Chapter 8

 

 

 

Christian tapped his fingers on the surface of the table, his gaze firm on Eleanora. Revealing his innermost private thoughts rankled, he barely did with the lads.

Ever.

But somehow, for whatever reason, he wished to know this captivating woman better. One way to achieve such would be to divulge certain aspects of his life. Plus, it may assist in closing the door on this ghoulish practical joke.

So much for wearing his diffident ducal mask. That prospect went to the wayside as soon as Eleanora opened the door and greeting him warmly. And as soon as they shared a private conversation, one that had him feeling more relaxed than he had in an age.

Might as well get on with the inquisition.

“Part of our club was formed at Eton, a ragged group of lonely boys, starving for any social interaction. I’m not being factious; we were a sad lot. None of us have any siblings. We all gravitated toward each other for the support, I suppose.” Christian hesitated, then grimaced.

“Although, now that I reflect on it, it wasn’t only the lack of siblings. Almost all of us had neglectful and/or wretched fathers. Or no fathers at all. Our group consisted of Wenlock, Brookton, Huxley, and Tolwood. After university, we joined up with Watford. He is a founding member of the Rakes of St. Regent’s Park and the last of the original group. The club had been around for more than fifteen years. We merged our little group with his.”

“How many were in your group while in school?”

There were seven of us.”

“So, all seven are not part of your group now?”

“No.”

“What happened to the other two?” Eleanora asked.

Althea kept her head down, her pen moving swiftly across the paper. It was distressing enough speaking of this in front of Eleanora, but her sister as well.

It had been an age since he had thought of either of his former friends. “Hayes Addington, heir to a baron, dead from an apparent drowning when we were sixteen years of age. Ford Whitney, the son of a baronet? The last I heard from him was close to seven years past. He lives in India.”

Was Ford a former friend? Perhaps so. They hadn’t spoken face-to-face since ‘The Hayes Incident.’

Eleanora’s eyebrows rose. “Apparent drowning?”

“We were drunk and holding a bonfire on a beach during the summer break. The body was never discovered. Hayes was declared legally dead some years ago, and the title will pass to a distant cousin,” he whispered in response.

Speaking of this caused a generous dash of guilt to arise. Old ghosts were hard to shake once they reappeared.

“How did he drown,” she asked softly.

“Memory is certainly faulty when one drinks to excess. I believe I passed out, as had the others. When we awoke, it was dark. Hayes was gone, only his coat and shoes left by the shore. The authorities concluded an inebriated Hayes stripped off to go for a swim and drowned. His body no doubt carried out to the ocean thanks to the tides in the Thames.”

“Why would he swim in the filthy Thames? Where were you when this happened? The exact location?” Eleanora asked.

“We were on the Isle of Sheppey near Kent. Brookton’s family had a summer retreat there.”

“So not in London.”

“No, not London. Regardless, the inquest concluded Hayes was missing presumed dead by accidental drowning. As far as Whitney is concerned, none of us have seen him since that night on the beach. Everything is still hazy concerning the incident. But we all shared in the blame. It is why overindulgence in any of our vices is strictly prohibited. I barely drink anymore. When we meet at the club, I may have a whiskey,” Christian stated.

“Why have you not seen Ford Whitney since the night at the beach? That would be how many years?” Eleanora asked.

“Fourteen. I do not know why we haven’t seen him. When Ford didn’t show up for school, we made inquiries with his father. The baronet stated that Ford traveled to India to be with his uncle and continue his education there. It was all rather sudden.”

“Have you heard from him since?”

Christian had always found it strange that Ford disappeared without a word to any of them. Until that night, they were close. They confided in each other.

“There were letters the first couple of years. The baronet sent them along by messenger. Ford had mentioned that he misses us, and that his life is productive, content, and satisfying. Actually, we all envied his gratification with his new circumstances. We haven’t heard from him in years.”

“This baronet’s full name?”

“Sir Howard Whitney. Why?”

“In case we need to question him regarding the current location of his son. Is a baronet part of the peerage?”

“No.”

“Then why include the oldest son of one in your exclusive group?”

Christian scoffed. “You make us sound like priggish snobs, which I suppose, to others we most definitely are. I’ve been a duke since the age of nine. I formed the group. I felt sorry for Ford and sponsored his membership. Besides, Ford would become baronet when his father died. I had no objection to Brandon Knight joining our present assembly.”

“A duke at age nine? Sweet Mother,” Eleanora exclaimed.

“My father was decades older than my mother. He left her a young widow.”

“Why did you feel sorry for Ford Whitney?”

