Page 95 of The Duke Undone

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“Thank you.” Anthony nodded at Humphreys as he extricated himself, gently, from the twining arms of the courtesans, both Rose and Myrtle girls. Humphreys had seen them stealing into the back corner of the garden and alerted him. The lad nodded back, managing to revolve a toothpick in his mouth while grinning broadly.

Meanwhile, the girls were sizing up Humphreys, whose livery made him a bad prospect. His grin, and his wink, however, sent a different message.

“This way,” said Anthony abruptly, starting down the cypress-lined path. He saw Humphreys melt back between the trees. After a moment, he looked behind him. The girls were following, skipping to catch up. Anthony slowed his pace. He wasn’t trying to make them hop about. For courtesans, parties were work. He understood that. But he wouldn’t have them conducting their business in his private domain. Besides, so far from the house, surrounded by brick walls, no one would hear them if they screamed.

He didn’t trust the majority of his guests. For all their titles and fat accounts, they were a greedy lot, always eager to squeeze harder, to wring out another drop. More power, more money, more pleasure. Many of them were George’s friends, an unwholesome assortment of swells. Wealthy debtors, scofflaws. He’d tendered invitations far and wide. He’d wanted to throw open his doors to unsavory elements, and he’d accomplished his aim.

As though to prove it, the house came into view, brightly clad partygoers, jeweled and feathered, passing behind the windows. More roamed the garden, including a cluster of men raining punches on each other’s heads as a dripping courtesan staggered in circles. He did not interrupt the fight. He felt as though he were hovering above, at the level of the rooftops. He’d made this mess, but he wasn’t a part of it. He was suspended, awaiting the stroke of midnight, the release it would bring.

His enforced abstinence, his family isolation, his impotence when it came to his finances and the estates—all over.

Thirty years old. He’d expected to celebrate this birthday on the other side of the world, in a barrack or a tent, with simple rough food and simple rough company, the stars burning in the air, Mizoa close by in the dark.

If there were stars out tonight, he couldn’t see them.

Past the fountain, very near the dining room verandah, he stopped short before a pair of peculiar mannequins illuminated by lanterns. The pretty blond deb from the Schools—what was her name? Megan? Maeve? She was frozen in her pose, staring up into the face of an even prettier young man, hatted, in an overlarge velvet coat that might be supposed to resemble some Elizabethan’s riding habit.

A tableau vivant, a tame one. The Rose and Myrtle had been famous for staging salacious scenes, from myths mostly. After the exposé in the Pall Mall Gazette, the madam had been forced to scale back, to err on the side of discretion rather than decadence.

The girls who followed Anthony now fit into the new ethos. Fallen from decent families, healthy, young but not too young. One had black hair, thick, like Effie’s. She’d broken sprigs from the cherry tree, woven the pink blossoms into the braid that circled her head like a crown. They were the sort of women preferred by government ministers, the sort who mingled easily at the private parties of territorial grandees. Of course, if they were to turn up at one of the Season’s daylight gatherings, half the guests would faint, and the other half would blink and scratch their heads, feigning ignorance. Total hypocrisy. Well, minus the courtesans. They were honest enough.

Anthony’s anger felt hot, sustaining. It would carry him forward until the clock struck midnight. Then he would go down in the flood, drain as many bottles as he pleased, forget everything. Forget everyone he’d failed.

He blinked away Lucy’s face, the desolation in her eyes.

Ten minutes to go. The evening was passing quickly. He entered the house and roamed from room to room, surveying the damage with satisfaction. Broken bottles, squashed fruits. The furniture might not come through the slaughter.

In the corner of the drawing room, he saw Cecil. He was gripping one of his brothers by the scruff of the neck, directing him toward a potted plant. Before they reached it, the lad retched, vomiting on his boots.

Anthony’s knees felt locked, and his gaze as well. Dammit. He’d wanted to forget everyone he’d failed, and now the man he’d considered his closest friend stood directly in his line of vision. Anthony ran a hand across his face, drove his knuckles into his eyes, then turned away sharply. Prepared to flee. The stiff words he’d exchanged with Cecil at his father’s funeral, the subsequent calls he’d received coldly and never repaid—he couldn’t take any of it back. That warm day in February, when they’d come upon each other riding in the park, and he’d ridden on . . .

No, after such sustained ill treatment, Cecil could want nothing more to do with him. Except. Anthony remained frozen in place. Cecil was here, wasn’t he? And he’d never cared much for riotous parties. Rugby, riding, rowing, wrangling his siblings, and electrical engineering—these were his preferred pastimes.

This evening, he’d come to wrangle, clearly. But perhaps he’d come, as well, to give Anthony one more chance.

Anthony spun around and started across the room, heart thudding.

“Blast it, Thomas.” Cecil gave Thomas a shake as Anthony approached. “What did you smoke, you rascal?” It looked as though he were shaking a younger version of himself. Nature had only one mold for Ponsonbys.

Cecil noticed Anthony and let his brother go so abruptly the boy staggered into the potted plant stand, barked his shin, and yelped. Cecil ignored him, straightening. Anthony detected no hostility in his face, but rather, wariness. He scratched behind his ear, invisible eyebrows raised, and then, on a gusty exhalation, he smiled. A warm, familiar smile.

“Sorry about the rug,” he said, shaking his head at the mess. Anthony almost laughed his relief. He took a half step closer.

“I’m the one who’s sorry,” he said. “Christ, I’ve been . . .” He cut off the flow of words, aware of their audience. The room was thronged, the courtesans hovering nearby, a pair of insufferable baronets at his elbow.

“Listen, Cecil.” He shifted, uncomfortable but determined to continue. “I have a surprise for you, in the stable. You’ll never believe it. I couldn’t believe it myself.”

He wouldn’t name Snap—that would ruin the fun. He’d wait and see if Cecil’s eye was as keen as his, if he, too, would know the old horse by his pastern.

“Consider me intrigued.” Cecil hesitated. “So. I’ll come by, then.” He couldn’t flatten the lilt, the question in it.

“Do,” said Anthony, and felt the air rush into his lungs, sickly with smoke, cologne, vomit, liquor, but he didn’t care. His chest felt wider, some tight nasty band of hurt loosening. “I want to hear about the developments in your master plan for municipal illumination.” Cecil had been working for years to develop a commercial apparatus for the electric lighting of all London’s streets. “And I’ll tell you . . .” He coughed as his throat squeezed.

“We’ll start there,” said Cecil, and he gripped Anthony’s arm—a strong grip that made Anthony pity Thomas, who’d felt it so lately on his neck.

“Thomas!” Cecil turned from Anthony, for the boy was retching again.