He curled his hands into fists to temper the rising anger. Was this how a caged beast felt, trapped in a life he never wanted?
“Sir, perhaps…” John hesitated.
Charles lifted his eyebrows in inquiry.
“Perhaps, before we leave for the country, I could make arrangements for a woman? You’re in need of a little recreation before you leave.”
I no longer have money to waste on a doxy.
“If you sell Destriero you’ll have enough to reduce the loan, with plenty to spare for a whole coven of doxies.”
Charles let out a snort.So, I’m selling a horse and buying a woman?
The valet grinned. “At least the woman will be cheaper.”
But far less pleasurable to ride.
“I’ll find an Italian doxy if you like,” John said. “To remind you of home.”
Charles sighed, then motioned again.England is my home now.
“An English doxy it is, then.”
The chaise drew up alongside Charles’s lodgings.
Yet another colorless building. Like every other house in England, it was filled with damp and mold, the stench of which not even the strongest of colognes could mask. The furnishings were torturous—hard chairs that caused the bones to ache, as if Society measured elegance in direct proportion to discomfort—with dull, muted colors, soulless compared to the vibrant hues of Italy. As for the servants within—stiff with disdain, engaging in bland conversation and serving even blander food. The item they’d placed before him last night, which they tried to pass off as steak, had almost dislodged a tooth.
Devil’s breeches, was this what life would be like from now on? Perhaps he ought to take pleasure where he could.
Charles glanced at the valet, then nodded.
Better make it two.
Chapter Three
Penham Park, Hampshire
Devil’s breeches, itwas worse than he’d imagined.
The vast building of Penham Park stretched before him, a monolith of gray stone, dotted with windows that stared out across the landscape like dark, lidless eyes. Two staircases climbed toward each other at an angle at the front, meeting on a large balcony that wrapped around the whole building, edged by a balustrade.
The gardens, that had once been so finely manicured as to have wiped out all evidence of the beauty of nature, were overgrown as if, now given freedom from the chokehold of the previous earl, Nature had taken vengeance.
Charles stepped out of the carriage and onto the gravel drive where weeds poked through the tiny stones. He thrust his hands into his pockets and cast his gaze over the building he’d be forced to call home.
Buildings from a man’s childhood ought to harbor the fondest of memories—secret hideaways, a treasured nursery, a favored bedchamber, and a multitude of dens in the surrounding estate. And they were always expected to be smaller than recalled, distorted by a child’s memory.
But the main building of Pelham Park elicited no such emotions. It was larger, more imposing than Charles recalled from the last time he’d seen it, before he’d effected his escape into manhood and out of England.
It was a mausoleum, a memorial to years of torment and bitterunhappiness.
Charles climbed the steps, John in his wake, then approached the main doors, the lawyer’s words playing in his mind.
There’s sometimes comfort to be found in knowing that one is doing one’s duty to one’s heritage.
What comfort could ever be found in this godforsaken place? The only inhabitants were most likely spiders and bats.
The onlylivinginhabitants. Doubtless, the building housed the spirits of the dead, the souls of the condemned. Who else would find comfort here—a dark and forbidding place to suit his dark soul. Wasn’t that what Father accused him of being?
