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 thought exactly,’ said Charles.
Lord Avery bristled. ‘This is no laughing matter! My honour, and my wife’s, has been destroyed.’ He looked thoughtfully at Charles. ‘I know that there are those in the Party who believe in your transformation. The rake reformed.’ He snorted. ‘I know your history, and today’s work smacks of it. Blatant. Insulting. Just like your soft-hearted politics. It’s bad enough to side with the unwashed masses against your own kind in the Lords, but this! Unforgivable is what I call it, and so will many a Tory, after I am through with you.’ He marched to the door and paused on the threshold. ‘If your whereabouts last night are uncertain, then tomorrow morning’s will be assured.’
The echo of the slamming door was much quieter on this side. Charles looked away and began to pace, from the sidebar to the crackling fire, then away to the full wall of books. He couldn’t bear to look upon his father’s portrait above the mantel.
‘I’m sorry, Charles.’ Jack’s tone was quiet, careful. ‘God knows I don’t understand it, but I do know how important your political interests have become to you.’
Charles nodded again and drank. He crossed to the window and watched as the rain began to come down in sheets.
‘Throw me a bone, would you? I’m trying to play the supportive brother here.’ Jack rose and came to stand behind him.
‘He’ll
