When the same footman had opened the door again less than ten minutes later, Henry had half-expected to be asked to leave, but the man had merely said that Mr. Redford would be down in a few minutes, if he would care to wait.
And that was what Henry was now doing. Waiting nervously. Staring unseeingly out of the window at the street below as his mind whirred with thoughts.
When the drawing room door finally opened again, he spun on his heel.
The footman was holding open the door, and the man who was stepping forward, into the room, was, quite possibly the most elegantly dressed man Henry had ever seen. His clothes were beautifully tailored, his hair perfectly coiffed. His face—
It was the same face.
“Christopher—” The name escaped him on a shaky breath.
Christopher Redford was just as he had been nearly twenty years ago—and he was so very different.
For several long moments, they stared at one another. Henry couldn’t have moved or spoken to save his life. His gaze moved over Christopher hungrily, absorbing every fascinating detail. His hair was a more seasoned, darker gold than before, but otherwise he wasn't much changed. Still slim, still fine-featured, unmistakably the same man, only older.
The same; and different.
He was still beautiful, Henry thought, but there was a slight reserve—a coolness even— in the green eyes. And there were lines of character etched in his face that hadn’t been there before. Henry found he wanted to study him, to step close and explore all the minute changes time had wrought.
Perhaps he would have done so, if Christopher hadn’t given a wintry smile, inclined his head almost mockingly, and said with devastating and chilly politeness, “Well. This is rather unexpected, I must say.”
Henry’s heart plummeted.
In that instant, he saw that Christopher was miles distant, holding himself back behind a politely inquiring mask. Beneath the mask, Henry detected traces of wariness and anger. He saw it in the tension in Christopher’s jaw. In the slight glitter in his eyes.
“I’m afraid Kit sees no point in meeting with you. So many years, you know.”
Henry swallowed, hard. “Christopher, I—”
“Please,” Christopher interrupted, his smile a little savage. “My friends call me Kit.” He threw the name at Henry like a dart, the ‘t’ very precise and sharp. “Though you may address me as Mr. Redford.”
Henry blinked at him. Although it had been plain from his conversations with Jean-Jacques that Christopher did not remember him fondly, the sheer hostility the man was giving off shocked Henry. The last time he had seen Christopher, they had been lovers.
And now this.
Evidently, Henry was not considered a friend. In fact, by the look on Christopher’s face, he was very much the enemy.
Henry cleared his throat. “Thank you for agreeing to speak with me,” he tried again, moving forward a step. Christopher immediately stepped back, keeping the distance between them the same as before.
Henry stilled. He tried again. “I recently met Jean-Jacques—I believe he mentioned to you that he’d seen me?”
“He said he saw you in Mercier’s, with your wife,” Christopher said tightly. His lips twisted into a mockery of a smile. “I understand congratulations are in order. Again.”
Henry gave an uncomfortable laugh. “Oh, no, not at all. Unless you mean to congratulate me on my first grandchild. The lady I was with was not my wife, you see. Marianne is my daughter.”
Christopher’s eyes widened at that, and his cheeks flushed pink. “Oh,” he said, seeming entirely discombobulated. After a moment he added, a little shakily, “Well, it seems I’m even older than I thought.”
Henry let out an undignified snort of laughter at that, making Christopher glance at him in surprise, then rub his left ear in an uncomfortable gesture that was somehow endearing.
Henry said lightly, “You are not the one who is about to be a grandfather. Imagine how I feel.”
Christopher stared at Henry for long moments, his gaze unwavering. At last, he sighed and said, wearily, “Why are you here, Henry? Really, I mean.”
“Didn’t Jean-Jacques tell you?”
Christopher shrugged one slim shoulder. “He said you felt bad about the events of the past—I can’t imagine why you should suddenly feel that way after all this time. It was a thousand years ago. We are past all that now, don’t you think? And it’s not as though we move in the same social circles.” He gave a derisive laugh. “Unless you’re angling for a membership to my club. Is that it?”
Henry flushed. Was that what Christopher thought of him? That he’d presume on their past friendship to gain entry to his club?
“I’m not angling for anything,” he said. “I came because I have just learned that you may not have received what you were entitled to when our arrangement came to an end, all those years ago.”
Christopher’s unimpressed gaze did not alter.
Henry stepped forward, meeting Christopher's sceptical look with an open one of his own, one that let all his regret show. “I swear to you, it was only a few days ago that I first learned anything of it—I still don’t know the whole story. I was horrified to learn that you were led to believe I broke our agreement.”
Christopher bristled at that. “You did break it.”
Henry flinched at the man’s sharp tone. Then he nodded. “Yes. Unintentionally, I did. I entrusted my man of business to carry out certain instructions, and I have only now, in the last few days, learned that he did not do so. Instead of conveying the house to you as he was supposed to, he let the property to a tenant I knew nothing about and diverted the rent payments to himself. My solicitor is looking into the matter now.”
Christopher gave him a disbelieving look. “Really, Henry? That is your story? Were you really so careless with your personal affairs?”
The pang of hurt that comment caused was profound. The last time he’d seen Christopher, the man had looked at him with frank adoration—as though he’d hung the moon in the sky. Now Henry had fallen so far in his estimation that Christopher all but called him liar to his face.
Henry, hoping his distress did not show, tried to keep his voice steady and calm. “I am generally reasonably diligent about my affairs, but I had no reason to doubt Parkinson’s loyalty. He had been my father’s private secretary for many years, and I trusted him implicitly. Besides, at the time I was preoccupied with Caroline.”
“Caroline?” Christopher’s frown made Henry’s stomach sink. “Why were you preoccupied with Caroline?”
“You don’t know?” Henry asked faintly.
“Know what?”
This was what he had feared.
“Did Parkinson give you my letter?” Henry said hoarsely.
Christopher’s blank look was all the answer he needed. A wrenching ache near split his heart into two, and for the first time ever, Henry wished Parkinson was alive again, just so he could punish him for his reckless, selfish actions.
Christopher had been so young and trusting back then, despite his worldly ways—it was unbearable to imagine how he must have felt when Parkinson had arrived at the little house to turn him out. Without so much as even a note from Henry.