The Bad Luck Bride (The Brides of St. Ives #1)(18)

Tiddle huffed and straightened his coat before grabbing up his walking stick. He clutched it, his knuckles white, and for just a moment Henderson wondered if he intended to brain him with it. Instead, he left the room walking stiffly, his back rigid.

“I hope you gentlemen will refrain from speaking ill of any lady.”

The four young toffs nodded and resumed their seats as Oliver slapped him on the back. “I think it’s a very good thing for Tiddle that I didn’t hear what was said,” he remarked, drawing Henderson toward the exit. “What did he say, anyway?”

“Did you see the piece in Town Talk?”

Oliver grimaced. “Who hasn’t?”

“Tiddle found it amusing. More amusing than I did,” Henderson said blandly. His heartbeat was just now returning to its normal rate. “It is times like this when I wish I were born in the last century so I could have called him out.”

“I’m gratified that you were here to set the bastard straight. Someone needs to. Come, I’ll join you for a brandy so you can tell me what you’ve been doing for the past four years.”



*



By the time Henderson was back in his hotel room, he felt as if he could sleep standing. These past two weeks had been an exercise in frustration, only adding to the insidious desperation he felt each time he thought of the poor souls in India.

If he’d held a lofty title, Henderson would have the sort of influence needed to address parliament. But with no power or influence, he was lucky to get two minutes of time with the men who blithely allowed millions to die under the mantle of the crown. One name remained on his list. One.

How could he return to India with nothing to show for his efforts except pity and scorn? He sat down heavily on his bed, staring blindly at the creased piece of paper he held in his hands—the names crossed off, each a mark of failure. A darkness and self-loathing that he hadn’t felt since Joseph’s death made it nearly impossible to scratch Lord Thrompton, his latest failure, off his list. With no small amount of disgust Henderson realized, as he held his pencil to his battered list, that his hand trembled. Clenching his hand around the wood, he roughly drew a line through Thrompton’s name, grimacing when his lead pierced the paper. One left. Frederick Lawton, Lord Berkley. He knew nothing of the man, but if he were the sort of person to bet, Henderson would wager that another door would be closed in his face. Nothing had gone right for him since his return. The one thing that had happened in his favor, Alice being left at the altar, only worked to torture him all the more. It would be better to know she was happily married. Liar.



*



Lord Berkley lived in the newly fashionable Cavendish Square. It was a neighborhood where nannies strolled with their charges, where sidewalks were well-swept and gardens well-tended. He knew nothing of Lord Berkley but that he was supposed to hold great influence over the liberal party. When he’d mentioned to Oliver at Pratt’s that Berkley was on his list, Oliver had let out a low whistle and said, “That’s a tough nut to crack.” He should just cross the man’s name off his list now and be done with it. Why go through the torture of pleading his case to someone whose belly was full of food and whose mind was full of superiority?

Feeling defeat was only a few minutes away, Henderson climbed the steps and adjusted his satchel so he could more easily grasp the large knocker, in the shape of a scowling lion, and swing it down. Momentarily, Berkley’s butler opened the door and immediately stepped back to allow Henderson into a large foyer that gleamed brightly in the afternoon sun streaming down from a skylight overhead.

“May I help you, sir.” The butler held out a sterling silver basket in which Henderson placed his card. He wore a black band around his sleeve, and Henderson wondered who had died. The house was not in mourning, so he assumed it was someone of little consequence.

“I would like an audience with Lord Berkley.”

“I’m afraid that is quite impossible”—He looked down at his card, and for a moment Henderson thought that perhaps his lordship was dead—“Mr. Southwell. His lordship is not at home.”

“I see,” Henderson said, feeling a stab of disappointment mixed with relief that he had not committed some sort of social faux pas. He wanted this business over with. “Is his secretary here? I should like to make an appointment with his lordship.”

“Lord Berkley is at one of his country estates, my lord. Costille House.”

Henderson furrowed his brow, for the name of the estate was vaguely familiar. “And where is that, sir?”

“St. Ives, my lord.”

Henderson blinked slowly. “St. Ives.”

“Yes, my lord. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

His bark of laughter startled the butler, but Henderson couldn’t stop the grin that stayed on his face. “St. Ives. St. bloody Ives. Thank you, sir.”

As Henderson left Cavendish Square, his steps were decidedly lighter. “What the devil, Joseph. What are you about, old chap?” A young lady pushing a pram gave him a cautious look, probably thinking him a bit touched. “I’m going to St. Ives,” he shouted, and laughed as she hurried her steps as if she were about to be attacked by a raving lunatic. “By God,” he said to himself. “What are the chances?”



*