“You credit yourself too little,” Henry said fiercely. “You always did.” He took hold of Kit’s other hand and bent his head over it, pressing his lips passionately to the knuckles. “Christopher,” he whispered. “Kit.”
His throat closed up so completely, he could say no more, but he felt like he might burst with the words inside him. Passionate, reckless words.
I love you still.
Was that true?
Was he still in love with Christopher Redford? Was it madness to be thinking that way so soon? To be wondering if they could build some kind of life together after all these long years apart, when they’d only just met again?
Henry looked up to find Kit gazing down at him warily.
He wanted to ask Kit if he thought he could ever love him again, but his courage was running out, and then—before he could utter another word—there was a knock at the door.
Kit tugged his hands free and Henry reluctantly rose to his feet.
When Kit bid the person on the other side to enter, a maid peeped her head round the door. “Pardon for interrupting, sir, but Mr. Gardiner's here.”
Kit hesitated for a moment, then he said. “Show him into the drawing room.”
Once the maid had withdrawn, Kit turned to Henry, his expression apologetic. “My neighbour,” he said by way of explanation. “It'll be about the roof repairs, I expect.”
It was such a stupidly prosaic thing to interrupt one of the most important conversations of Henry’s life. Perhaps, though, Kit had welcomed the interruption? Perhaps he did not want Henry grovelling at his feet, invoking the past?
Unsure what to do, Henry stared at Kit helplessly. But then, miraculously, Kit said carefully, “I know it’s only been a few days, but do you want to come to Redford’s tonight?”
“Yes,” Henry said quickly, his tension easing at the knowledge he would see Kit again soon. “What time?”
“I have something I must do this evening, for Clara,” Kit said. “But any time after eleven will be fine.”
Excitement for the evening ahead buoyed Henry’s footsteps all the way back to Curzon Street and carried him through dinner with Marianne and Jeremy, even though Jeremy was unusually subdued, and Marianne was peevish and picky with her food.
“You’re not in the best of moods, my dear, are you?” Henry observed mildly when she snapped at him for the third time.
Alarmingly, tears sprang to Marianne’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said miserably. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me! I’ve been feeling blue-devilled all day.”
Henry met Jeremy’s helpless gaze.
Leaning over the table, Henry patted Marianne’s hand. “It’s nothing to worry about, my dear,” he said. “Your mother used to get the same way when she was carrying.”
Marianne dabbed at her face with her napkin and gave him a watery smile, which she extended to her husband. “Perhaps I’ll go to bed. I don’t feel like eating just now. Mary can bring me something later if I'm hungry.”
Jeremy stood up. “I’ll help you upstairs, my dear.”
Left to his own devices, Henry finished his dinner and poured himself another glass of wine. His mind drifted, circling back to his conversation with Kit earlier, and the promise of what would follow later tonight.
A quarter hour later, Jeremy returned to the dining room.
“How is she now?” Henry asked.
“Much happier,” Jeremy said. “She’ll soon be tucked up in bed with a book, and Mary will make sure she eats something later.” He sighed and sank down into a chair. “Did you ever wish you could just have the baby for Caroline?”
Henry nodded, but prudently said no more. There was no need to burden Jeremy with stories of what it was like to hear the screams of one's wife as she laboured through childbirth, and being entirely powerless to help her. That was something he would learn soon enough.
“Henry,” Jeremy said, and Henry looked up at the change in his tone.
“Yes?”
“I heard something today that I think you should probably know about.” His gaze was unhappy.
Henry’s gaze narrowed. “What’s that?”
“It’s about Freddy. Well, more this friend of his, really, but I gather Freddy will be there too.”
“Where?”
“At Sharp’s in Knightsbridge,” Jeremy said, meeting Henry’s gaze. “I know you’ve been worried about Freddy’s gaming, and this Bartlett fellow plays very deep, you know. He’s playing Lionel Skelton again tonight.”
“Skelton?” Henry exclaimed.
Jeremy nodded unhappily.
“I warned Freddy to stay away from him,” Henry said. “And for that matter, I warned Skelton to stay away from Freddy.”
Jeremy watched him, carefully. “Skelton may not know Freddy will be there. It’s Bartlett he's due to play.”
“But he knows Freddy’s part of Bartlett’s circle,” Henry said. He pushed his chair back and stood. “Thank you for telling me, Jeremy.”
“Are you going to Sharp’s?” Jeremy asked. “Do you want me to come with you?”
“I’m going, yes, but there’s no need for you to come. You concentrate on looking after Marianne. I can take care of this. Skelton’s nothing more than a wastrel and a bully.”
And, Henry thought, if he got the chance to deliver some punishment to the man for his old sins against Kit, he would not be holding back.
19
Kit
Kit dressed carefully for his confrontation with Bartlett at Sharp’s that evening. No colourful waistcoats tonight, and no jewellery, only soberly elegant black and white. He wanted to look entirely, irreproachably respectable.
When he arrived at the club, he was taken to Mr. Tait’s office. The man greeted him pleasantly enough, but he was rather less friendly than the last time Kit had met him.
“Jake told me of the favour you asked of him,” Tait said. “I must say, I’m not happy about it, but this is Jake’s establishment, not mine.”
“Do I take it Mr. Sharp is not here?” Kit asked.
“He’ll be along shortly,” Tait said. “He rarely comes by before ten though. Still, he was clear that if you arrived before he did, you were to be allowed onto the floor and left to conduct your business with Bartlett.”
Kit nodded. “I’m grateful. I do understand your concerns, Mr. Tait, but this is something I require a particular sort of audience for. I do not envisage it will disrupt the evening overmuch.”
Tait made a hrrmphing sort of noise which indicated his disbelief. And fair enough, given Kit was hoping his accusations against Bartlett would attract considerable attention.
“He’s at a table in card room two. The staff will direct you if you ask.”
Kit rose from his chair. “My thanks, Mr. Tait. I hope to be out of your hair very shortly.”
Tait just shook his head and turned his attention back to the papers on his desk.
As Tait had promised, one of the staff directed Kit to card room two. Kit was gratified to see it was a reasonably large room with a half dozen tables and a good number of gentlemen playing. He stood in the shadows for a minute or two to get his bearings and soon spotted Bartlett on the far side of the room. He was sitting at a table with two other men, neither of whom Kit could see well. Thankfully Bartlett was in the most visible seat, facing the entrance to the room where Kit was hovering. Kit could only see the backs of the other two players. A fourth chair was empty.