CHAPTER TEN
WHITE’S CLUB, LONDON – MID-APRIL, 1814
A week later, Damon stood outside White’s on St. James’s Street. He’d never been in, although naturally he’d heard about the famous gentleman’s club as a boy.
Having spent the greater portion of the day listening to his sisters discuss the merits, or lack thereof, of nearly every member of the ton—for his edification, his mother had insisted—Damon thought nothing sounded better than an evening in the company of gentlemen who would leave him alone. He’d considered staying at home and hiding away in the library, but he had the sneaking suspicion his sisters would have found him even there.
His mother assured him he was a member of the exclusive club. She’d called in a favor from the Duke of Arthington, whose father had been an old family friend, to secure the thirty-five members’ approval necessary for membership.
It must have been some favor, to overcome my reputation. The Demon Duke, indeed. Well, he could play the role. Doing so would likely keep others at bay, anyway—if, indeed, anyone wished to approach. Adjusting his cravat, he climbed the few steps and confidently crossed through the entrance, seeking solitude and solace for a few hours.
Inside, a number of gentlemen loitered—many sat alone, reading the paper while sipping on some sort of alcohol. Brandy or whiskey, no doubt. Others bantered back and forth over games of cards. As he walked through the main room, smatterings of conversations about horses and guns and certain debutantes echoed around him. Younger bucks compared notes as to which houses boasted the best female companionship in all of London. At this, he gave a wry grin.
No one paid him much attention. Oh, a few eyes had looked up when he’d walked through the door, but by and large he was left to himself, discretion and privacy a welcomed code at White’s.
Settling into a chair, he had opened Byron’s book to read when a gentleman from across the room approached. “Pardon me, Your Grace,” the man said. “I do hate to be so forward, but do you remember me?”
Damon looked the man over. Sandy brown hair, hazel eyes, a friendly expression on his face. Nothing familiar. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m afraid you have the advantage, sir.”
The man nodded. “It’s been years; I understand. I’m Peter Wainscott, of Delview Manor.”
Delview Manor bordered Thorne Hill to the east, didn’t it? An earl, perhaps? Or a viscount? Damon clenched a fist, pressing it into his thigh. He should know his own neighbors, shouldn’t he? Then again, learning the basics of the estate, the ins and outs of polite society itself, had swallowed up all of his time while he’d been at Thorne Hill.
“Viscount Huntington,” the man added, his expression hopeful that that might help.
“Again, my apologies. It’s been a long time since I’ve been … south.”
Why was he apologizing? He outranked the man. Still, guilt rode him that this Huntington recognized him, whereas he had no memory of the man.
Lord Huntington grinned, a friendly gesture that set Damon somewhat at ease. “I understand. I didn’t suppose you might recall, but we used to play together as boys. Occasionally, when your family invited mine to dinner.”
A vague memory hit Damon of a snowball fight and tunneling through snowdrifts with a sandy-haired boy long ago. “I remember a snow castle …” he began.
“—Yes.” Huntington nodded enthusiastically. “Remember when we pelted my sister, Julia, with snowballs? I thought your father was going to thrash the both of us.”
He did. At least me. Later on, once you’d left. Shaking off that bitter thought, Damon gave a wan smile.
“Anyway, I was delighted—astonished, really—to hear you were back,” Peter pressed on. “I was so saddened to hear that you had died, and, well, obviously—” He faltered.
“Obviously I hadn’t.”
“Yes, right.” Huntington cast his eyes at the fireplace, his fingers fidgeting with the edges of his waistcoat. “My condolences on the loss of your father and brother.”
None are necessary. Not for my father, at least. “Thank you.”
“If you would care to join us, we’re playing whist.” Huntington motioned to a table of men in the corner.
Damon was about to decline the invitation—he truly did prefer solitude this evening—when a man sitting in a chair near the gamblers caught his eye.
His uncle.
Fillmore Blackbourne’s attention was riveted on Damon, fury purpling his face. The man gripped a tumbler of dark liquid in his right hand. His knuckles were so white, it was a wonder he hadn’t shattered the glass.
Huntington cleared his throat, drawing Damon’s focus again. The viscount looked to Damon’s uncle, then back to Damon. “Perhaps I—”
“Please, return to your friends. I’m afraid this is not the night for me to join you.”
Huntington’s face relaxed. He was no doubt grateful to have been excused, especially as Damon’s face knitted itself into a snarl.
“Perhaps another time,” the viscount said before moving off.
Damon merely nodded, no longer paying attention to his childhood companion. His eyes fixed on his uncle, who rose from his chair and approached him with a rather unsteady gait. The man was clearly in his cups.
“You!” his uncle shouted as he neared his nephew. “You shouldn’t be here. This is a club for refined gentlemen. Not for the devil himself.”
Damon remained sitting. “The devil himself? You do me too much of an honor, Uncle.” His voice was calm, disinterested, even, but his blood boiled with rising anger in the face of this attack.
“Get. Out!” Fillmore roared, his face heavy with rage. “You have taken everything else from me. You may not take this!”
