Kit had given Mabel the fifty pounds Silas Parkinson had paid him. And then, after weeks had passed with no sign of Henry, and without consulting Mabel further, he’d foolishly leapt into the bloody awful disaster that had been his arrangement with Lionel Skelton. All to make sure he’d be able to pay up on his IOU to Mabel promptly and show her he could manage on his own.
Of course, the arrangement with Skelton had turned out to be a far, far worse mistake than any he’d made before. The misery of those four months had finally come to an end the night Skelton had beaten Kit half to death. By some miracle, Kit had survived the night he’d spent naked and unconscious on the bedchamber floor. When he’d awoken in the early hours, shivering and in agony, he’d realised he must get away if worse was not to befall him when Skelton returned. Somehow he’d managed to dress and had left the house by the servants’ door, making his way back to the Lily to throw himself on Mabel’s mercy.
He’d worried she’d tell him she’d washed her hands of him and send him away, but instead she’d tsked and taken him in, nursing him herself and personally negotiating the terms of the severance with Skelton.
And of course, she’d let him have a piece of her mind.
“You’re a fool, Kit Redford,” she’d told him sharply. “Lucky for you I was so fond of your mother.”
Kit had been in a bad way for several weeks after Skelton’s assault on him, recovering from broken ribs and fingers and whatever internal injuries had been inflicted that had him pissing blood and deaf in one ear. As he’d waited for his hurts to heal and his spectacular bruising to fade, he’d had plenty of time to dwell on the pain of Henry’s betrayal—something he had assiduously avoided thinking about before then. But lying there in his sick bed, Kit had finally had to accept just how absurd and misplaced his feelings for Henry Asquith had been. Like a stray dog, Kit had fixed his affection and loyalty on a man who had neither asked for nor deserved such gifts.
The hearing in Kit’s left ear never did return, but the other injuries had mended, in time. And life had gone on. After that, Kit followed Mabel’s advice to the letter. An experience like the one he’d lived through with Skelton did not leave a man with even the dregs of romantic idiocy.
Unfortunately, by this time, it was being whispered in discreet circles that Kit had been thrown out summarily by his last two protectors and that there must be a reason for it. Rumours began circulating that he had thieved from them, or worse, and for a while it had seemed that no one else would touch him. But Mabel was nothing if not resourceful. She managed to secure a short contract for him with Phineas Warren, an elderly banker with a penchant for pretty young men in corsets. And they didn't come prettier than Kit.
Kit had had to swallow his pride for that one—not only had his price dropped humiliatingly low, he’d had to agree to Phin’s desire to display him publicly however he wished. But in the end, it turned out well for him. Phin was no fool—a more sceptical, sharp-minded man one could not hope to meet—but his temperament was sweet and he’d grown very fond of Kit. He’d extended their arrangement to a year then renewed it twice more, each time with more generous terms.
The duration of their relationship and Kit’s loyalty to Phin had restored Kit’s reputation as a trustworthy man. What’s more, Phin’s final parting gift had provided Kit with everything he needed to open Redford’s.
And so, finally, Kit had been able to put his mistakes behind him and get off the game. And in the years since then, he had not rented out his body to anyone—or rented anyone else’s for his own pleasure for that matter. Now he restricted himself to his companionable suppers in Clapham with intelligent conversation, good food and wine, and unapologetic sex afterwards with likeminded men who treated him like an equal. Men who didn’t mind him being forceful about what he wanted, instead of always expecting him to bend to their desires.
“Kit?”
Kit looked up to find Jean-Jacques regarding him with concern.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I got rather lost in my thoughts.”
“I understand,” Jean-Jacques said gently. “So, what is your message? Will you meet your duke? Or not?”
It was tempting. Tempting to see Henry and let him know exactly what Kit thought of him. Henry had probably thought that a contract with a whore wasn’t worth the paper it was written on. Or perhaps he’d thought that, since Kit had not served out the whole year of their contract by the time Henry dropped him, he was not entitled to the severance terms. Whatever his excuse was, Kit would soon put him right. For a moment, he pictured Henry begging his forgiveness… and then he grimaced at his own idiocy. He was being absurd. Self-indulgent and, actually, downright pathetic. Why would Henry care that Kit had suffered? Had Kit learned nothing? Henry Asquith did not deserve a single moment of his time.
Firming his resolve, Kit said, “No, I am not going to meet him. There is no reason to after all these years.”
Jean-Jacques nodded. “I think you are wise, mon amie. Is there any other message you wish me to give him?”
Kit considered that. The truth was, he wanted to take a swipe at Henry Asquith, and this was his last chance to do so. “Tell him that if he has something to say to me, to send Parkinson to do his dirty work instead of imposing on my friends.”
When Jean-Jacques looked puzzled, Kit explained, “Parkinson's his man of business—that’s who he sent to throw me out.”
Jean-Jacques shook his head disgustedly.
Kit smiled crookedly. “I don’t really expect you to deliver that message,” he said. “I’m sorry you’re getting dragged into this at all."
Jean-Jacques shrugged. “If I think I won’t get into trouble over it, I will pass your message on.” He quirked a half-smile. “And if I don’t, I will bring you something nice from Evie to make up for it.”
“If it’s a choice between Evie’s pastries or revenge,” Kit said, smiling, “I’m willing to pass on the revenge.”
6
Henry
The two days between Henry visiting Mercier’s the first time and going back dragged terribly. He occupied himself with business matters and unavoidable social calls, but he could not quite fasten his attention on anything.
On Thursday morning he rose early, breakfasted alone, and left the house before anyone else was up. He walked through town then spent some time in a coffee house reading—or rather staring unseeingly at—a newspaper. Eventually, at eleven o’clock, he made his way to Mercier’s.
Once again, it was busy when he arrived. A group of older ladies occupied two of the larger tables while the smaller tables around them were taken by couples and families. Children tucked into their ices and pastries while young ladies giggled over the rims of their teacups.
The same young woman greeted him as last time.
“I’m afraid we don’t have any tables just now, sir,” she said apologetically.
“That’s all right. I’m actually here to see Monsieur Mercier. Could you let him know? He’s expecting me, I believe.”
She looked puzzled. “Oh, I see. Who should I say is asking, sir?”