Chapter 2
Lord Peterboro headed out into the night, extremely irritated with himself, his own style of idiocy, and the fact that he’d been so bloody easily provoked. God how he hated the ton. He loathed their vapid little world in which they knew nothing but each other. And as for the outside world? It was nothing to them, not truly, unless it was entertainment or involved in war or money.
He stood under the portico, contemplating a hackney or perhaps just marching off in the general direction of Plymouth and a ship off this damned island. But then he recalled he wasn’t wearing boots.
He gazed down and resisted the urge to kick the stone step. He was strong. But the steps would win in such a war.
Bloody evening clothes.
How was a man supposed to get about on his own marching orders if he was forced to wear such idiotic frippery? Soft leather slippers, indeed. London streets were quagmires of mud, piss, and God knew what else. Such shoes as he wore would be sucked into the abyss in the blink of an eye.
Some peacocks even bejeweled their shoes.
Stockings and his present hoofery were quite enough to contend with.
“Peterboro?” an amazed, Scottish voice ventured from the street.
Damian cursed silently to himself. He was in no mood to see old friends who did not see him as a person but as a curiosity. It was tempting to simply stride off, risk the mud, and pretend he hadn’t heard.
He wasn’t a coward. So, he forced himself to gaze out to the street.
As he located the voice, he realized it was coming from a coach which would have funded a full year of his expeditions. The crest on the lacquered green coach made it absolutely clear who was inside.
The Duke of Clyde.
“Come on, man!” the duke demanded, leaning against the opened window. “Get in. Ye look entirely out of place, like a hawk amidst pigeons.”
He harrumphed. Pigeons. The ton, indeed, was a flock of stupid birds.
Still damned annoyed by the events, he sighed as he hesitated. What the hell had happened in there? How had he allowed himself to grow so incensed?
He’d been one step away from coshing that foolish fellow on the jaw. Only the young woman who had virtually thrown herself between them had stopped him and given him something else to focus his attention on. He’d been exceptionally rude. He’d been honest. It still amazed him that the two so often went hand in hand.
He contemplated the coach and the big man who was looking out of it.
For one last, lingering moment he looked to the street. But then he shook the longing off. He was terrible company for himself as of late.
So, without further delay, he strode down and allowed the footman to open the coach door for him.
He hauled himself in and got a full view of Clyde in the shadows.
He hadn’t seen the Scot for nigh on twenty years.
For a moment, he said nothing.
“I’m a veritable monster, am I no’?” Clyde said with false cheer. His gloved hands came together and he tilted his face to the light, allowing an even better view of his marred visage.
“Someone has used your face to sharpen their knife,” Damian replied simply, eyeing the jagged skin that ran across the forehead, nose, and cheek. It was bad. Bad, indeed. A massive cut across the once handsome man’s face.
Clyde stared, then a deep laugh boomed from him. “Indeed, they did.”
Damian cocked his head to the side. “Given that you are living, it would seem you came out the victor.”
“I did,” Clyde confirmed with no pleasure.
“It’s good to see you,” he said with a surprising degree of truth. He and Clyde had spent some time together as youths. Not a great deal, but he’d always liked the Highland laird destined to one day be a duke.
“And ye?” Clyde frowned. “What the devil were ye doing?”
He blew out a frustrated breath as if that might somehow cleanse him of the evening. “Attempting to forget the absolute rot I heard in that house.”
Clyde’s lips twitched in amusement. “That bad, eh?”
He shuddered.
“Willna go to such events myself,” Clyde said lightly. “But I do like to see Andromeda after them.”
Andromeda. His gut tightened. “Lady Gateshead?”
Clyde nodded. A look of fondness softened his face. “Aye. She’s quite a lass.”
That tightness of his gut twisted. Jealousy. He was no liar when it came to his emotions. Lady Gateshead was a stunner. And she hadn’t been afraid to tell him to go to the devil. Not many men, let alone women, did that.
