In the Arms of a Marquess(62)

“You’ve got that look like you are bored to death and past ready to leave,” Styles said.

“Have I? How bothersomely transparent I must be to you.”

“No, Ben, you are not your brother in that. I could always tell what Jack was thinking. Never made a fellow wonder.” Styles’s bright blue gaze met him fitfully. “But you don’t like a man to know what you have going on. Do you?”

“You have had far too much to drink, Walker.”

“Then tell me one of your secrets, Ben. Prove me wrong.”

“If I must engage in such childishness to soothe your spirits. Perhaps you will give me your thoughts upon the matter.”

Styles settled back in his chair.

Ben swiveled his brandy. “I purchased a ship recently from a Frenchman. A fine vessel, but with the most intriguing mystery attached.”

“What sort of mystery?”

“The sort stuffed into a corner of the planking.”

“Illegal goods?”

“Hair. A great deal of it.”

Styles’s brows rose. “Peculiar, rather than intriguing. Did you instruct your man to take it to market? Human hair takes an excellent price, of course.”

“And those are the thoughts I sought from you? You have indeed drunk too much. Which suggests it is far past time I am going.” Ben stood.

A heavy hand clamped onto his shoulder.

“Doreé, is that you?” The gentleman came around him, releasing his grip only to take Ben’s hand in a snug shake. “Is you, I’ll be. They said you used to carry membership here. Never thought I’d see it. Glad to come across you like this, though.” The man’s eyes were glassy, but then, Fletcher James’s eyes were nearly always glassy with some substance, at least in the past four years.

“Sir.” Ben bowed. “I am just now on my way out. If you will excuse me.”

“I’ll go with. Got something to say to you, don’t you know.”

The burly footman gave them their effects and they stepped into the rustling, whistling midnight of London’s hells. Music and light spilled from the gin house five doors down, the same to which Ben had fled the night after Lady Ashford’s party. It seemed much more than a fortnight ago, before he had held Octavia in his arms again.

“Need a ride?” James gestured toward a hackney coach.

“Thank you, no. My horse is stabled across the street.”

“But wait on there. Told you I’d something to say to you specifically.” The man swayed, but his florid face looked earnest.

“Say on, sir.”

He blinked hard. “S’not so easy now I’ve come to it, don’t you know. Makes a fellow downright uncomfortable t’admit he was wrong.”

“Ah. Of course.”

“Got the notion of it, don’t you?” His eyes narrowed. “Knew it was you that helped me out of the bind with that sharp three years ago.” He shook his head. “Should’ve thanked you then, but didn’t like the idea of it. Now I’ve got to.”

“That sharp held your vowel on a cargo that rightfully belonged to me,” Ben said mildly. “It was in my interest to see the situation rectified.”

“You beat me at cards fair and square, cleared me with the sharp, and I thought you didn’t deserve the time o’ day. But when Sally told me—”

“You needn’t continue.”

“Damnation, let a fellow make an apology! Don’t know if I’d do it if I weren’t drunk as a David’s sow, but now’s the time.” He nodded for emphasis. “When my wife told me how you asked her permission b’fore you stepped in, I was madder’n Old Nick that you’d gone to see her. But she brought me ’round to it, and I know now the fine thing you did.”

“Your wife is gracious.”

“Still dreams of dancing. Barely anyone calls now. Doesn’t let it bother her too much, though. Busy enough with all those orphans. But it was a fine thing, you taking that business to her. Wasn’t that tea you cared about, but that damned hospital. Didn’t want Sally to lose it because of my bum luck, did you?”

“It was rather a question of whether your wife wished to lose it.”

James’s brow beetled. He peered at Ben for a moment, eyes abruptly keen.

“Know where a man’s life is, don’t you, Doreé?”

In Fletcher James’s case, it was with his young wife upon her wheeled chair, her legs rendered useless by a carriage accident four years earlier that abruptly ended her days as a vivacious darling of the ton. That moment began her existence as the sole patron of a small but busy foundling hospital not two streets from where her husband now stood.

“I daresay,” Ben murmured. “Good evening, then, James. Give my best to your wife.”

“You could give it to her yourself,” James said hesitantly, as though shy of being rebuffed, “if you care to call someday.”

Ben crossed the street to the mews, his cravat peculiarly tight. So rarely he had involved himself in the minutiae of his businesses—public businesses and those belowboard alike. Occasionally, however, he hadn’t been able to resist, as in the case of Sarah James, whose spirit he had understood merely by crossing the threshold of that hospital. He did not need her husband’s gratitude, or even an invitation to call.