“I’m going to change for dinner,” he said flatly, and left the room, shutting the door sharply behind him.
For a few moments, the rest of them were silent, then Henry sighed. “Well, that went well.”
“It’s not your fault, Papa. He’s so bad-tempered these days,” Marianne said.
“Hmmm,” Henry replied, not quite agreeing. Freddy had always had a bit of a temper, even as a little boy, but it stemmed from that boundless energy of his. With direction, he would be a formidable young man. His actions today—rushing to the rescue of that young woman without hesitation—demonstrated as much. But without direction or purpose, he had a tendency to become easily bored.
Marianne said, “I don’t think he’s going to take your advice, Papa.”
Henry agreed. And though it would prevent him getting to Redford’s promptly, he knew what he had to do.
“Well, I think I’ll call in at this gaming club he’s going to,” Henry said. “And see for myself what he chooses to do. Besides,” he added. “I’d like to get a look at this new friend of his. Percy Bartlett.”
By ten that evening, Henry was near grinding his teeth in frustration.
He’d told Christopher—Kit—that he would arrive at Redford’s at some point after nine o’clock, but now he had to stop by Sharp’s first. Freddy had only left half an hour ago, and Henry had decided to wait a full hour before venturing to Sharp’s for himself. No point arriving before Freddy had so much as sat down.
The delay was giving him far too much time to brood over what might happen—or what might not happen.—at Redford’s.
He tried to read a book to pass the time, but could not concentrate, and found himself staring endlessly at the same page.
Getting to his feet, he paced the room, finally halting in front of the looking-glass above the mantel. He sighed. Sometimes it was startling to look at one’s reflection and recall how old one was.
He was seven-and-forty.
When last he’d seen Christopher, he had been nine-and-twenty.
Not so very much older than Freddy was now.
He sighed, remembering his argument with Freddy earlier.
“I’m not a child! I’m perfectly able to make my own judgments on the people I come across.”
It was really quite galling, Henry reflected, how he had gone, in his children’s eyes, from being a godlike creature whose sage advice was sought on the smallest matters to being someone whose every word was apparently quite superfluous and unnecessary. George barely confided in him at all these days, and if Henry gave Marianne enough rope, she’d manage him as though she were the parent and he were the child.
Henry sighed again and turned his head to examine more closely the streaks of grey at his temples.
Silver threads amongst the gold, as his mother used to say—or amongst the chestnut-brown in his case.
He ran his hands down his torso, frowning at the slight softness to his once-flat belly. He was fortunate enough to still be reasonably fit, thanks to his daily rides in Wiltshire, but he was beginning to notice that the years were taking their toll. His left knee had begun to ache when it rained—the niggling remnants of a twisting sprain he’d suffered after catching eleven-year-old George jumping down from a tree he’d got stuck in.
It made him feel old.
He thought back to when he’d first met Christopher. He'd had no conception then of how handsome and healthy he had been.
Perhaps no one realised how fortunate they were at that age.
Perhaps it was only later, as one witnessed the gradual, unrelenting loss of those attributes, that one began to truly understand what one had once had.
The clock in the corner chimed the half hour.
Time to go.
Henry carefully adjusted his neckcloth, minutely rearranging the folds, then made his way downstairs, to where the carriage would be waiting.
When he arrived at Sharp’s, Henry stayed inside the carriage, sending his groom to tell the doorman that the Duke of Avesbury sought to be admitted. Though not a member, his title and fortune would undoubtedly grant him entry. Sure enough, only a few minutes later, a well-dressed man emerged. Henry watched from the carriage window as the man took in the elegant equipage, and the ducal crest painted on the door.
“Your grace,” the man said as he approached the carriage window. He executed a creditable bow. “William Tait, at your service. Do I take it you will be honouring us with your presence this evening?”
“I thought I might,” Henry replied, offering a remote, polite smile. It never did to appear too keen.
“Ordinarily, we require our patrons to apply for membership in advance,” the man told Henry, “but in your case we would be very happy to make an exception.”
Henry nodded at the groom to open the door and stepped out of the carriage. He followed Tait to the front door, and the doorman stood aside to let them pass.
Inside, Sharp’s was gleaming and new-looking. The main gaming room was all dark green and gold. Gold-striped wall hangings and heavy, bottle-green velvet curtains. Dark-green leather upholstered armchairs and baize-topped walnut card tables.
Most of the chairs were occupied, and the play looked to be serious. The conversation was relatively muted, and there were no lightskirts patrolling in search of customers.
“Do you wish me to have a new table set up for you, your grace?” Tait asked.
“Let me do a circuit of the room first, to see if there is anyone I know here whose table I might join.”
“Very good, your grace. Would you care for some refreshment? Some champagne, perhaps?”
“That would do very well,” Henry agreed. “Thank you.”
The man nodded and disappeared, and Henry began to slowly make his way around the room.
He recognised almost no one. Having been gone from town nearly two decades, he had relatively few acquaintances in society circles. There were a few faces he thought he recognised, but only one he could positively identify: the elderly Viscount Linton. Linton had been ancient when Henry was a boy and appeared not to have changed so much as a hair in the last eighteen years. He frowned in Henry’s direction as though trying to work out who he was.
The other men in the room glanced at Henry less obviously, mildly curious but mostly hiding their interest. As for Henry, he smoothly wove his way between the tables, stopping every now and again to watch play for a while before moving on.
He finally found Freddy in a small, private room off the main chamber. There was no croupier dealing the cards or observing the play in here. Just the players at the table.
Henry stood, unnoticed, in the doorway for a few moments. Despite having claimed he would be taking no part in the game, Freddy was indeed one of players.
Henry glanced around the table. He immediately recognised Lionel Skelton, who was around the same age as Henry. The younger son of some minor baron, Skelton had been a wastrel when Henry had first known him, and Henry could see that nothing had changed. Back then, Skelton had been a big, strapping fellow, but he had not aged well. Now his face was bloated from drink, his features coarse, his small eyes bleary.
Henry took a little longer to recognise the man sitting beside Skelton, but finally placed him: Nigel Tavestock. Eighteen years ago, Tavestock had been an unremarkable, quiet young man with mousy hair, always in the shadow of the larger, more assertive Skelton. Now, Tavestock was bald as a coot, thick in the waist, and had a florid complexion that made him look rather flustered, an impression that was not improved by his dishevelled cravat and wrongly buttoned waistcoat.