It rankled, realizing that she had to be Clyde’s mistress if he was visiting her after a party. “I’m sure she makes your evening very pleasant,” he managed to say through only slightly gritted teeth.
Clyde’s brow furrowed realizing the conclusion drawn by Peterboro. Then he burst out in rolling laughter. “Good God, man, no.”
“No?” he echoed dubiously.
Clyde laughed again. “No. I always love to see my sister. But I dinna like to see the peacocks she entertains.”
Sister. A ridiculous wave of relief went through him. There should be no relief. Lady Gateshead had given voice to one of the worst adventurers in Egyptian and Grecian antiquities. But by God, she’d had fire. Something far more important than external beauty. At least, to him.
Clyde tapped the roof and the coach trundled down the street. The horses picked their way through the choked thoroughfare with ease.
“Since I’ve saved ye from such painful company, except my sister of course,” Clyde said, his voice still ripe with mirth. “Let us have a drink. . . With less silly people.”
“Sounds tolerable.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Clyde was silent then he cleared his throat. “Do ye drink alcohol now?”
The subtle question, masked with just the right amount of vagueness, was unmistakable.
“Look here, Clyde,” he said flatly. “If you’re looking for gossip, I’m in no mood.”
“Believe it or no’, old man, I couldna give a rat’s farthing for gossip.” Clyde leaned forward, his gaze riveting. “But as old friends, I am interested in what happened to ye. If that upsets ye, we can talk about the weather.”
Clyde rested back against the velvet squabs then gestured to the window. “Very fine, this September. Dinna ye think?”
Damian groaned before shoving a hand through his hair. “Forgive me. I haven’t had the most pleasant homecoming. I am suspicious of everyone and everything.”
Clyde’s brows rose ever so slightly. “Understandable. I’ve seen the drawings.”
God’s teeth. The drawings.
He winced. Some fool of a ragmonger had drawn him up as an Ottoman pasha complete with a massive turban, peacock feathers, curled-toed shoes, and ballooning pants. It had been infuriating.
“Ye’re quite the spectacle,” Clyde affirmed. “Though I dinna think the drawing got yer face right at all. Symmetry was all off. And the angle of yer jaw.”
“My jaw?” he echoed.
“Indeed.” Clyde smirked. “It seems as if ye’re begging to be punched.”
“I don’t particularly love Londoners.”
“I could never have guessed.” Folding his arms across his broad chest, the duke asked with what seemed to be genuine curiosity, “Why have ye returned?”
“Get a drink in me first, Clyde,” he protested. He’d had little meaningful discourse with anyone since his return to London. He found he wasn’t quite prepared to reveal his motives.
“Ah. So ye do drink.”
“Yes.”
“Interesting.” Clyde lifted his hands and assured his old friend, “I’ve got nothing against those who abstain. But I must admit I’m damned glad ye’re no’ one of them. We can raise a glass to our mutual dislike of society.”
Giving a succinct nod, Damian peered out the window, not immediately recognizing the shamble of ragged buildings outside. “Where are we headed?”
Clyde grinned. “Somewhere without society.”
The coach rattled across London Bridge and headed for Southwark. A much rougher part of the city. A place to get your throat cut or cock tickled.
Some unfortunate fellows experienced both in the same night by a pinch purse whore and her pimp.
“I had no idea you cared for slumming,” he said. He stared out at the teeming, staggering drunks of humanity along bankside.
Clyde squared his shoulders and corrected, “I dinna slum.” He paused then said quietly, “But the people there? They stare at me because of my clothes.”
Damian turned back to his old friend. “Not because of your face.”
Clyde nodded, a darkness settling over his previously jovial nature.
Life had not been kind to either of them. For very different reasons, it seemed.
As they ventured deeper into the stew, the lights dimmed. Few lanterns lit the dark night that was brimming with wildly drunken laughter and shouts.
A pennywhistle and fiddle filled the air with music as they stopped before a squat tavern.
Damian eyed the swinging sign which proclaimed The Wild Turk.
