Читать книгу A Pregnant Courtesan For The Rake - Diane Gaston - Страница 15
ОглавлениеNovember 1818, three months later
Oliver leaned against the wall in the billiard room of Vitium et Virtus, watching Frederick and Jacob knock the balls in the pockets of the green baize table. The day’s weather was cold and drizzling, but the fire in the fireplace kept the room comfortably warm. Frederick was meticulously lining up his next shot, taking long enough that Oliver began tapping his foot.
‘Just take the shot, Fred,’ he said impatiently. ‘This fuss does you no good.’
Frederick ignored him and continued to study the ball some more before placing his cue and executing a perfect shot, sending Jacob’s cue ball and the red ball into the pockets.
‘That’s the game,’ groaned Jacob.
Frederick looked up and grinned. ‘Does me no good, Oliver?’
‘You would have made it without all that fuss.’ Oliver picked up his cue and stepped up to the table while Frederick retrieved the balls from the pockets.
Jacob flopped in a chair. ‘That is the second game you’ve won over me.’
‘You were distracted.’ Frederick turned his grin on the new duke. ‘Thinking of your bride, no doubt.’
Jacob laughed.
It was gratifying to see Jacob happy. Oliver had often caught Jacob spending the night hours at Vitium et Virtus, drinking and looking more haggard by the day.
Jacob had been reeling with grief over the accident that killed his father and brother, and lamenting that he was not up to the enormous responsibility of a dukedom.
But then Jacob met his Rose.
Oliver wished them well. He really did.
He wished Frederick and Georgiana well, too.
Both Oliver’s friends were obviously besotted with their wives. When Oliver saw them with the women, the loving looks and tender touches between them reminded him of the many gestures of affection he’d long ago witnessed between his mother and father.
But his father had still left his mother behind in India.
Obviously love fled in the wake of expediency. Once gone, love could destroy.
Oliver sincerely hoped the love shared by Frederick, Jacob and their wives would not be so easily shattered. But he would not wager any money on it.
And he was known to wager on almost anything.
Oliver stood next to Frederick and they hit their respective cue balls simultaneously to see who would have the first shot. Oliver’s ball stopped closest to the baulk cushion. He went first, hitting both Frederick’s cue ball and the red ball.
Oliver concentrated on the billiards. That was what he liked about games or any competition. He could focus on winning and push all other thoughts out of his mind. Unfortunately, Frederick’s careful approach to billiards gave Oliver too much time to think.
He frowned and crossed his arms over his chest.
‘Back to discussing my wife,’ Jacob said in good humour. ‘I highly recommend marriage.’
‘As do I.’ Frederick continued to eye the ball. ‘You should try it, Oliver.’
‘Not likely.’ Oliver’s reply came quickly.
‘You will change your tune.’ Frederick continued to consider the placement of his cue. ‘Once you meet the right lady.’ He finally hit the red ball and sent it into a pocket.
Did Frederick not see how easily his marriage to Georgiana might have turned to misery? Oliver held his tongue, though.
He took his shot and this time sent Fred’s cue ball into a pocket.
‘Maybe he already has.’ Jacob rose to pour himself some brandy. He turned to Oliver. ‘The mysterious Parisian lady.’
Cecilia.
‘Nonsense.’ He regretted telling them of her, not that he’d said much, and it had taken him some time to divulge even that meagre information. He never discussed the more private elements of his time with women.
‘You cannot tell us you do not think of her,’ Jacob persisted. ‘You’ve been different since that trip. A veritable malcontent.’
‘I dispute that statement.’ Oliver tapped his foot, impatient over Frederick’s care in executing his shot. Or at least that was the reason he told himself his toe was tapping.
Frederick finally hit the ball. ‘I agree with Jake. You’ve been moodier. And what lady was your last conquest? No one since Paris.’
Frederick was right, of course. ‘You assume too much. Perhaps I do not tell you of my every liaison. Perhaps I am discreet.’ Oliver took his shot and missed.
His friends exchanged knowing glances.
He played the rest of the game in disgruntled silence. And lost.
Oliver refused to believe that the brief encounter with Cecilia had sent him into this funk. Perhaps the cause was because he’d not accomplished his goal in Paris. He’d not found very much new to offer at their club. Nothing, at least, that was not distasteful to him.
