“God willing,” Bessie replied, choking back tears of her own. “Farewell, my dear.”
Chapter Twenty
Miss Frances Habersham’sgloved hand gripped Ambrose’s arm like a grappling hook as the Theatre Royal audience spilled out onto Drury Lane. And for reasons he couldn’t begin to fathom, it irritated him. Maybe his mood was due to the play, a five-act tragedy about love lost, with the lead male character finally sinking into madness and despair. A bad choice of entertainment, in hindsight. But then, he found little enjoyment in most things, these days.
“What did you think of the play, Miss Habersham?” he asked, feigning interest even as he steered her, rather unsteadily, toward her carriage.
“Enjoyable, my lord,” she said. “Perhaps a little Byronesque, but enjoyable.”
“A fine summation, Miss Habersham. Enjoyable, indeed,” Ambrose said, as the lady stepped into the carriage, followed immediately by her aunt, Lady Asher, who had served as chaperone for the evening. “Good evening to you both, ladies.”
Miss Habersham smiled, whereas Lady Asher arched a brow and gave him a look of matronly disapproval. “May I suggest, Pendlewood,” she said, “that the next time you escort a younglady to the theater, you do so while sober and after taking time to tidy yourself.”
Ambrose hiccupped and looked down at himself. “Am I not tidy?”
“You are not,” she replied. “You need a shave and haircut. A bath wouldn’t hurt, either. Please close the door.”
Rubbing his bristled jaw with one hand, he closed the carriage door with the other, using a little more force than necessary. All right, so perhaps he’d practically ignored Miss Habersham for most of the evening. And maybe he was slightly in his cups, but not even close to slurring his words or staggering. At least, notnoticeablystaggering. As for his hair…Ambrose ran his fingers through it. Perhaps a haircut wouldn’t go amiss.Lydia liked my hair. Said it felt like…
“Damn you,” he muttered, and attempted to clear his traitorous mind as he walked to his carriage. He needed a distraction. Fortunately, the night was yet young.
“Home, milord?” Hulme asked, opening the carriage door.
“No,” Ambrose replied. “Not yet.”
“Then where to, milord?”
Ambrose pondered for a moment, unsure of what he wanted. He wasn’t hungry. Didn’t feel like discussing political views with his peers. Was a tad too drunk for billiards, or soon would be. Wasn’t in the mood for bawdy female entertainment. He needed a place to divert his thoughts and drown his sorrows. Perhaps throw some money down on a gaming table. His family crest on the carriage door caught his eye. Specifically, the lion rampant.
“The Lyon’s Den,” he said.
Hulme gave a nod. “The Lyon’s Den it is, my lord.”
Bessie Dove-Lyon satback in her chair and blinked several times in an effort to ease the dryness in her eyes, which were strained from poring over her bookkeeper’s meticulous reports. She glanced up at the wall clock as it struck four. It had been a long night, one where darkness was best avoided, given the sadness she felt. Another hour and the sun would be up. A little over two hours hence, Lydia Page would be looking back on London as theLydia Janemade its way along the Thames to open water. The mere thought drew a sigh from Bessie.
She shifted her thoughts back to the Lyon’s Den and wondered what kind of night it had been. After closing the ledger and tucking it into a drawer, she dropped her veil over her face and headed to the gallery that overlooked the main gaming hall.
Tobacco smoke cast a haze over the space, adding to the usual mélange of odors, some more agreeable than others. It had been a trouble-free night, so far at least. From her place in the gallery, Bessie swept a satisfied gaze across the busy tables. Most of the patrons were known to her, but one man in particular, seated at a card table, snared her attention. It took her a moment to assure herself of his identity. Of all people, he was probably the last she’d have expected to see beneath her roof at this time. “Well, well, well,” she muttered, and then smiled as she dared to allow herself a moment of fancy, telling herself Fate had surely dragged the wretched fellow through her door.
Glancing over her shoulder, she beckoned Duncan, one of her men, over. “Has Lord Pendlewood been at the tables all night, Duncan?”
“Not all night, ma’am,” Duncan replied. “He arrived shortly before midnight a wee bit the worse for wear. Been keeping an eye on him since. He’s had a few more drinks, and he’s not having much luck at the tables.”
“I see,” she said, quietly acknowledging a tingle of anticipation beneath her ribs. “Ask him to come to my office, willyou? If he resists, tell him it’s urgent. If he still resists, let me know and we’ll go from there.”
Duncan nodded. “Understood, ma’am,” he replied, and went off on his errand. Bessie, meanwhile, returned to her office, drumming her fingers on her desk as she waited. “Come on, my lord,” she murmured, glancing at the clock and then at the door, “we’re wasting time.” She was still drumming her fingers ten minutes later when a knock came to the door.
“Come,” she called, crossing her fingers beneath her desk. The door opened to reveal the Earl of Pendlewood as she had never seen him. Fortunately, the veil she wore served to hide her shock at his appearance, which had not been evident from the gallery. With gaunt cheeks, shadows beneath his bloodshot eyes, and an unshaven jaw, he looked like a man haunted. Haunted by what? A decision recently made, she suspected. One that simply didn’t make sense. Might she be able to exorcise whatever ghosts were responsible for that decision?
“Lord Pendlewood,” she said, rising to her feet. “Thank you for coming to see me. May I offer you a drink?”
“Oh, so this is a social occasion? Not the impression I was given.” Scowling, he glanced about. “I was informed you wish to see me about a matter of some urgency, but I now question the truth of that statement. Or perhaps a drink is merely the precursor to whatever nonsense you mean to impart.”
Bessie gave a soft sigh. Her instincts were apparently correct. She needed to fix this, if possible, and time was of the essence.
“In that case,” she replied, “before I impart my nonsense, might I offer you a cognac? Eighteen twelve.”
An eyebrow flicked upward for a moment. “An excellent year.”