“Are you being a ponce?” he asked.
“Oh, the name.” Clyde pulled on his gloves. “The owner spent many years living on the cheap in Venice. A good friend. Nothing to do with ye except coincidence.”
“I see.” The Ottoman Empire had long been a challenge for Venice and certainly Italy saw a good deal more of the East than the rest of Europe. Still, it felt strange to go in given the nonsense that had been surrounding him.
Even so, he wasn’t about to turn tail to his quiet room now.
So, he vaulted down to the muddy street, Clyde behind him.
They swept into the main room and a wall of heat, sweat, and drink hit him.
The crowded tavern, filled with smoke, collectively paused as they walked in. It was as if a single body turned, surveyed them, then went right back to their drink.
“I told ye,” Clyde said. “They dinna care about us being here. They let me be.”
“So you did.” Though he had a strong feeling that if he’d walked in alone, his mettle would have been quickly tested. He had a feeling Clyde’s had been tested and found to be acceptable. Lord or no, one could get their throats cut in a place like this if one didn’t know the inherit violent nature of men.
They wound their way through bodies in various states of imbibing to an empty table at the back.
As Damian lowered himself to the rough bench, he studied the teeming group of Londoners. There was something truly awe-inspiring about the people that fueled one of the most powerful nations on earth.
They worked themselves into early graves, with little comfort, care, or compensation. Cold rooms, few clothes, damp, coal in the air were their lot. But they were all filled with remarkable pride to be English.
A barmaid, her black hair loosely braided, wisps tickling her pink-cheeked face, made her way towards them. A tray rested on her hand and shoulder with balanced perfection. “Good evening, Your Grace.”
“Good evening, Violet,” the duke said as if he knew her quite well. “Gin.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Violet winked, turned and thrust a hip in Damian’s direction. “And for your friend?”
“Gin as well, thank you,” Damian supplied, ignoring said curved hip.
She nodded and headed off. She offered no attempt to further seduce him, which he appreciated.
Once, he’d adored women. He’d spent few nights alone years ago. Women had been like spices to him. Varied. Interesting. To be widely sampled, enjoyed, and savored. But his wife had changed all that. She had been the only woman he’d wanted then. Since her death. . .
He doubted he’d ever go back to exciting nights again.
Clyde leaned back, took his hat off, and placed it on the table. “Now, tell me, man. What the devil have ye been up to?”
That was the question, wasn’t it? What everyone wished to know. How could the second son of a duke head off into parts unknown with no communication for years?
“Traveling,” he replied simply. “Studying.”
“Ye’re a veritable font of information.”
Damian shifted uncomfortably. He wasn’t used to discussing himself. It was a topic he’d steadfastly avoided for years upon years. Abroad, there were far more interesting things to discuss after all. “I’ve been studying ancient ruins. Going from country to country. Marveling at the differences and similarities men have in their gods and their myths. Even similarities in peoples. After meandering through parts of the world that barely ever saw Englishmen, I found it convenient to take on local attire as well as language. Hence the print. I’ve never worn curled slippers by the by.”
Clyde grinned. “I remember ye were a bit of linguist.”
A bit was a nice way to put it. At fifteen, he could speak ten languages; three of which were dead. His father had been appalled. A studious fellow was not what the army required. And second sons were for the army, after all.
“What will ye do now?” Clyde asked quite seriously. It wasn’t a question meant to fill the conversation. It sounded dire, in all actuality.
But just as he was about to reply, another man entered the tavern. Another lord.
Clyde raised a hand. The self-possessing fellow with russet hair crossed to them.
“I did have a prior arrangement for after my visit with Andromeda,” Clyde explained. “But I do think the two of ye will approve of each other.”
Damian doubted it. He disliked most people and found them to be preposterously deficient or ill-educated. Still, he wished to give no offense to Clyde.
“Blakemore,” boomed Clyde in a particularly friendly manner.
Blakemore, less jovial, nodded. He sat, sweeping his burgundy coattails out of the way.
