compliment was forthcoming, the servant continued. “No sooner did Wilton depart than a stout man appeared at the doorstep seeking employment. He provided extensive references, listing every position from gardener in Guildford to lamplighter in London, although I daresay what he requires most is a respectable grooming as his outlandish mustache was as long as his extensive referrals.” The latter was stated mostly as an aside. “Still, it’s serendipity, pure and simple. He begins at the end of the week.”
“Cease.” The command issued clear warning that Kell anticipated the servant’s next words, yet Bitters persevered.
“I’ve also cleaned the glass and replaced your liquor.” These words came out at a lower tone although the implied message remained clear: “You’re a better man than this.”
And so to the core of the conversation, more than inessential discussions of servants and their posts. Kell clenched his fists. He’d ordered the man to stop speaking. “As is your responsibility. You are in my employ.” He remained with his back toward Bitters, unwilling to accept chiding or rehash a drubbed subject. He knew society labeled him a debauched outcast. Close on the heels of this fodder was the warning he knew not how to love or be loved, his upbringing having poisoned him to genuine affection. Popular belief upheld the rumors he perpetuated his outlandish folly because at the root of it all, his heart was hollow and his purposes shallow.
“Drowning one’s sorrows in brandy is rarely a productive alternative. Of late you hardly resemble your title. You’re a viscount, grandson to the Duke of Acholl, and the single legitimate heir.”
God’s teeth, the man could ignite his temper. Bitters’ tone had transformed to one of concern, but Kell wanted nothing of it. “And you are my steward. One with a long tongue and a short memory. I haven’t requested your counsel. I pay you to replace the liquor when the bottle is empty and clean my mess whenever necessary.” It was either drown in brandy or take a long walk into the sea. Bitters knew better than to poke a stick in a cage built from cruel emotion and broken promises. “It’s incredibly poor form to listen at keyholes and crawl inside escutcheons.”
“Perhaps.” A few hollow ticks of the clock on the shelf marked an obtrusive lull. “A messenger arrived while you were out. Lords Nicholson and Penwick will pay call for luncheon.”
Without further comment Kell took the stairs two at a time, entered his study, and slammed the oak panels to punctuate his distemper. Bitters meant well, of that Kell was certain, the servant having witnessed him at his worst when he’d vacated London after a scandalous public scene a few months prior, rife with humiliation and disgraced by common fisticuffs. Tongues likely wagged on with ceaseless speculation. He feared the incident had turned him into a pariah. Kell and his father were renowned for their tumultuous relationship. Having had their personal turmoil displayed in a London square had upped the ante, but if it served to highlight his father’s poor choices, Kell accepted the embarrassment with pleasure.
And Bitters knew this well. The steward’s frequent complaints concerning his indulgent habits and pleasure-seeking falderal should be squelched by mere history and understanding. The man was intuitive enough to realize the subject was off limits.
Kell had won Bitters’ employ seven years prior in a high-stakes game of Hazard after rolling a perfect nine. As a result, the man became his personal servant for a month. Once the thirty days was completed, Kell offered him a permanent position and Bitters jumped at the opportunity, eager to leave an employer who recklessly wagered his well-being. Things had progressed into friendship more than servitude, although at times Kell felt impelled to remind Bitters of his station, most especially when the steward persisted with lectures on familial obligation and title. Talk in that vein fell on deaf ears and left Kell wishing he’d rolled a six instead.
And while he acknowledged storming from a conversation, slamming the door to his study, and sulking about his conflicted situation personified every flaw society pinned to his temperament, he knew no other way to react. Communication was not his strong suit and pouring another brandy resembled mockery more than a solution at present. He glanced at the bare stretch of wall above the fireplace. The area was meant to display a revered portrait but remained empty. His father hardly deserved the honor, and the idea of a familial scene evoked a wry, sardonic laugh.
For decades his sire had philandered about England, sullying his mother’s reputation and adding insult to injury by producing by-blow after by-blow: a multitude of bastards who never knew their father, siblings lost to him. His mother wore the disgrace of the scars against her heart, while whispers and rumors flouted through ballrooms just out of earshot.
He shook his head with regret and remorse, pausing as he was reminded there had been one recent note of hope. Directly before leaving London, he’d learned Emily Shaw, now Emily St. David and new wife to his closest friend Jasper, was his half sister, sired by his father during an extended affair. Upon learning the news, he hadn’t accepted the information with acquiescence. Fair enough, he’d come from a scandalous confrontation with his father in the city square where Emily had arrived unexpectedly and discovered their relationship, but the circumstances hardly excused his later actions. Eventually, he’d need to make right where he’d done wrong, not that a visit to London would occur in the near future. With so many problems to solve, his half sister became another addition to a long list.
Again he eyed the empty space above the mantel. One day he would hang a portrait of his own family. A wife and child. Nyx should be in the painting as well, standing in the background with the manor house against the sky. He could create his own life apart and away from the people who perpetrated hurt. The portrait would proclaim he wasn’t tainted by his parents’ infidelity or ruined reputations, but had established his own esteemed place in the world.
It didn’t matter he was emotionally bereft, lacking devotion or commitment, and solely capable of brief liaisons and quick tumbles with opera singers and ambitious widows. Despite thick layers of disdain and rejection, deep within his locked heart, Kell yearned for normalcy: a loving, nurturing relationship with a trustworthy woman interested in equal, honest commitment. She would be the key to his happiness. She would fill the void of resounding emptiness within his soul. She would stop the ache that knelled with lonely insistence the same way blood flowed through his veins. She existed. He just had to find her.
By the time Bitters retrieved him from the study where he’d passed time mulling over correspondence and financial documents, the clock struck midday and his comrades had arrived as planned, deposited in the sitting room. Kell approached with an odd mixture of enthusiasm and reservation. Both men were loyal, dependable gentleman, Oliver Nicholson, his comrade for over a decade. R. James Caulfield, Earl of Penwick, more or less a fresh acquaintance—an association formed through Jasper St. David’s investment business—though the new earl proved an amiable gentleman.
Kell smiled as he made way down the hall. The buffoonish diversion of his friends was welcome, although news from London would need to be approached with caution. Their visit seemed a double-edged sword. Not one to cower from inevitabilities, Kell entered the room and greeted his guests.
“What warrants this unexpected visit?” No need to chase his own tail. He may as well discover why his friends had appeared on his doorstep without advance notice. With a nod for Bitters to enter with refreshments, Kell waited for the servant to vacate the room before continuing. “Not that I’m displeased to see you.” His life was rife with contradictions and perpendicular purpose. As much as he wished to separate from the distraught scene left in London, another part of him yearned for a sense of ordinariness befitting a proper gentleman, instead of the role of an emotional cripple to a bastard-making sire and a mother who knew no love other than of herself.
“Just passing through.” Oliver aimed a conspiratorial wink in Penwick’s direction and selected a sandwich, taking a hearty bite. He chewed
