He touched the brim of his hat and smiled, happy to have offered her some small reprieve from whatever concerns were pressing on her mind, even if their recent discussion had not produced the result he hoped for. “I am always at your service, Viola.”
Her eyes flashed with a hint of appreciation before she turned away, pulling Rex up the steps behind her. Henry waited until she was safely inside and he heard the lock click into place before starting back the way they had come.
Deciding to take a quieter route instead of the quicker one Piccadilly offered, he turned north on Princess Street. He was just about to cross to Brewer Street when he caught a flash of scarlet out of the corner of his eye. Instinctively glancing toward it, Henry froze. What the devil was Carlton Guthrie doing strolling about in the middle of Mayfair?
Henry stared at the man whose flamboyant attire was as well renowned as the crimes he’d committed. The Scoundrel of St. Giles, the papers often called him—a moniker fit for the sort of man he was known to be, even if the authorities had never managed to find him guilty of anything.
In his younger days, when Henry had been hell-bent on tarnishing his own good name, he’d deliberately visited a few establishments in St. Giles, where he’d gambled on boxing matches and played high-stakes dice. He’d even seen the Duke of Huntley fight once when he was just an ordinary man. Before his inheritance changed his life and brought him and his sisters out of the slums. Guthrie had been there too. He’d stood out in the crowd like a splash of bright paint on an otherwise gray façade, so Henry had eventually inquired about him.
Curious to know Guthrie’s errand and worried it might be nefarious, Henry waited for him to turn onto Compton Street before following at a discreet distance. It didn’t take long to realize he was heading toward Soho Square. Henry kept his pace casual and far enough from Guthrie to prevent him from hearing his footsteps. Too far, perhaps, with Frith Street being so short that when Henry turned onto it, Guthrie was already out of sight. Henry hurried out into Soho Square and looked quickly about. Large homes marked the perimeter, among them Tremaine House, whose front door was presently closing.
Henry frowned. It had to be a coincidence. Guthrie would not be sitting down to tea with Robert, who was much too high in the instep to ever admit the Scoundrel of St. Giles into his home. No. Guthrie must have gone off in a different direction. Most likely to Broad Street and onward to his own neighborhood.
Abandoning the idea of pursuing him further, Henry set his course for Swallow Street. He arrived at The Red Rose ten minutes later and made straight for his office. Setting his newly purchased book on his desk, he called for his steward, Mr. Faulkner, to come join him.
“You mentioned an issue with the roof yesterday.” As soon as Henry had returned home from St. Agatha’s, he’d sent a missive to Mr. Faulkner, asking him to join Henry for dinner. Over the course of a couple of hours, the loyal employee had apprised Henry of everything that had happened at The Red Rose during his absence. “Have you found someone to fix the leak?”
“Yes. A couple of roofers were hired this morning. I expect them to start work tomorrow.”
“Excellent.” Henry glanced at a file he’d found waiting for him on his desk. “Do we have samples as usual of the wines being offered by Berry’s?” The grocer specializing in importing wines and spirits of the finest quality was one of Henry’s most cherished suppliers.
“Right over there,” Mr. Faulkner said. He gestured toward a crate on the floor next to the side table.
Henry stood and went to take a closer look. He picked up the first bottle and read the label before comparing it to the wine’s description in the file he’d been provided. “Let us get started on the tasting, then, so we can decide which wine to promote next month.”
It was an idea he’d been developing during the past year and one that had proved quite effective, since his taste in wine was apparently one that agreed with most people. By pushing a monthly wine, he encouraged many of his customers to come back regularly so they could learn which wine he’d selected next.
The process took time as usual. Each sample had to be enjoyed individually. He had to discover the character and consider the combination of flavors. It reminded him a bit of Viola. She too was a luxury to indulge in slowly. As with the wine, he would savor each of her many nuances. Until she eventually surrendered and agreed to be his. No matter how challenging such an accomplishment was proving to be.
The following morning, after enjoying a hearty breakfast, Henry decided to pass a couple of hours in the library. Lowering himself into his favorite chair in front of the fireplace, he propped his feet up on the accompanying footstool. With a pot of coffee on the table beside him and a couple of Cook’s shortbread biscuits for him to savor, he settled in for a relaxing morning.
“Sir,” his butler, Mr. Andrews, announced an hour later when he stepped into the room, “Lord and Lady Armswell have come to call. They are accompanied by the Earl and Countess of Scranton. Shall I show them into the parlor?”
Henry closed the book he’d been reading and set it aside, abandoning his intention to learn about proper soil preparation for the moment. “I will do so myself.” He stood and followed Mr. Andrews out into the hallway. “Please instruct one of the maids to bring up a tray. Remember to remind her of my grandmother’s strawberry allergy.”
“Of course, sir.”
Mr. Andrews headed for the servant stairs while Henry continued toward the foyer, arriving there in a few quick strides. “What a lovely surprise,” he declared even though he could think of a dozen things he’d rather do right now than sit down to tea with his parents and grandparents. All they ever wanted to discuss with him these days was potential brides.
“I am so relieved to see you looking well,” his mother said once he’d shown them all into the parlor and gestured for them to sit. He took the remaining chair—a spindly one that he generally avoided. Newton prowled toward him, pressing himself against Henry’s leg, so he slid his hand along the cat’s supple coat. “We rushed back from Bath as soon as we heard you’d been shot.”
At last. A new conversation subject.
“What on earth were you thinking?” Armswell asked. “You gave your poor mother a fit of the vapors and your grandmama almost suffered an apoplectic incident!”
“I did no such thing,” Lady Scranton declared with a scowl, “though to say you did not give us all a mighty fright would be something of an understatement.” She punctuated her remark with a firm nod and directed a sharp look at Henry. “It is a relief to see you are still alive.”
“Did the papers not mention that I survived the duel?” Henry asked. He was genuinely curious to know how the journalists had painted his most recent brush with death in order to sell their papers.
“Your condition was declared uncertain,” Lord Scranton said gruffly while adjusting his bulky size to the delicate sofa on which he was sitting.
“And we all know what that means,” Lady Armswell announced. “They might as well have written that funeral preparations were forthcoming!”
Henry groaned and reached for his mother’s hand. “As you can see, that will not be necessary just yet, Mama.”
“I should hope not.” She sniffed. “But you would do us all a tremendous favor by avoiding unnecessary threats to your life in future.”
“One doesn’t avoid a duel when one is called out, Mama.”