“Blakemore, Peterboro. Peterboro, Blakemore,” Clyde said succinctly. Then he banged the table with pleasure as Violet brought glasses and gin.
“Oi spotted Lord Blakemore and added another glass.”
“Clever lass,” Clyde said as he passed her an extra coin.
She beamed then bustled off. As she moved away, she was swinging her tray as though it weighed as much as a feather.
Blakemore arched a dark brow, skeptical. “Peterboro? Lord Peterboro? Damian Peterboro?”
Damian braced himself. He was about to hear all his shortcomings for abandoning king and country for the savages. No doubt, the man would ask for accounts of the quaintness and savagery of the people he’d deigned to live amongst. It did seem to happen almost daily.
“I’m one and the same,” he said. Damian raised his glass, trying to force away the oncoming exhaustion that always came with trying conversations from ignorant people.
Blakemore suddenly grinned and banged his hand against the table. “A damned pleasure.”
Damian blinked, glass suspended.
Blakemore stuck out his hand.
Damian eyed the appendage as if it were a snake. But he shook it with his free hand nevertheless.
A look of pure excitement lit Blakemore’s face. “You see, when I first entered politics, I read a great deal of the foreign briefings. Your name would creep up. Often there would be some mention, Lord Peterboro spotted in Tajikistan. Lord Peterboro in Nepal climbing mountains. That kind of thing. I was always amazed at the life you chose to live. Most English have to take their teacups and chairs with them when they go into parts unknown. You just walked into the wild one day. Damned admirable.”
That was one way of putting it. But all those years ago, one thing had become plain. He either needed to leave the British Army and put his old life behind him or put a lead ball in his brain. The choice had proved surprisingly simple.
With the death of his little sister, a memsahib, who’d been burned out in a few hours of fever and laid to rest within hours of that. His heart had not been able to sustain the brutality that had followed.
The next thing he’d known, he was heading into the mountains of Kashmir.
By all accounts, he should be a dead man given the love those people had for the English.
His throat tightened and the room began to close in as it always did when he thought of that time. So, he forced himself to suck in a breath and toss back a glass of gin.
It burned foul, tinged with acid, no doubt, and he grimaced. “You make me sound like a character from a novel.”
Blakemore laughed. “Alexandre Dumas would write you well. You have something of the Count of Monte Cristo about you.”
“Do I?” he challenged, pushing his now empty glass towards the bottle which was in Clyde’s big hand.
“Mmmm.” Blakemore rubbed his hand along his jaw, perusing Damian.
The duke poured the gin again. “Well done, Blakemore. Ye’ve discerned more in a few minutes than I have in over an hour.”
“Well, it is my specialty,” Blakemore replied with no hint of braggadocio.
“Specialty?” Damian asked, hoping for clarification.
Clyde waggled his brows. “Blakemore makes England run, laddie.”
Damian rolled his eyes then demanded with mock horror, “Well, what in God’s name have you been doing then?” Then he said with seriousness. “It’s hell out there.”
Blakemore didn’t take offense. “You should see what some of the pudding-brained, idiot aristocrats propose. Thank me for preventing most of the asinine plans before they even start.”
“You’re an aristocrat,” Damian pointed.
“As are you,” Blakemore agreed easily, drinking his own glass back in one go. “As is Clyde. Not a pudding brain between us. Still, hereditary rule doesn’t ensure intelligence. And, too many men have power that shouldn’t. You’d think nothing was learned from the American Revolution or French Revolution.”
“Or the Rebellions in India,” Damian added quietly. “Or the famine there.”
“Or that,” Blakemore agreed without question. “I do what I can to keep things from getting too bloody and I put reins on people who would lay waste to entire populations, if you understand me.”
“Oh yes,” Damian said, his voice rougher than he’d meant. But he’d met politicians, generals, and lordlings who thought nothing of murdering anyone en masse that wasn’t English and had proven to be an inconvenience. They even had a rather rough boot for the poorer of their own people.
