Chapter 11

 

 

 

Christian had been banging on Warren’s front door for close to five minutes. Frustrated, he started to kick the lower panel with his boot.

The door, at last, opened. The butler stood aside and allowed him to pass. Standing in the hallway was a disheveled Warren, bare feet, trousers, and dressing gown hanging open, revealing his bare chest. The man hadn’t shaved in days.

“What in the deviled hell? Why aren’t you answering your door?” Christian demanded. “The Galway Agency says that you refused to answer.”

“What part of ‘I want to be left alone’ did you not understand?” Warren growled.

Christian moved to step around Warren to head to the study, but Warren blocked his way. “You are not staying. Say your piece, then go.”

“I’m calling a meeting. Come with me to the club,” Christian urged.

“No. I’m leaving London tonight. I’ve been packing, making arrangements. I’ve no time for one of your blasted meetings.” Warren waved off his butler, effectively dismissing him.

Christian had never seen Warren like this. Agitated. Not in control.

“Where are you going?”

Warren shook his head. “Fine, I will tell you, then you can inform the rest. I am off to the Bevan Sanatorium in Hertfordshire. I will be there for weeks, perhaps months. Call it a breakdown, call it an unhealthy addiction to sex, call it whatever you wish. I am broken and need mending. More than anything, I need to be away from this damned city.”

Shock covered Christian. Why hadn’t he noticed his friend’s change sooner? However, Warren, like the rest of them, was adept at hiding deeper emotions and tribulations.

“What can I do to assist?”

Warren blew out a breath of relief. “Thank you. Outside of our club, put it around that I’m traveling on the continent. Not certain how long I shall be gone.”

“I will. Anything you want. What has happened to us? We used to tell each other things. Support each other,” Christian murmured.

Warren shook his head. “No, we haven’t. Not for a long time. We gravitated toward each other as children. What a privileged and carefree life we have all led. It’s no wonder we became friends. The thread that held us together no longer exists. You know nothing about me.”

Christian had no idea how to respond. Was it true? Had he been living in his own friendship fantasy, oblivious to the others’ feelings?

The truth of it was, everything changed that summer night when they were sixteen. The group splintered, and nothing had been the same since. He had been too stubborn to see it. And arrogant.

Christian backed up a step. “Then I will leave you to your preparations.” He turned to depart but halted. “If you need us—any of us—do not hesitate to contact us. Regardless of what you think, we care for you. I care.”

Twisting the handle of the door, he stepped outside and closed the door behind him. Sighing, he headed to his carriage. Michaels stood by dutifully and opened the door.

“Albany Street.”

“At once, Your Grace.”

Once the carriage pulled away, Christian slumped in his seat.

Damn it all.

He had been correct the night of the delivery that there was a change in the air. Only he had no clue how much. Before he knew it, the carriage came to a stop. The door opened, and he strode toward the rear of the building. Once he entered the club, someone grabbed a fistful of his cravat and slammed him against the wall.

Damon.

His eyes were chips of cold blue ice. Inches from his face, Damon snarled, “What did you reveal to those women? How dare you bring up Sheppey? It has nothing to do with that damned package. Nothing.”

Christian pushed Damon away from him. “Keep your hands off of me.”

Damon gave an exaggerated bow. “My apologies, Your Grace.”

“Oh, stuff it. What does it matter? Whitney has been gone from the country for more than a decade. Addington is dead. Eleanora asked if there were any other members of the group, so I mentioned the incident only in general terms.” Christian straightened his cravat as he spoke.

Merritt had bounded over from the bar during the altercation. “Where is Warren, didn’t he accompany you? And no more roughhouse the pair of you, you will put me off my tea.”

“I’ll explain once we’re comfortable,” Christian answered. “Asher? Take a seat. Where are Brandon and Gideon?”

“I have no idea. I suggest we start without them,” Asher replied.

Damon marched to the bar, opened the decanter of scotch, and poured a generous portion. Christian was not used to seeing Damon with his guard down. The anger that had flared between them dissipated in a flash. What had occurred during his interview with Althea and Eleanora Galway?

Holding up the decanter in question, Christian nodded and Damon poured another and passed it to him. Once seated with their drinks, Merritt cleared his throat. He was fidgeting in his chair looking decidedly uncomfortable.

“You have something on your mind, Merritt?” Christian muttered as he sipped his scotch.

“I will be venturing forth into the marriage mart. I am heir to an earl after all; time to accept my responsibility and whatnot. I intend to find a suitable bride. One that I will adore and will adore me in return. I know I’m not a full-pledged member, but it means I must distance myself from this club. Terribly sorry, old chaps.”

Well. That’s that, then.

Their group, club, whatever, neared its end. Christian couldn’t help but feel a bit sad over the prospect.

Damon snorted. “What a pathetic lot we are. All the best, Merritt. Go forth and procreate. Ensure the line and do your duty.” He knocked back his drink, reached for the decanter, and poured another.

“Thank you, Damon. It is something you should both consider as well.”

Damon snorted once again but said nothing.

“About Warren?” Asher inquired.

“Ah. He is departing for Standon, Hertfordshire. A sanatorium,” Christian replied. “Warren called it a breakdown and asked that we keep this information between us. If we must comment on his absence, he is traveling about the continent and leave it at that.”

“Jesus,” Damon cursed, taking another drink.

Asher’s eyebrows knotted. “Perhaps I should go and see him.”

“No, my friend, he wishes to be left alone,” Christian replied. “I have another piece of news. A blood test on the leg showed traces of mercury and iodine. That is a treatment for symptomatic syphilis. It’s believed the leg belonged to a prostitute from The Chrysalis.”

“Jesus,” Damon groaned, finishing off his scotch and pouring another.

Merritt whistled. “Oh, I say. That’s a place we used to frequent.”

“It is that. Any of you ever been with prostitutes going by the names of Lucinda or Eurydice?” Christian asked.

“Not that I can recall,” Asher answered.

Damon raised his glass. “I’ve been with both, once at the same time. However, that was more than a year past, and I have never engaged in sex without sheaths. Ever. I would have shown symptoms by now, wouldn’t I? Fuck it all, the pox. What next?”

What next indeed.

Christian had no clue what lay ahead. Not with him, his friends, the case, and most especially with regards to the lovely Eleanora Galway.