“At once!” Lady Witley arched her eyebrows at her daughter.
Miss Witley pushed her lips into a pout and followed her mother.
Ottilie spun around and made her way toward Henry, only to discover both he and Mr. Bastin had disappeared. She scanned the ballroom but saw no sign of either man. Henry would not leave without her and her aunt, but perhaps he’d accompanied Mr. Bastin to his carriage. No doubt, Mr. Bastin would want to make his escape as soon as possible. But should she follow them or wait for Henry to return? Violet, her dearest friend and the founder of Canterbury Ladies’ College, would never forgive her if she let the great Jack Bastin slip away without at least a mention of the college. Yet, it seemed ridiculous to ask the writer for a favor now. He might mistake her for one of those obsessed female admirers of his—and that was the last impression she wished to give of herself.
*
“Go home andget some rest.” Hudsyn patted Jack on the back. “That was not a scene which wants repeating. The gossips and papers will be full of it tomorrow.”
Jack breathed in the crisp night air. He could not deny that the incident with Madame Baudelaire had left him shaken.Attacking Lady Enwick in a jealous rage? Sheer madness.
He massaged his forehead. “I need to take a short walk to clear my mind,” he told Hudsyn. “Then I think I’ll go to my club. I don’t have calm enough for sleep.”
“Have you gone mad, Bastin? You’d best get in your carriage and ride away, or the she-devil might come after you again.” Hudsyn glanced over his shoulder as if he expected Madam Baudelaire to come hurtling out the front door like a wild cat.
Jack tugged at his cravat, loosening its grip on his throat. “I don’t think so. She’s in the care of her family now, and they won’t risk letting her out of their sight.”
“Let us hope not.” Hudsyn shuddered. “I need to rush back inside and find my mother. She’ll be shaken to the core by the events.”
“I imagine so,” Jack said.
“Stay out of trouble, old fellow. I’ll check in on you tomorrow.” Hudsyn slapped Jack on the back before dashing up the stairs and disappearing inside the townhome.
Jack set off down Grosvenor Street, deep in thought. Hudsyn spoke the truth. He’d grown careless, and it would not do to further his cause. He slipped his gloved hands into the pockets of his overcoat. His formula for choosing women had always worked in the past, so what went wrong this time? He turned the rules he lived by over in his mind and tried to spot his error:
1.Choose beautiful women married to wealthy gentlemen whose pride and losses would be too great to prompt a scandal after a liaison ended.
2.Choose a woman above the age of six-and-twenty who should have sense and maturity enough not to romanticize a liaison.
3.Never say, “I love you.”
4.Make no promises.
He’d followed all the rules with Madame Baudelaire. A thirty-year-old, high-born lady, wife to a wealthy French merchant, and the mother of four children, she fit all the requirements. They’d begun their liaison with a clear understanding of each other’s situations and intentions. What went wrong? Had he done something to encourage her to fall in love with him? He didn’t think so.
Jack crossed Audley Street and continued along Upper Brook Street. He stopped across from a stately townhome that stood dark and uninhabited amidst its lively neighbors. Narrowing his eyes, he blocked his peripheral vision and focused solely on the house. The old scar on his back ached, and he cursed under his breath. He’d allowed Lydia Baudelaire and her incessant need for attention to distract him from his purpose. He hadn’t come to London to engage in love affairs—those could be enjoyed anywhere. He’d come for Sir Richard’s head.
Where are you hiding, uncle?
The blackguard would return. And when he did, Jack would be waiting. It was time to swear off women and solidify his plans for revenge. Recompense was long overdue.
He turned on his heels and strode back toward Grosvenor, where his carriage waited in front of Madame Baudelaire’s rented mansion. He was relieved to be free of her, but how would he ease his restlessness and calm his thoughts without the distraction of a woman? Perhaps he should try writing something new? He ran a hand through his hair. He hadn’t written anything of merit since his first novel. The book had catapulted him into instant notoriety and continued to win great acclaim from critics.
“Mr. Bastin spins a dark and oftentimes disturbing tale of human suffering,” one critic wrote.
“His work is brutally honest and forces the reader to face man’s inherent hypocrisy, immorality, and cruelty,” lauded another. Yet another had claimed, “Bastin’s fictional world is not without hope. Friendship, loyalty, and love exist, and they blossom in the darkest of gardens.”
Such were the accolades he’d received, yet he could not understand how he’d managed such an achievement.
Jack rounded the square back to where his carriage stood. “St. James’s Street,” he instructed the driver before climbing inside.
The coachman flicked the reins, stirring the slow-to-move horses. The animals pawed the ground with their hooves as though waking their legs from a long sleep. Jack leaned back in his seat and returned to his thoughts as he gazed out the window. Light emanating from the street’s gas lamps bathed the night in an orange glow.
He hadn’t planned to write a novel, nor had he ever fancied himself a writer. Yet, after the shock of discovering that both his father and older sister were dead, he’d been seized with the strongest desire to put quill to paper, and once he started, he could not stop. He’d spent four months holed up in a house in Bristol, writing day and night, often foregoing food and sleep. The words poured from his soul like a great purge, and when he finished, it left him depleted.
At seven-and-twenty, he had nothing left to say.
Jack sighed and rapped on the carriage roof with his walking stick.
