“I don’t—” Freddy said desperately, as Skelton shoved a pile of guineas and a paper at him, but Bartlett interrupted him.
“A handsome gesture, Skelton,” he said, scooping his own, much larger pile towards him. “Shall we call for fresh cards and continue the game?”
Henry saw the flicker of amusement in Hammond’s eyes at that fatuous response. Christ, could Bartlett not see what he was dealing with?
Henry pushed his chair back and stood. He looked at Freddy.
“I have the carriage,” he said. He left the question unsaid.
Freddy. Poor Freddy; he looked utterly mortified. But hopefully, he was no Bartlett—too dim to see what sort of men he was playing with.
Several long, agonising moments passed, and then Freddy slowly rose.
“I think—I am done for the night.” He turned to Bartlett and offered a tight smile. “Tattersall’s tomorrow, Perce?”
Bartlett scowled. “Don’t be a spoilsport, Asquith!” His pale gaze shifted between Henry and Freddy, though he made no other comment.
Freddy gave a short laugh. “I’m tired,” he said. “Too many nights on the town. I’ll see you tomorrow.” And with that he turned away and walked towards Henry, who was already standing in the doorway.
Henry smiled at him reassuringly—Freddy did not return the smile.
“The carriage is outside,” Henry murmured as Freddy passed him. “I’ll be out in a moment. Need to use the convenience.”
Freddy nodded and left the room.
Henry caught Skelton’s eye and gestured with his head, letting him know he wanted to speak to him. Skelton’s mouth tightened, but he gave a slight nod. Tavestock and Hammond noticed the exchange, but Bartlett, who was draining his champagne glass, was entirely oblivious.
Henry strolled out of the room and waited in the corridor. A few moments later, Skelton joined him, closing the door softly behind him.
Henry smiled. He said gently, “Don’t come anywhere near my son again. Do you understand?”
Skelton’s face purpled with anger, but he nodded, saying nothing. Henry turned and began to walk away.
“Avesbury—”
Henry turned back. Skelton’s gaze was calculating now, his upper lip sneering.
“Do you remember Kit Redford?”
Henry flinched at the shock of that name on Skelton’s lips. It shouldn’t have been a shock—Skelton had also been an occasional patron of the Golden Lily—but there was an unwritten rule among men like them that such things were not mentioned.
Henry said nothing, only stood, waiting.
Skelton took two steps forward. In a confidential tone, he said, “After you dropped him, no one would touch him with a bargepole—except me. I took him on, and my, he was an eager little bitch.” He laughed nastily, then whispered, “I used to make him beg for my cock like a dog.”
Henry’s gut twisted sharply as the pictures Skelton’s words painted flowered in his mind, in all their graphic horror.
Christopher on his knees before this monster.
“After you dropped him…”
Henry felt like he might throw up, but he would not let his feelings show to the man standing before him. The man who was only saying this as revenge for what had just happened.
Without emotion, Henry said, “Stay away from my son. If you don’t, I’ll destroy you.”
He was only a little gratified to see Skelton pale before he turned away and stalked back to the gaming room.
Freddy was waiting in the carriage. He didn’t say anything when Henry climbed in, keeping his face turned towards the window.
“As I mentioned,” Henry said as he settled onto the opposite bench, “I have an engagement this evening, but I’ll take you back to Curzon Street first.”
“Fine,” Freddy said. His tone was flat and uninviting.
Henry suppressed a sigh and stuck his head out of the window to call out instructions to the coachman.
Once they were on their way, he watched Freddy’s shadowy profile. Freddy had to be aware of his scrutiny, but he said nothing, his jaw tight, lips pressed together.
At last, unable to bear the silence any longer, Henry said, “Skelton is scoundrel. You do see that?”
“Yes,” Freddy muttered.
“Good,” Henry said, “because your friend, Bartlett, doesn’t seem to have cottoned on.”
“He’s just foxed,” Freddy shortly. “I’ll put him right on it tomorrow. There was no talking to him tonight.”
“If he’s the sort of man who won’t listen to reason, perhaps you should consider whether you want to have him as a friend,” Henry said.
Freddy turned and glared at him them, the angry gleam in his eyes unmistakable.
“Who would you rather I spend my time with, Father? Edgar, perhaps?”
Edgar Maitland, Freddy’s best friend at school, was an exceedingly likeable young man. He and Freddy had got along famously, since they were both energetic and adventurous, though their escapades had given Henry more than a few grey hairs over the years.
“Freddy—” Henry began wearily, knowing what was coming.
“I could have,” Freddy said, bitterly, “If you’d agreed to buy my colours.”
Henry made a sound of frustration. “I’m sorry, but I don’t want you to join the army—”
“Cavalry,” Freddy interrupted.
“Army, cavalry, navy—it’s all the same,” Henry said flatly. “You’d be signing your life away.”
“It’s a good career!” Freddy exclaimed. “Most fathers would be proud at the idea of their son taking a position as a cavalry officer.”
“It’s dangerous.”
“Just because Uncle Arthur died, doesn’t mean—”
“Frederick—”
Freddy fell silent, just as the carriage began to slow. They were home.
“I’ll let you get to your engagement then,” Freddy said stiffly, opening the door.
And then he was gone, and the carriage door slammed shut.
Henry sighed.
He checked his watch—nearly midnight. He wondered if Christopher would be annoyed by his late appearance. If he would even admit Henry now.
He stuck his head out of the window again.
“Take me to Palfrey Terrace.”
13
Kit
Kit had made it his business some time ago to find out as much as he could about Peter’s natural father, Mr. Percival Bartlett.
Bartlett was a typical idle gentleman of the ton. He liked clothes, gambling, and drinking. He disliked work. Or, more accurately, he considered work to be something that did not fall within the purview of a man of his class. Work was contemptible. But apparently, to be work-shy, to sponge off of others, and to neglect to pay his bills was the height of good taste.
And on top of all that, the man was a rapist and a bully.
Despite his father’s considerable wealth, Bartlett was nearly always strapped for money. His allowance was generous, but he gambled whatever he had away within days of receiving it, and for the next quarter would simply rack up bills and issue promissory notes, digging himself deeper and deeper into debt as he waited for his wealthy father to die.