“Dull. Uninteresting. He does not care for culture. Dislikes the opera. Thinks theater is vulgar, even Shakespeare. Doesn’t read much beyond newspapers and the occasional history but nothing so uncouth as anovel. He mentioned that he escorted Louisa to the Duchess of Devonshire’s gallery a few days ago, but he found the art troubling.”
“Troubling in what way?” asked Hugh.
Lark raised an eyebrow. “I was there yesterday to see her new Caravaggio. It is a sensual depiction, I will grant you, but I didn’t find it troubling.”
“Youwouldn’t,” said Owen. “I heard it was a male nude.”
“It is not. The painting depicts a young man with one shoulder exposed. I daresay, I see more in the mirror when my valet dresses me in the morning. The younger Devonshire has acquired a nude Venus, a depiction by Rubens if I remember correctly, and it obviously is meant to titillate, too, although Rubens had a type that is not to all men’s tastes. I thought the painting was lovely, though. Perhaps the Caravaggio is not thesort of thing prudish young dukes want their fiancées to see, but it is hardly a scandal. It’s art, after all.”
“Well, the Duke of Rotherfeld does not approve ofart,” said Fletcher. “He does not approve of much. I found him quite puzzling. And boring. Did I mention that? The luncheon felt like it went on for five years. I can’t imagine what he and Louisa talk about.”
“He’s a good-looking gent,” said Lark. “That’s all most women are looking for.”
Fletcher bristled at that. “Louisa is not most women. She’d be dissatisfied in a typicaltonmarriage. She’d want a marriage like you fellows have, with a spouse who loves her and wants to spend time with her. Not some oaf who… God!” Just the mental image of Louisa enduring a husband who was the sort of man who only rutted against his wife a few times a year for the purposes of conceiving an heir…it made Fletcher nauseous.
Owen gave Fletcher a curious look, but said, “And you don’t think Rotherfeld is that man?”
“I suppose I don’t know, but luncheon today was not encouraging.”
When Fletcher arrived home an hour later, this was still on his mind. His butler, Gerald, took his coat and then held out a silver tray with a letter on it. Fletcher disliked this level of formality, but his late father had insisted, and Fletcher hadn’t had the nerve to make things more relaxed at home. He picked up the letter with a sigh.
It was from Louisa. Fletcher scanned it. …alas,Rotherfeld has plans elsewhere Thursday night. It would please me if you accompanied me to the opera in his stead. Rossini’s new opera,La Cenerentola. I’m told it’s a comedy…
Fletcher walked into his office, scrawled a reply that he would absolutely accompany her, and told Gerald to send it first thing in the morning. This, at least, Fletcher could do. He could spend as much time with Louisa as possible before her marriage, because undoubtedly everything would change after the wedding.
Chapter Four
On the one hand, Lark reflected, it was good to go to the club, if only to leave his house. He felt like he’d become a hermit in the last year. Things felt more like the old days, less bleak, less submerged Lark’s own negative thoughts.
For months, he’d barely left his home. He was too devastated, too unfit for company, too unwilling to put on a happy face and pretend his heart wasn’t broken. When he did go out, he tended to make a fool of himself, as he had at the Rutherford ball.
The news that Anthony now had a son had not helped, but after the lecture from Fletcher, he was trying. He was trying not to wallow in misery, to spend time with people so as to not be tempted to wallow, to begin reading gossip sheets and scandal pages again, to reengage with his life. It was an enormous challenge, especially now that Anthony was a father and thus completely lost to Lark, but he knew he had to move on.
It was a few days since he’d last been at his club. He’d refrained from invading his store of liquor, at least. He was tempted to drink himself into a stupor and then go to sleep early, because he hadn’t had occasion to leave the house in a few days and he was deep in his grief. He missed Anthony terribly, but he was also becoming pathetic, and his self-loathing felt like he was digging a deeper hole. Hehadto find a way to move on, for his own health and wellbeing, he just didn’t know how.
It wasn’t like Anthony was dead. Anthony was, apparently, alive and thriving. It was Lark who was home alone and losing his mind.
Johnson appeared at his study’s doorway.
“I’m not in to callers,” Lark said, glancing at his clock. It was mid-afternoon. Had he been in better spirits, he might have called for high tea. As it was, he was wearing old clothes and a dressing gown because he hadn’t bothered to dress for company that morning.
“The Duke of Swynford is here, my lord. He says it is quite urgent.”
Hugh pushed into the room. “You’re in to me, Lark,” he said. With a quick gesture, he dismissed the butler.
“Hugh, I cannot—”
“The Marchioness of Beresford is dead.”
Well, that certainly had Lark’s attention. “She’s…what?”
“She died, Lark. After childbirth, she caught some kind of infection and passed last night. It’s not common knowledge yet, but the news will hit the newspaper tomorrow and the funeral will likely be Saturday. And I found all this out less than thirty minutes ago, so do not ask why I did not tell you sooner.”
“Oh, god.”
“For what it’s worth, Anthony sent me a note. I imagine he sent it to me so that I would get word to you, so that you did not find out from the paper.”
“He succeeded.”