A man to Fillmore’s right put his hand on Fillmore’s shoulder. “Lord Fillmore,” the man said in a quiet but firm voice. “That’s enough.”
Fillmore shrugged off the man’s hand, glaring at the newcomer. “He is an usurper. A monster! You should see! You should see him when he is possessed. A demon inside that boy, I tell you! He should have stayed in Yorkshire. He should have died. I am the one fit to be Duke, not he!” Flecks of spittle flew from Fillmore’s mouth as he shouted for all the room to hear.
Damon rose from his seat and stood nose to nose with his uncle, or rather nose-to-balding-head, given the man’s shorter stature. The muscles in Damon’s neck spasmed, the urges to jerk nearly overwhelming him. But he would not. Not here, not in front of this man. He took one long, deep breath, drawing himself up to his full height. He towered over the older man.
“Say another word, Uncle, and you shall meet me at dawn. The only reason I have not called you out already is because of my family. Our family.”
Fillmore’s face paled. Coward. His uncle looked down at the glass in his hand. Taking a quick gulp, he set it on the table next to where Damon had been sitting. With a final glower at his nephew, he stalked toward the door, guided by the man who’d checked him a moment ago.
So much for peace and quiet, and anonymity. Well, he hadn’t exactly been unknown upon entry, but at least he’d been left alone. Now the focus was on him, although a few gentlemen returned to their own activities at his stare. He looked at the book in his hand. Why bother? There was no respite here, not now.
The man who’d escorted Damon’s uncle to the door reappeared. “Arthington,” he said, extending his hand to Damon.
Ah. James Bradley. The Duke of Arthington. The very man who’d gained him access to this club.
“Malford,” Damon answered. “But then, I suppose you already gathered that.”
Arthington nodded. “An unfortunate incident,” was all he said.
Damon immediately liked him for that; it was clear the man was offering him privacy and not expecting any further explanation.
“Yes, well, perhaps it was too much to hope to be accepted here,” Damon said before he could stop himself. Damn, that was not the kind of thing to admit to a stranger. But his emotions were roiling, his anger increasing toward his uncle, toward his father, toward this life he’d been denied and now wasn’t sure he wanted. He clenched his fists as the familiar urges assailed his body anew. No. Not here. Not now.
“Nonsense,” Arthington said, flashing his slightly crooked teeth in a grin. “Would you care to join my friend Emerlin over there—” He gestured toward a tall, waifish man with a shock of black hair. “—and me? We are bound for Watier’s.”
“Thank you,” Damon said, genuine appreciation curling through him, even as he focused on controlling his body. “Another time, perhaps. I must be going.” He tipped his head at Arthington, who returned the gesture.
“Anytime,” Arthington said as Damon strolled out the door.
Once outside, Damon sucked in huge gulps of the nighttime air, willing his body and his mind to settle. Turning north, he walked, counting and re-counting to the sum of eight as he went. When that didn’t work, he broke into a run. If anyone were paying attention, they’d no doubt remark on the peculiar behavior of the Duke of Malford. Better to incur gossip for running than for head spasms that would surely mark him as a candidate for Bedlam. He pushed his body to its limit as he raced through the narrow back streets toward Hanover Square.
Running had always helped. Something about putting all of his focus and energy into placing one foot in front of the other, of pushing his heart and lungs to the brink, forced his mind to let go, to calm down, to give up the urges to move in other, less regular ways. He’d discovered that in adolescence, when the movements had been at their worst.
He’d thought at first they’d worsened because of the shame, the pain, the guilt, the despair, and, yes, the loneliness at having been banished from his home. From his family. His siblings. His mother. The frequency of his bizarre movements, his need to control and organize his surroundings, had increased exponentially in those first few months. But after a while, he’d noticed patterns. Or perhaps not patterns, exactly, but a rhythm. There were times when the need to move plagued him not at all, and times during which nothing helped except to let his body do what it needed to do. Sometimes the movements seemed connected to his inner state; other times not.
He’d wondered at times if his father were right. Maybe he was possessed by demons; maybe he was plagued by devils. What other explanation could there be for these bizarre behaviors and thoughts with which he suffered? He’d even thought at times, in the worst of the dark days, those long cold winter nights with no companions except a fire and a book, that perhaps he would be better off dead.
Then it had begun to improve. Why, he didn’t know. Was it because he’d found ways to cope, ways to soothe the manic body rhythms? Running worked. Reading often worked, too, as long as he was absorbed in the material. And animals. Animals in particular soothed him like nothing else, and he’d spent many a happy hour at the abbey with the stable hand’s dogs and the stray cats that hovered about.
His heart pounded as he rounded the corner to Hanover Square and came to the rear entrance of his town house. At the sight of the mews, he cursed. He’d forgotten about his carriage. He’d have to send someone for it.
He bent over to put hands to knees as he gulped in large amounts of air. It had worked, though, this fierce physical punishment; his control had returned. As he strode through the rear entryway, still breathing heavily, a loud meow hit his ears.
Cerberus, his three-legged cat, charged down the hallway at him. His mother wasn’t fond of having animals in the house, particularly in London, but Damon had insisted. If he must be here, attempting to live up to his new title amongst people he didn’t know, people inspecting his every action, he at least needed the one thing that adored him completely, no judgment, no reservations. He leaned down and scooped up the cat, which lavished head butts on his chin.
