire. Every man at the Cyprian Ball dropped his companion, and with wild glazed looks in their eyes, they all began shouting out bets like madmen.

The Watch couldn’t have broken into Pickering Place if they had tried. Human bodies packed the tiny wainscoted passage off St. James like a cork in champagne. The square itself was a tiny, grimy armpit of a courtyard. Men and ladies stood shoulder to shoulder along the wall.

Kesseley couldn’t wait for the fight to start. He stood bare-chested, the cold wind whipping around him. Gilling threw punches into his freckled friend’s palm. He had a good twenty years on Kesseley, but still had the muscles of a younger man and the brash attitude to match.

Bucky hung about nervously in Kesseley’s corner. “Does your heir, the one in Winchester, have a rich sister? Because that freckled chap is a prizefighter from Scotland,” he informed Kesseley. “He ain’t lost a fight.”

Several lovely ladies standing around Kesseley cried with alarm.

He gave them a wink, feeling cocky and liking it. “His luck’s about to change,” he said, heading for Gilling, his bare fists raised.

Kesseley circled his opponent, anticipating, bouncing on his feet, letting Gilling throw the first punch. Gilling connected a decent jab to Kesseley’s ribs. Kesseley smiled. He dodged the fist intended for his face and answered with two stone blows to Gilling’s face. First the left, ramming his cheekbone, then a right under the chin, slamming Gilling’s jaw together with a sickening crunch. Blood shot up in the air like a waterspout and sprayed down on Kesseley. The lecher tumbled backward into people along the wall, then straightened himself and staggered back into the center.

He spat blood. “You goddamned country bumpkin. You wouldn’t know what to do with a woman even if she were sitting on your bloody cock,” he hissed.

The crowd, including Kesseley, laughed.

Then he drew back his right and jammed it deep into Gilling’s gut, lifting him from the ground. The man’s body collapsed around his fist. Kesseley threw him off, but the fool didn’t have the sense to fall, so Kesseley let off two powerful blows, slamming Gilling’s face and chest. The crowd let out guttural moans, as if hit themselves.

Gilling righted himself, breathing like an overheated bitch. He drew his fist back and delivered a weak punch that Kesseley caught with his hand. He pulled Gilling forward and smashed his forehead down on Gilling’s nose. The crunch of breaking bone and cartilage was audible. Gilling’s body went limp and dangled from Kesseley’s grip. He let go and the scoundrel puddled on the ground.

The crowd was silent except for Bucky, who danced about telling everyone how Kesseley and he had gone to Trinity together and what close mates they were.

Kesseley flicked Gilling’s blood off with his fingers and returned to his corner. His circle of female admirers had swelled. Their fingers massaged his warm, wet muscles. He threw his head back and let out a groan, feeling weeks and weeks of tension easing from his muscles.

The Scottish prizefighter stepped forward. Unlike Kesseley, whose muscles rippled all the way down his abdomen, the fighter was a hard, shapeless rock of brawn. He stood perfectly still on his large feet while Kesseley danced around, trying to figure him out. Finally Kesseley threw a right, just to have him answer. He did, with a scorcher to the jaw that sent Kesseley sprawling back into his corner and into the arms of his feminine admirers.

He rubbed his jaw. “Damn, you’re good.”

The Scotsman gave him a smug smile. Kesseley rose and went running at his opponent, taking lightning swipes at his ribs. The bruiser crunched sideways but still managed to nearly punch Kesseley’s guts out. Kesseley held steady, resisting the urge to throw up, and sent a fast fist to the Scot’s jaw. He didn’t see it coming, used as he was to opponents who needed more recovery time from his powerful punches.

Kesseley danced like a light-footed debutante around the alley, ducking and blocking the Scot’s slow, but deadly punches. The prizefighter was wearing down. Spit trickled down his chin and his eyes took on a dumb, blank look. Twice he swiped at the air. The third time, he caught Kesseley’s brow, sending him to the ground.

Kesseley touched his bleeding forehead, seeing the blood drip down his finger, and something broke in him.