Too much of Vitium et Virtus was becoming distasteful to him.
But that was a worry that had preceded his trip to Paris.
He must admit that the memory of Cecilia did linger in the recesses of his mind. A church bell would call back the image of her in Notre Dame, the sun through the rose windows bathing her face in colour. One of the lady patrons of the club wrapped her Kashmir shawl around her shoulders, just as Cecilia had. Their new French songstress had Cecilia’s colour hair.
Reminders were to be expected, were they not? Yet surely that bore no special significance.
‘Another game?’ Frederick held up a cue ball.
Jacob stood and picked up a cue.
Oliver poured himself some brandy and lowered himself into a chair. The room had been designed for their comfort, his, Jacob, Frederick and Nicholas. The richly carved oak panelling on the walls came from a German monastery. The billiard table, with its fine green-baize surface, filled the room’s centre, but around it were the most comfortable chairs in the club and enough tables and cabinets to hold the ever-present brandy. The chandelier’s many candles illuminated the billiard table so play could continue all night, if desired.
Very occasionally they offered billiard tournaments, the prize of which was some debauched spree, but most of the time this room was for their own amusement. Oliver preferred it that way. Increasingly he was preferring the days Vitium et Virtus was closed and he had time to himself.
He, Frederick, Jacob and Nicholas began the club back in their Oxford days. It was secret, exclusive and naughtier than the Hell Fire clubs of their grandfathers. Vitium et Virtus also lacked the Hell Fire clubs’ anti-religious affectations. No black mass for Vitium et Virtus. No devil worship or paganism or ridiculous rituals. Their club worshipped pleasure and excess, in card-playing, drink and fornication. It had been their highest accomplishment at the University.
When they left Oxford, they brought the club to London.
What did Oliver care that he was not welcome at Almack’s? He belonged to Vitium et Virtus.
Life had been good right up until that night six years ago when Nicholas disappeared, leaving only a pool of blood and his signet ring in the alley behind the club.
Oliver, Frederick and Jacob had kept Vitium et Virtus running for Nicholas’s sake, but for how much longer? Frederick and Jacob were now married. What honourable gentleman runs a club of Dionysian revels when his wife is waiting at home?
Oliver would keep it going by himself, if necessary. To him, giving up on Vitium et Virtus was like giving up on Nicholas. He refused to believe Nicholas was dead.
He finished his brandy and poured another.
Enough blue devils.
‘I do have one new idea for the club,’ he began.
Jacob grinned. ‘Nothing that involves driving hooks through one’s skin and hanging from ropes.’
Oliver had told them of the self-mutilation and flagellation of some Paris clubs.
‘Not unless you wish to try it,’ he shot back.
Jacob held up both hands. ‘Not me!’
‘We could have a Vitium et Virtus ball.’
‘Oh, that is original,’ Frederick said.
‘Not the usual sort of ball.’ Oliver rose and picked up one of the billiard balls from a pocket. ‘We have two baskets of balls like these, only each ball has a number painted on it. There are matching numbers for men and for women. The men pick from the men’s basket and the women from the women’s. Then they partner up with the person whose number matches theirs. No one knows ahead of time who their partner will be.’
Frederick straightened his spine. ‘Georgiana and I will not play.’
Jacob laughed. ‘Nor will Rose and I.’
Oliver shook his head. ‘Of course not.’ In truth, he also had no desire to play that game. ‘I think several of our members will relish it, though. We know many married couples who would clamour to be first in line to play.’
Frederick turned back to his game. ‘You manage it, if you like, but you had better make certain everyone knows what to expect.’
‘What if Bowles shows up?’ Jacob asked.
Frederick missed his shot.
Nash Bowles was a nasty fellow they’d known since their Oxford days, who’d joined before they’d become more selective. He’d lately pressed to purchase Jacob’s share of the club.
Frederick’s lips thinned. ‘That reprobate.’
Bowles was the reason Fred had married his Georgiana. Vitium et Virtus had held a virgin auction which was supposed to have been a total farce. The women usually auctioning their wares were certainly no virgins, but instead, those who loved the sexual excess of the club. Instead, respectable, well-bred Georgiana Knight, a viscount’s daughter, had climbed up on the table and offered herself. Frederick had bid on her, intending to protect her reputation.