The animal had appeared out of nowhere one day, lounging about on the front steps of the abbey as if he owned the place. From that day on, he had.
The ease with which the feline got around was surprising, considering his lack of a front leg. It was unclear if the cat had lost the limb in some sort of injury or had been born that way. The absence had never slowed Cerberus down, however; the cat acted as if he were every bit the equal of his four-legged brethren, undaunted by any challenge that crossed his path.
It’s exactly what Damon had needed; a fellow companion who was different, but lived life as if he were the same as everyone else. Such a regal feline, with his long, black hair and piercing amber eyes, had deserved a moniker on par with his bearing. Cerberus, the name of the three-headed dog who guarded the gates to Hades, seemed appropriate for a three-legged cat, somehow. And amusing.
The cat followed him everywhere, even on runs, although by far his favorite activity was curling up in Damon’s lap in Blackwood Abbey’s vast library. Leaving Cerberus at the abbey once he’d received his mother’s summons simply wasn’t an option.
The cat lapped at the sweat on Damon’s neck, and he chuckled, setting the feline down.
“I know,” he said, as the cat watched him with those wide amber eyes. “I need to bathe.”
Walking farther down the hallway, he whipped off his coat and waistcoat and called for servants to draw him a hot bath.
“Tomorrow,” he muttered to himself as he climbed the stairs to his chambers. “I will run again tomorrow. I should not have given that up.”
Fillmore’s face, veins popping with fury, leapt to mind. The man clearly bore a monstrous grudge against Damon. It seemed quite possible he might resort to violence to achieve the end he’d wanted so long ago. Damon would have to remain on the alert.
He paced the length of his bedroom as he waited for the servants to fill the large bathtub in the dressing room beyond. When the knock came to signify all was ready, he shed his clothing without waiting for Hobbes (he’d never liked the idea of a valet dressing and undressing him, anyway) and slid into the steaming hot water, sighing in relief as the aches and stresses of the day oozed out of his pores.
His head back, he studied the chocolate brown of the walls. A boring, staid color. No life to it. Unless it was the rich, chocolate brown of a certain Grace Mattersley’s eyes.
He hadn’t seen her anywhere in the past week after their two brief, although intense, encounters. Then again, he’d attended few social affairs. Having Cousin Daphne in town, and her mother’s sister, Aunt Martha, to serve as chaperone, had provided his sisters with another social outlet, letting Damon off the hook, thank goodness.
It was a relief not to have to rub elbows with the ton every evening, especially since he remained an object of great interest. On the other hand, solitude had its drawbacks. One of them being that a certain chocolate-eyed, well-read mouse was nowhere to be found.
Cerberus plodded into the dressing room and leapt onto a stool to the side of the bathtub. The cat stared at the water disdainfully, as if wondering why anyone would ever subject himself to such torment, then began cleaning its face.
“I miss my mouse,” Damon said to the cat, which ignored him as it groomed itself. Or rather, I miss the game of cat-and-mouse. Their encounter at the bookstore played in his head—and, without question, the unexpected kiss at the Rexborough ball.
It was strange to think so often of a woman. Of one woman in particular, in any case. Even in the wilds of Yorkshire, Damon had garnered plenty of female attention.
“It’s the eyes,” Hobbes had often commented with a roll of his own. “Or maybe that wicked grin you wield.”
In his youth, Damon had a few times enjoyed the charms of a certain dairymaid from the neighboring farm. In recent years, however, he’d mostly kept his distance. He didn’t need the complications women brought—not with his affliction. Still, the village girls had sought his attention, giggling when he’d passed. Until they’d heard the rumors about him.
The same had happened in London at first—appreciative glances from ladies of all ages. But tales of the Demon Duke must have spread quickly, spurred on no doubt by his uncle. Debutantes might still watch him out of the corners of their eyes, but their mothers ensured their daughters gave him a wide berth.
As an eligible duke, young and with all his teeth to boot, his mother had sworn he’d garner a plethora of female attention. His sisters, too, decreed he’d be fought over in the marriage mart.
Not that he wished to marry.
But, still, their predictions had proved wrong.
On the streets, men and women either stared openly or, more often, avoided his gaze. It wasn’t so much the cut direct, perhaps, since he tended to avoid eye contact, as well. Not out of shyness or uncertainty, but because he had better things to do with his time—and his mind—than worry over the silly workings of London society.
But Grace was different. She hadn’t been scared of him, even in the library, even when he’d tried to intimidate her. He’d thrown her off balance in the bookshop, appearing where she’d likely never expected to see him, but still she’d held her own. There’d been enough time for her to hear the stories about him, if she hadn’t known them already. She could have refused to acknowledge him, could have excused herself immediately. She hadn’t. Most surprising, with her, Damon didn’t feel judged on his eccentricities. She’d seen them and still interacted with him, still seemed as affected by him as he was by her.
With her, he felt electric. On fire. Alive.
Perhaps it was the mouse that had captured the cat.