He couldn’t recall the next few seconds, except in the end, he had the prizefighter trapped against the wall, punishing him with a flurry of lefts and rights, until the Scotsman slumped and slipped down. Several hands grabbed Kesseley and pulled him away. He ripped himself free to stand alone, cradling his bruised fists. His chest heaved with each breath. He swallowed the blood and sweat pooling in his mouth. “Where the hell’s the other one?”

It seemed Sir Gilling’s other friend preferred to keep his face in its proper order—he was nowhere to be found.

Kesseley returned to his corner and picked up his shirt. His knuckles had begun to swell and ache. He tossed his coat over his shoulders and replaced his shoes, then turned to his silent audience and bowed. “Let me apologize for Sir Gilling’s unbecoming comments at the ball and this disgraceful debauchery in the alley. Good evening.”

The crowd broke out in applause, refusing to let him pass.

The sweet auburn temptress ran up and flung her arms about him. “But we haven’t finished our dance.”

“And you didn’t dance with me!” a pretty blonde said.

“Or me!” a brunette charmer cried.

Kesseley didn’t dance, or at least not vertically. His fair Cyprians led him to a mirrored room. They took turns wiping his cut brow, their eyes full of concern, their heavy breasts lying invitingly against his arm. It was decided he was too injured to sit and must lie down, so they led him to the bed where their whispery fingers made short work of his shirt and shoes. He leaned his head against the headboard and cradled his swelling hands while watching the ladies perform a little dance for him.

Wine arrived, deep red, not the sugary misery from the balls of the other evenings. They held the glass to his lips, letting it run over, then kissed his face clean, his neck, his chest, his belly.

He felt soft fingers unclasp his pantaloons…

Silence.

“Oh my,” admired a sweet, feminine voice.

***

Henrietta waited in the parlor all night, curled up on the sofa, still in her evening gown. She listened for every passing carriage, yet none drew to a stop before the house. As the early morning sun rose into the coal-ridden sky, she heard loud male laughter from outside in the street. She went to the window. A group of bucks, including Kesseley, weaved drunkenly about the sidewalk. He waved them off and ambled up the front steps.

She ran into the hall as the door opened.

“Kesseley,” she said. “I-I waited for you.”

His eyes, burning under the shadow of his hat, raked over her. He cocked his head. The light from the torch mounted beside the door illuminated his bloody brow and bruised lip.

“Dear God! What happened?” she said, reaching for his face.

He grabbed her wrist. “Don’t.”

The scent of perspiration and sweet perfume hung about him. The loose knot on his cravat wasn’t the neat elegant one from the ball. Henrietta let out a whimper and tried to wrest her arm from his, the filthy black truth all about her.

Kesseley and another lady.

He held Henrietta tight, forcing her to see the truth. Then he released her and stepped past.

“Wait!” she cried.

He stopped but kept his back to her. “Yes?”

She had stayed up all night to tell him, and even in this wreckage, she ached to release the truth. “I didn’t mean for it to happen this way, but it did and everything has changed.”

“What are you trying to say?” he interrupted, as if she were wasting his time.

She felt like she was moving boulders with her heart. Her voice was a rush of breath.

“I-I wanted to t-tell you. Th-that—” She swallowed and drove the knife in. “I love you.”

He spun to face her, kicking up his coattails. “What?” he said harshly.

“I love you.”

He gently lifted her chin with the knuckle of his index finger and lowered his head, but stopped his mouth just shy of hers. She could almost feel the fresh memory of another lady on his lips.

“You’re a little late, Miss Watson,” he said.

Henrietta said she loved me.

The words howled in Kesseley’s brain.

Go back to her!

Instead he crashed upon his bed, remembering those ladies’ hands caressing his body just hours ago.

Yes, Kesseley.
Yes,
Kesseley.

What had Henrietta ever given him? Nothing. It was always about what she wanted.

He remembered the hurt in her brown eyes. Capital! May she know the pain he’d felt for years.

He slipped off his shoes. They thudded on the floor. The canopy swirled above him. Damn, he had drunk too much.

