Lord Rackham paused behind his chair and thumped him soundly on the shoulder.
‘Just so, my boy!’ the old relic bellowed. ‘Brazen it out. Don’t let them see you with your head down, that’s the wisest course! Tomorrow some bloke will get caught hammering his rocks in someone else’s quarry and they’ll all be talking about that. It will blow over soon enough.’ After another encouraging cuff he stalked off to rejoin his friends, the whole pack of them muttering darkly as they crossed into the coffee room.
With quiet, deliberate movements Charles finished his coffee. Old Lord Rackham had the right of it; he would not let anyone think he was ashamed. Once he had finished he stood, tucked the copy of the Oracle under his arm, and with a flash of a gold coin in Bartlett’s direction, Charles walked out of White’s.
He stood a moment on St James’s Street, dazzled by the bright sun and annoyed at the bustle of traffic. Then he let loose a great laugh. Who in the world did he think he was—the heroine in a gothic novel? Should lightning crack the sky and mere mortals scurry for cover because Viscount Dayle’s political career lay in ruins?
As if in answer, a brisk breeze riffled his hair, and Charles set off towards Mayfair. Who did he think he was? That was the question of the hour—no, of the entire past year—was it not?
There was only one answer. He was Viscount Dayle, a carefully constructed facsimile of the man who should hold the title. And Viscount Dayle was nothing without his political career.
His mind darted from one scenario to the next as he approached Piccadilly, scrambling to come up with some way to salvage the situation. Lost in his own whirlwind of thoughts, he failed to notice both the rising wind and the increasingly strident sound of his own name. It wasn’t until someone grasped his arm that he came awake to his surroundings.
‘Dayle, did you not hear us calling you, man?’ It was Henley and Matthews, two of the more degenerate hangers-on of his old crowd. They were still in their evening clothes and looking the worse for wear. Charles winced. These two would tear him apart after reading that piece.
‘Sorry, chaps. Lost in the fog of my own thoughts this morning,’ he said, striving for a light-hearted tone.
‘A bit dense in there, eh?’ laughed Matthews. ‘I trust it’s not as thick as the fog at Hyde Park this morning.’ He leaned in and spoke confidingly. ‘Blackmoor met Ventry at dawn. Ventry was shaking so hard his gun went off before he’d got his hand half-raised. Hit the ground not ten feet in front of him, the poor sod.’
Charles felt like shaking himself, in relief. Obviously they didn’t yet know. ‘Blackmoor didn’t kill him, did he?’ he asked with nonchalance.
‘I should say not,’ Henley drawled. ‘Pinked him in the arm, which is far less than the upstart deserved, should you ask me.’ He shot Charles a conspirator’s grin. ‘It’s good to see you, Dayle. It’s been an age since you’ve been out and about with us. Leave the debates to them what can’t get a rise out of St Peter, if you catch my meaning, and come on with us. You’re too young to bury yourself in the House.’
Matthews chimed in. ‘We’re off to breakfast, old man, before heading home,’ he said. ‘Been to the new bawdy house on Bentinck Street? Opens in the morning and lays out a breakfast buffet. Mrs Pritchett guarantees a bellyful and an armful to send you sweetly to your dreams. Care to join us?’
The desire to yield and go along with them was almost visceral. How easy it would be to forget, to lose the pain of the last year and the humiliation of the morning in the burn of good liquor and the hot sweet flesh of a woman. He could just let it all go. End the charade.
He shook his head to rid himself of the notion. No. Charles Alden was dead. Slain by the same wild round that had stolen his brother, buried by the despair that had seduced his father. There was no going back.
He went forward instead, resolutely and one footfall at a time. Good-naturedly refusing the offer, he saw Matthews and Henley into a passing hack before crossing over Piccadilly. By the time he passed Devonshire House and headed into Berkeley Square, temptation had been safely locked away. Viscount Dayle was once again in full possession of all his faculties and putting together a plan of action.
The wind had become quite forceful by the time Charles reached his Bruton Street townhouse, and the sunlight dimmed by fast-moving clouds. Perhaps fate had indeed meant to give him the backdrop for his drama, and had only missed her cue.
‘My lord,’ his butler gasped as the door swung in. ‘Forgive me, we were not expecting you back …’
‘No need for apologies, Fisher.’ Charles headed for the library. ‘But could you please send round a man to fetch my brother? Drag him from his books, if need be, but tell him I need him now. And send some coffee in, too.’
‘Wait, my lord!’ the butler called as Charles stalked away. ‘You have a visitor awaiting you.’
‘At this hour?’
The butler had no chance to reply before the library door slammed open. ‘Dayle!’ The shout rang in the cold marbled entry. ‘This time you will pay for your perfidy. Name your seconds!’
‘Lord Avery, how kind of you to call,’ Charles said, running a hand across his brow. ‘Better make that something stronger, Fisher. Brandy will do. ‘Now, my lord,’ Charles spoke soothingly as he ushered the man back in the room and away from the staring eyes of the servants, ‘we are a bit precipitous with this talk of seconds. But I would be happy to discuss the upcoming Poor Relief Bill, even at this early hour.’
‘There’s no distracting me, you philandering dog! I know what you’ve done with my wife, all of London knows!’ The older man was nearly grey with fatigue and emotion. Charles guided him to a chair. The last thing he needed was for the fool to collapse in his study.
‘You know no such thing. It’s nonsense. I dined at the Clarendon, and stayed there talking most of the night. You will easily find a roomful of gentlemen to corroborate the fact. We can send for one or more of them right now.’
‘I know what I saw, you young rakehell.’
‘I don’t know what you saw, my lord, but I know it was not me.’ Charles’s tone grew more firm.
‘Do you think me a fool? I’ve seen you together with my own eyes! And all of London knows of your rackety ways.’
‘I’ve never had more than a casual public conversation with your wife, sir. I own that she is charming, and exceedingly handsome, but whatever trouble lies between you has nothing to do with me.’
Charles saw the first sign of uncertainty in the man’s face. He felt for him, but he could not let this go any further. He hardened his expression and said with finality, ‘If you choose not to believe me, then I will indeed give thought to finding a second.’
Jack arrived just then, excited and fully ready to defend his brother’s honour, but the fight had gone out of Lord Avery. He hung his head in his hands while Charles greeted his brother and while the brandy was brought in. He accepted a drink, threw it back, and held out his glass for another. Then he stood.
‘I will accept your explanation for now, Dayle, but I shall check out your claim, and if I find it’s a lie, I’ll be back. Why would your name be mixed up in this if you weren’t involved? Makes no sense.’
‘You echo my own