Clyde stood, made his apologies, and headed to the corner of the room.
“Ah.” Blakemore rolled his small cup between his hands. “Our friend is off to conquest.”
“He likes prostitutes?” Damian asked without judgement.
“He doesn’t try for ladies,” Blakemore said calmly. “For they don’t like him, you see. Poor man hasn’t known a kind look from a woman, except out of pity, in years. His rather tragic appellation is Beast, you know? It’s terrible because Clyde is the furthest thing from it.”
“Life isn’t particularly kind.”
“I can second that,” Blakemore said, swallowed his gin then grabbing the bottle he replenished his cup. “Now what the devil brought you back to London? I thought you were happy frolicking overseas.”
“I need backing,” he stated. There was no point dancing about the truth. What lie could he tell that would be believable? Someone like Blakemore would never believe he returned for sentimental reasons. . . And well, he’d never been a liar and he didn’t see why he should prevaricate now. “I’ve gone through my inheritance and. . .” His mouth dried with distaste as he thought of how the English were being informed about places like Egypt. “Bloody hell, you should have heard Lord Brinkley tonight.”
“Absolute ponce that one,” Blakemore concurred roundly. “Wouldn’t know a damned thing about meeting actual Greeks and Egyptians if they popped him in the nose. No doubt, he was carried about by servants the whole damned time.”
“Exactly,” he agreed, relieved someone else could see the truth. He scowled. “Though London adores him.”
“They’re desperate for anything Egyptian.” Blakemore curled a lip. “Good God, people are even doing up their drawing rooms in the fashion.”
He shuddered. “That would be fine and good, if they weren’t all trying to purchase actual artifacts. Surely, some enterprising soul could make excellent replicas.”
“They’d still want actual artifacts,” Blakemore said. “You know what the ton is like. They want exclusivity. And what’s more exclusive than an ancient, recently unearthed artifact?”
“Thousands of years of history is going to be completely destroyed by a bunch of morons who are bored with their current decor,” Damian growled.
“Feel passionately, do you?”
He rolled his eyes thinking of the awe-inspiring sights he’d seen. But then he said earnestly, “I cannot tell you the glories of the temples. . . Of the pyramids. They will brand your soul forever with their majesty.”
“Hmmmm.” Blakemore leaned back, his gaze narrowing in contemplation. “Funds, you say?”
“Yes,” he said, though it was difficult to admit.
“Marry,” Blakemore announced, pouring more gin into Damian’s empty cup.
Damian winced. “I’d thought of it but—”
Blakemore beamed. “You know Clyde’s sister is an heiress.”
“Lady Andromeda?” The very thought. . . It was wrong.
“The very one,” Blakemore said. Before he took up his glass, he said pointedly, “She’s got a fortune, is widowed, and won’t prove a silly miss.”
“She invited Brinkley to speak at her house,” he reminded.
Blakemore rolled his eyes. “My God, you must be a saint if you find fault in her one mistake in guests.”
He shifted uncomfortably. “I am far from sainthood, thank you.”
“Look,” Blakemore began as if building a solid case. “She’s invited a great many people to speak at her house. Hogarth. Wilberforce. Me. Byron. She simply likes interesting people. I think her marriage was very boring, indeed. And not pleasant at times.”
He studied the man across from him then looked to Clyde. Damian returned his eyes back to Blakemore. “Not her. Not Lady Andromeda.”
“I see.” Blakemore’s lips pursed in disappointment. “I do like to see people well matched.”
“We aren’t well matched,” he replied quietly.
Nodding, Blakemore turned away. “Of course not. Beg your pardon.”
“Glad we’re agreed.”
Blakemore swallowed back a cup of gin, hiding a smirk. “Of course. Of course.”
Damian ignored the lord.
It didn’t matter that he’d found Lady Andromeda beautiful and spirited. They were not matched. He spent his life in the deserts and wilds. . . She gave parties in sparkling rooms. Such an alliance could never end well. Never.