He closed his eyes and drifted back to the mirrored room and the fair-headed angel. The memory of her lips lulled him to the edge of sleep, then she lifted her head and stared at him with tearful chocolate eyes, all those beautiful blond curls turning to Henrietta’s midnight-black locks. “I love you,” she said.
Damn it!

***

Henrietta didn’t call the ladies’ maid. She removed the pins from her bodice herself, tearing the sheer fabric beyond repair. She rolled and squashed it in the bottom of her clothes press. She loosened her stays and slid them over her hips. Then she crawled up in her bed, closed the drapes and drew the blankets over her head.

Mr. Elliot must be wrong. Surely a lifetime of regret was kinder than this acute despair.

She turned onto her side, gathered her limbs and wept until she lapsed into dreams.

Mr. Van Heerlen asked her to present her mother’s mathematical theories to the Royal Academy, but her mother had died before all the problems had been solved. So she worked frantically on the dining room table of the London townhome, but nothing equated, until Kesseley told her pi equaled 5.146573. That is wrong, she assured him. Wrong. Yet everything worked. But when she got to the Royal Academy, Mr. Van Heerlen told her she was too late and that he’d let someone else lecture. She could see Sir Gilling in a room, speaking above the shoulders of the people. She pleaded with Mr. Van Heerlen, saying this was her mother’s work and she had died before anyone could see it. He said if she waited until the afternoon, she could stand on the steps and speak as people left.

A shout from the neighboring mews tore Henrietta from her dream, and she bolted up. The gray morning sun shone through the thin curtains. It was just a dream.

Pi really was 3.14159265.

And Kesseley didn’t love her anymore.

She closed her eyes, feeling a dull, sickening feeling wash over her insides. Henrietta heard Kesseley’s door open and the steady rhythm of his footsteps as he passed her door and continued down the stairs. Then she heard the thud of the front door closing.

She laid her head on her knees and wrapped her arms about her. She remembered what Mr. Elliot had said about only having this very instant, like the light shimmering across the blue water one afternoon. But she hated this moment and wanted nothing more than to escape it. She couldn’t go forward or back. Everything crushed together to this one moment of agonizing hurt and regret.

She heard a scratching sound, and the door opened. Samuel cautiously padded in, his head low and the fur above his eyes crumpled. He climbed into bed with Henrietta and curled up in her lap.

***

A little before noon, Lady Winslow and the princess arrived. Henrietta, who had spent the morning hiding in her room, took the stairs slowly, sliding her shoulder along the wall, hearing their voices below. As she crossed to the parlor, Lady Kesseley’s distraught voice cried, “Are you saying that my son left the Cyprian Ball last night to fight Sir Gilling and four other men, bare-fisted in a dirty alley like rats?”

Henrietta gripped the doorframe to the parlor, unsure of her knees to keep her upright.

The princess sat on the sofa beside Lady Kesseley, cooing soothingly and patting Lady Kesseley’s clenched hands. Lady Winslow stood by the mantel, her face hard as a soldier’s, reporting the unwanted news.

“My son is not like this—he isn’t. It must be me. I must disappoint him so.”

Her words stabbed Henrietta. She wanted to scream,
No, it’s me. I did it. I kissed him in the corridor, yet told him that he wasn’t the one I wanted. I am the one who disappointed him.
Instead, Henrietta dug her fingers into the stucco of the doorframe to keep herself steady.

“Tommie
est un homme.
He only thinks when his penis is down. When it is up…
well.
”

“I certainly hope you are not trying to make me feel better,” Lady Kesseley snapped at the princess.

“Hush now, darling,” Lady Winslow said, coming to embrace her friend.

Henrietta imagined Kesseley’s fingers—the same square ones that gently opened the tender leaves of a corn plant breaking through the soil, or covered her eyes and guided her to a wildflower garden he had planted when he was twelve—laid upon courtesans he didn’t even know until last evening. Something sacred inside of her was ripped out and scattered into the dirty street.