“He was short, overweight, soft-spoken, an easy target for cruel boys. At first, we joined in with the teasing. But it was heading in a dangerous direction: the line that’s so often crossed at these elite schools. In one particular incident, we all stood up for him. He started following us around like a grateful puppy. It grew from there.”

Christian paused. Speaking of this was stirring up old feelings of lonesomeness and resentment. “In times of need, the lads and I turned to each other. We could count on each other when there was nowhere else to go or no one else to turn to.”

“Until the night of the drowning,” Eleanora interjected.

His heart squeezed with regret. “Yes. We let Hayes down. That night we did not look out for each other. Not at all.”

Eleanora caught his gaze and held it. There was no pity in her eyes, and he appreciated that.

“I have heard there is resentment directed toward your group,” she said. “You see, many outside your protective circle would find you all pampered and privileged, those who have theirs and don’t give a hang about anyone else. Arrogant and pompous. Above the law.” 

Eleanora paused, giving him a reflective look. “Your description of looking out for one another would have an entirely different meaning to those of the lower classes, as in you would protect each other from rebuke. From justice.”

Christian arched an eyebrow, the description rankled, his blood simmered with annoyance. “Is that what you believe?”

“On the surface, it appears as such. You cannot disagree that those of your class often skirt any responsibility. This behavior has gone on for hundreds of years and, no doubt will continue well into the future. Wealth is power. Power begets power, and it creates isolation from any atonement.”

Her summarization of his frivolous life vexed him. However, hadn’t he been concluding that he no longer wished to own such a worthless existence?

“I can assure you—as far as I’m aware—none of us have perpetrated any misdeeds that would involve the law. We are not thieves, assaulters, or rapists. We practice caution in all of the dealings, never indulging to excess…” His voice died.

Sitting back in his chair, he rubbed the bridge of his nose. “We are spoiled rotten and thoughtless to the feelings of others. We’re everything you have described. I’ve no earthly idea what the lads got up to these past years. All we do is meet once a week and blatantly lie about our conquests, either exaggerating or downplaying. The truth is much more pathetic. We are sorry excuses for human beings. There is no one particular incident I can point to that would warrant a body part delivery.”

The cake he had consumed roiled in his stomach, for speaking truth was far more of a dilemma than he imagined. Looking up, Christian found both sisters were staring at him, but not with pity or disgust, thankfully. What possessed him to spill his soul?

Eleanora laid a hand on top of the one he had flat against the table surface. Immediate and much-needed warmth traveled through him.

“We all have regrets, and I admire your honesty. I will need more of it.” Patting his hand, she motioned to Althea to attend to her notes. “You recall there was a tattoo on the ankle of the severed leg.”

Christian was grateful for the topic shift. “Yes, a butterfly.”

“My Canadian, Dr. Corbett Buchanan, informed us that the mark can be found on the ankles of certain prostitutes of The Chrysalis, a high-end brothel.”

In each instance that she said “my Canadian,” a red-hot poker of jealousy speared his heart.

Jealous? What in the hell was going on here?

Christian pushed the foreign emotion from his mind and focused on the tattoo. Right. Why hadn’t he made the connection?

“I take it you have frequented this establishment? As well as your friends?” Eleanora asked.

Many times. Though for him, not often and not of late. “Yes.”

“Dr. Buchanan claims the brothel is exclusive and private, that only you may gain me entry and a meeting with the owner. We need to establish if any of her workers have left or gone missing lately. I want us to go now.”

Wait, what?

“Now?”

She couldn’t be serious. But by the determined expression on her face, she most decidedly was.

“Ellie, is this wise?” Althea questioned.

“Of course, it is.” She slid her gaze to him. “I assume they are open at all hours, correct?”

Christian rubbed his chin. “Well, from one o’clock in the afternoon until two in the morning.”

Eleanora stood; her resolute look more determined than before. “Is your carriage outside?” He nodded. “Brilliant, then let us depart immediately. Althea, I believe it best you stay here. Too many people may spook the owner and make her less likely to talk.”

“If you insist. I’ll assist Sybil with her packing.”

Christian shook his head. “A brothel is not a proper place for…oh, hell. Let’s go.”

He strode toward the door, Eleanora right on his heels. As they gathered up their outwear, he could not help but observe the genuine excitement and pleasure on her face. Eleanora Galway had a purpose in life, an occupation she enjoyed. How envious he was of her resolve. But he also admired it.

The sweetness of her butterscotch cake was still on his lips; he drank in the dazzling sight of her. He adored her frank and open way of speaking.

And it heightened his attraction toward her even more.