‘Bowles.’ Fred spat out the name like a piece of rancid meat. ‘He had better behave himself or he will answer to me.’
Bowles had threatened to ruin Georgiana for her escapade at Vitium et Virtus unless she married him as her father wished.
Honourable Frederick married Georgiana instead, to rescue her from Bowles. And somehow Fred and Georgiana had fallen in love with each other.
What were the chances that marriage would remain blissful? Especially since Georgiana was so free-spirited.
And how long would Jacob remain besotted with Rose? He was a duke and she had been a maid here at Vitium et Virtus. How long before Jacob left Rose like Oliver’s father had left his mother?
‘You two should go home to your wives,’ Oliver said. His friends had better do right by those good women or they’d have to answer to him.
‘I was thinking the same thing,’ Fred said.
Jacob looked pensive. ‘I was thinking how lucky I am to have this happiness. And how much I wish Nicholas could share in it.’
‘Nick.’ Oliver’s voice rasped with pain.
He placed his hand palm up on the billiard table. Jacob and Frederick placed theirs on his. ‘In Vitium et Virtus,’ they recited together.
They’d been schoolboys when they first contrived this oath, resurrecting it after the night Nick vanished to remind them that they were still four. Nicholas was somewhere, Oliver insisted. And somehow he’d find his way back to them.
They broke apart, and Frederick poured more brandy. He lifted his glass in a toast. ‘To absent friends.’
Oliver and Jacob raised their glasses.
‘Be he in heaven or hell—’ Oliver continued, a refrain they’d repeated several times in the six years Nicholas had been gone.
‘Or somewhere in between—’ Fred added.
‘Know that we wish you well.’ Jake ended it.
If only words could magically bring Nick back.
They downed their brandy in silence.
* * *
After Oliver said goodbye to his friends, he made his way to the back door, the private entrance used only by him and his friends. The drizzle persisted, so he dashed across the garden and out the gate, through the alley and the garden of the town house on Bury Street adjacent to the club. Oliver’s town house. How lucky he’d been to be wealthy enough to buy a town house so conveniently located to Vitium et Virtus.
When his father became the Marquess of Amberford and inherited the property and riches to go with the title, he’d settled the fortune he’d acquired in India on Oliver, a fortune great enough that Oliver could live more than comfortably. He could afford many pleasures. Fast carriages, matched horses, beautiful women.
Funny that Oliver used to fear he’d be poor. When he was a boy, his father’s wife often threatened to put Oliver out on the streets. Eventually he learned about his fortune and that she could not touch it. When his father was not present, she was always nasty to Oliver. He’d absolutely believed he could be tossed out onto the streets like Cecilia’s street urchins—
Cecilia.
Again she popped into his mind unbidden. For the last three months the memory of her caught him at odd moments. Why should she inhabit his thoughts so often? He’d only known her one day.
Perhaps the brevity of their time together had enhanced the experience, made it grander, magical. It had seemed as if she’d appeared out of the mist and disappeared as quickly. No liaison of his had ever begun so unexpectedly and ended so abruptly.
He reached the garden door of his town house and went inside, brushing the raindrops off his coat and hair. He greeted his cook and housekeeper as he passed the kitchen and made his way up to the hall where his butler stopped him.
‘Sir, you have a caller,’ the butler said.
‘A caller?’ Oliver rarely had callers. He was not on society’s circuit of people whose favour one must court.
His butler, only a decade older than he, leaned closer. ‘A lady. She declined to give her name.’
Oliver’s brows rose. ‘You do not know her?’
Irwin typically had an excellent eye for faces and names, especially ladies’ names.
He shook his head. ‘She has been waiting over an hour.’
‘An hour?’ What lady would wait an hour for him? ‘Why did you not simply say I was out?’
Irwin appeared affronted. ‘I did say you were out. She insisted upon waiting.’
Oliver was always very careful that the ladies with whom he associated knew precisely the nature of the relationship. He did not want any of them to consider him so important they’d waste an hour waiting for him.
Irwin inclined his head towards the drawing room. ‘She waits in there.’
Oliver shrugged. He might as well discover who it was.
He opened the door, startling the woman who sat upon the sofa facing the fireplace. She stood and turned to him.
For a moment Oliver could not breathe.
‘Cecilia.’