“Come with us tonight,” Lady Winslow said, letting her friend rest her head on her thin shoulders. “We shall have a small little dinner
chez moi,
then perhaps a play, just like we used to. You will go mad listening to your own mind, wondering where your son is.”

“I never wanted to feel like this again.”

“Dearest, you couldn’t hold him forever. You did the best you could. He is his father’s son. You could see it in his eyes. The same gray. It was a matter of time.”

Henrietta didn’t remember much of the late Lord Kesseley. Most of her memories were of Kesseley himself, turning up at her house uninvited, his face pale and eyes hurt. He wouldn’t say anything, just sit beside her. It had made her frustrated and angry that he wasn’t her old laughing friend. On those days, her mother would remind her to be especially kind to Kesseley and let him turn the old, brass Armillary sphere.

Henrietta rubbed her mother’s pendant, wishing she could be as wise. None of this would have happened if she had been wiser, more compassionate, more intuitive, more everything.

Instead, her foolishness had unleashed an angry ghost who refused to be forgotten, readily pulling his son back to him.

***

Kesseley felt London rushing around him—the people, horses, carriages, wagons, pulsing through the city’s arteries. Even without sleep, he felt lifted. Everything so vivid, its dirt, grime and beauty crowding his senses, pushing Wrenthorpe farther away in his mind. He knew the wheat would be about six inches from the ground now and that the ewes carried new babies in their bellies. Even so, it didn’t seem real, like a book he’d once read.

London was like a merchant with endless fancy trinkets for sale, always something the customer desired. A city of beautiful ladies, brandy and gambling hells. Maybe he shouldn’t get married this Season. He was just twenty-five. His father hadn’t gotten chained until he was thirty-three.

Thinking of the onerous possibility of marriage, he knew he owed Lady Sara a morning call because he’d danced with her twice the evening before. That was the only thing tainting his day, and it was Henrietta’s fault, goading him to behave so imprudently. He would take the bitter medicine first—fifteen minutes at the Duke of Houghton’s—then go bury himself in his club for the remainder of the day to recover.

He stopped before a shop window and checked his reflection. The swelling had gone down on his lip, but he was going to get a scar from that nasty gash on his brow. Cutting through Green Park, he thought of melodramatic excuses for his appearance to excite the cracked gel’s little romantic fantasies. Even though he had no intentions of marrying, he wanted to keep Lady Sara dangling for a bit longer. He felt a little residual anger from her earlier ill treatment, but most importantly, he wanted Henrietta to know the bitter sting of being rejected for another.

He smiled to himself as he pondered what gothic drivel would fan Lady Sara’s passions. He could have been robbed by a footpad demanding a gold locket that he carried close to his heart, containing the miniature of an old love who’d died tragically in his arms. In blinding rage, he’d fought off the attackers with little regard for his own life.

Not very believable, but a good story. Henrietta would like it, he thought, as he was announced at the grand mansion off the park.

***

Kesseley couldn’t tell if he’d been invited into a parlor or flower garden. Flowers sat on every surface, large elaborate arrangements with chrysanthemums, lilies and geraniums. Had all London woken with a compulsion to send Lady Sara flowers that morning?

Lady Sara sat on the sofa beside her mother, an older version of her daughter—same hair, eyes and stature. When Kesseley entered, Lady Sara stood and shyly lifted her gaze to his face, then let out a soft gasp. “No,” she cried, holding the back of her palm over her mouth. She closed her eyes and collapsed onto the floor. Her gown draped perfectly over the curves of her beautiful figure and her blond locks splayed like a halo around her head.

“Oh, my most delicate precious!” her mother cried, falling to her knees in a similar dramatic fashion. She gazed up at Kesseley and pleaded with tear-filled eyes for him to do something.

He stood momentarily stunned. Had he walked into a
Punch and Judy
act?

There was a rustling of leaves and the duke emerged from the floral undergrowth. He looked down at his prostrate daughter. “Sara, stop that! Get up.”

“My dear!” his wife cried. “She was overcome with Lord Kesseley’s appearance!”

Upon hearing his name, he jolted forward, suddenly remembering his lines. He knelt before Lady Sara. How delicately beautiful she looked unconscious, her claws retracted. He lifted her. Her neck curved over his arm and displayed a succulent jaw line, the kind for nibbling kisses.

She opened her heavy eyes and murmured, “Lord Kesseley!” then swooned again, burying herself in his chest. He played the proper gothic hero she wanted and gently laid her upon the cushions, even brushed the curls from her eyes. Her limp hand found his. “You frightened me, my lord,” she said, a shiver in her whisper.

“A thousand apologies, my lady. I’ll leave immediately.”

For a faint thing, she had a strong grip, holding him in place. “Don’t leave me, my lord!”

“Dear God!” the duke said, taking a seat beside a chrysanthemum. “Why do I spend hundreds of pounds on boxes at the theatres when we could stay home and have more drama.”

“Your Grace! You have such little regard for a lady’s delicate nerves.” The duchess fanned her daughter with her fingers. “Oh my lovely, don’t listen to your papa. Shall Lord Kesseley read to you?”

“Oh yes, my lord, please read to me. Poetry about death and birth and flux and change, just not love. For you do not believe in love.”

“Now, we talked about this! I told you not to make Lord Kesseley read dribble,” the duke reminded his daughter. “Kesseley, why don’t you read that article of yours about turnips and manuring.” He lifted up a flowerpot and pulled out the
Journal of Agriculture.
“Here it is.”

He was given a chair beside Lady Sara and opened the journal right to his article. Little pressed lavender flowers fell out.

It felt awkward reading his own words aloud, especially with Lady Sara staring at him adoringly with those bright eyes of hers, and her sweet voice complimenting his elocution while he read about nitrogen depletion in soil. He skipped entire sections. No one seemed to notice that he never fully explained excretion theory. He had far exceeded the fifteen minutes he had allocated for the visit when he closed the journal.

“It has been a pleasure, my lady, but it would be quite ungentlemanly of me to further press upon your delicate health.”

The duke, who had been sleeping with his head drooped down upon his big chest, suddenly sprung up. “Let’s play a game of billiards.”

Kesseley clenched his jaws to keep an expletive from escaping. He smiled tightly and followed the duke up the expansive staircase winding around the great hall to a room with enormous arched windows that looked on to a narrow terrace. An inlaid oak billiard table stood in the center of the room.

The duke stacked up the balls, then leaned his large frame over the edge of the table, one eye closed, the other looking down the long pole at the cue ball. “So what do you think of my daughter?” He broke the balls in one clean stroke, sending them all over the table. The one ball dropped in the left pocket.

“She’s very pretty,” Kesseley said.

The duke lined up his next shot. “She’s a little fanciful, but she’ll settle down well enough on a strong man’s arm and with a brood of her own.” He sank the three into the hole.

“Excellent shot.”

The duke smiled, walked around the table and pocketed the seven, then the five. “Now I know you like the ladies as much as myself. And there ain’t a reason marriage should change any of life’s more pleasurable pursuits. Sara will be like her mama and look the other way to any dabbling in the petticoat line. You keep her in pretty clothes and things, and she won’t give you any trouble. She knows her duty.”

He banked the cue ball and sank the four. “It’s no secret her dowry is 20,000. But for the right match, I might be inclined to sweeten the deal.” He merely tapped the cue to roll the two ball in. “I’ve got a ball in a week. We could make the announcement then. The wedding could take place in the late summer, before hunting season. You think about it.”

Kesseley felt his mouth go dry. “I-I will.”

The duke nudged Kesseley’s elbow as he passed. “Get your case together and we can talk. I like you. You know what’s what.” He knocked the left edge of the six ball. It spun and bounced off the edge of the pocket and fell in the hole. “Now watch, I’m going to put the eight ball in the back right pocket.” The duke lined up his shot, pulled back his pole, then slid it over his thumb, smooth and quick. The eight ball flew across the table and sank. He smiled at his own prowess.