Roger Berwick, Marquess of Chatton, peered through the growing dusk at the passing London street. It did not look familiar. In fact, it appeared that his hack was headed east, into neighborhoods he’d never penetrated during any of his visits to the metropolis. He rapped on the ceiling of the cab with his cane. “Where the deuce are you going?” he called. “I told you White’s club in St. James’s Square.”
“You said Whitechapel,” the driver replied.
“Are you mad? Why would I want to go to a back slum?”
“I heerd you. Whitechapel, the Cub, you said, clear as clear.”
“I did not!”
“You calling me a liar?” asked the driver, leaning so far over the top of the carriage that Roger feared he’d fall into his lap. “’Cause if you ain’t suited, you can get out of my cab and walk, yer high and mightiness,” he added, suddenly belligerent.
Roger realized the man was drunk. Which fit with the neighborhood they were traversing. Despite the filthy March weather, with its tendrils of icy fog, there were people slumped against the dilapidated buildings on either side, women as well as men, victims of an excess of blue ruin. Some of them wouldn’t wake, if what Roger had heard about the ravages of gin was true. There were also other figures, upright and alert, hulking in the shadows. He wondered if it was time to twist off the bottom of his cane to reveal the sword inside.
“I did wonder if you’d like the Cub,” the driver added, his voice gone meditative. “Mean, dirty sort of boozing ken. But what I say is, you never know with a toff. Right barmy, some of ’em. I’ve had gentlemen wanting me to take them to Limehouse or the stews around the docks.”
“Well, I do not,” said Roger, gritting his teeth. Nothing about this day had gone right. In fact, it was shaping to be one of the most exasperating days of his life.
The man went on without seeming to hear, taking on the tone of an inebriated philosopher. “And bawdy houses. Very popular, they are. I know ’em all. You want to visit the liveliest ladies in the city, young sir? Better than the Cub, I can tell ye. I could take you there in a trice.”
“No!” It was difficult enough not to be angry after his recent visit without the addition of a sodden cabdriver. Roger fought the temper that was said to go with his red hair.
“Eh, well, it’s not far now.”
Roger controlled his voice and spoke carefully. “We appear to have had a misunderstanding. Please turn back.” He enunciated the next sentence very clearly. “I want to go to White’s club in St. James’s Square.” When there was no response, he added, “Did you hear me? White’s club in St. James’s Square.”
“Bit late to be changing your mind,” the driver grumbled. “That’s right the other way around. I was heading home after this. Best you get down at the Cub as agreed.”
Which it hadn’t been, except in the fellow’s addled brain, Roger thought. But he’d never find another cab in this neighborhood. “Naturally I will pay you for your trouble,” he said.
Two large figures shifted in the darkness at the side of the road. The mention of payment hadn’t been wise, perhaps. But how else was he to convince the driver? Roger unsheathed his sword stick and held it so that the blade could be seen in the light of the carriage lamp.
Muttering about the stupidity of passengers who didn’t know where they wanted to go, the driver backed his horse and maneuvered to turn the hack around. Roger kept his eye on the lurking bravos as he pulled his greatcoat closer. He wiggled his toes inside his boots. His feet were chilled. And his gloves seemed inadequate. The grimy streets seemed to intensify the cold somehow. He was relieved when the driver finally got the cab going in the right direction, the melancholy streets of the slums receding behind them. No one had offered to molest them in the end. Roger relaxed a little. If the man kept to his job this time, he wouldn’t be late.
Roger rarely made the long, hard journey down to London from his home in Northumberland. He was here now only because his former in-laws had insisted on a face-to-face meeting. So that Arabella’s mother could relieve her feelings by berating him, apparently. She’d gone so far beyond the line today that Roger had nearly shouted at her. He was proud of that nearly. Though it had been a near thing, he hadn’t responded in kind. He had behaved like a gentleman despite the glaring injustice of her remarks. And they had at last finished all the necessary business between them. He wouldn’t have to obey one of the Crenshaws’ summonses again. The relief was considerable.
He looked out at the fashionable precincts of London now passing outside the cab window. This trip hadn’t been a complete waste. He’d been here to receive the Earl of Macklin’s mysterious invitation. Roger had no idea why such an illustrious figure had asked him to dine. They weren’t friends, though Roger remembered being introduced to the older man at some party or other. He did know that Macklin had been a suitor of his mother’s, thirty years ago, because she liked to enumerate the many desirable partis who’d pursued her when she was the reigning belle of the ton. Of course the invitation couldn’t have anything to do with that. In fact, Roger couldn’t imagine why he’d been asked to share a meal with the earl. He was quite interested to find out, though a bit worried about what he would find to say, as usual. He’d never mastered the art of light conversation.
Stepping into the brightness of White’s was like entering a different world. The rich wooden paneling and golden candlelight of the gentlemen’s retreat replaced the icy fog. There was a buzz of conversation and a clink of glasses from both sides of the entryway. Savory smells rode the air, promising a first-rate meal. His fingers and toes would soon be warm, Roger thought, whatever else this occasion might bring.
Surrendering his coat, hat, stick, and gloves to a servitor, Roger followed a waiter to a private corner of the dining room. There he found Arthur Shelton, Earl of Macklin, awaiting him. Though the man was old enough to be Roger’s father, he hardly looked it. His dark hair showed no gray. His tall figure remained muscular and upright. He was talking to a man with a snub-nosed face, dun-brown hair, and dark eyes. Roger offered the two of them a polite bow.
Lord Macklin acknowledged it with a smile. His face showed few lines, and those seemed scored by good humor. He gestured toward the snub-nosed man. “Daniel Frith, Viscount Whitfield, may I present Roger Berwick, Marquess of Chatton,” he said.
Puzzled, Roger greeted the other man, whom he had not previously encountered. “And Peter Rathbone, Duke of Compton,” added their host, looking over Roger’s shoulder.
Roger turned to discover a younger man behind him. This fellow couldn’t be much past twenty, he judged. Compton had black hair, hazel eyes, and long fingers that tapped uneasily on his flanks. He looked inexplicably uneasy. What could be the matter with him?
Roger remembered that he’d been told, not long ago, that his face fell into forbidding lines when he wasn’t paying any heed to his expression. The source was a young lady who had a unique talent for irritating him, and Roger had wanted to dismiss her comment out of hand. But it had come when he’d caused a small child to cry merely by looking at her, so he was concerned there might be a grain of truth to the observation. His father’s features had been a bit craggy, and Roger knew he resembled him. He tried for a smile. Compton shied like a nervous horse.
“And here is the last of us,” said Macklin. “Gentlemen, this is my nephew Benjamin Romilly, Earl of Furness.”
The new arrival resembled his uncle in coloring and frame. Anyone, seeing them, would have known them for relations. Furness looked glum rather than hospitable, however—more like a man stepping into a boxing ring than one joining a convivial supper party. Once again, Roger wondered about the motive behind this gathering.
“And now that the proprieties are satisfied, I hope we can be much less formal,” their host added.
They stood gazing at one another. Could the earl have some sort of business proposition in mind? Roger wondered. A few landowners around the country were investing in canals and opening coal mines. But his property was nowhere near Macklin’s estates, so that made no sense.
“Sit down,” said their host, gesturing at the waiting table. As they obeyed, he signaled for wine to be poured. “They have a fine roast beef this evening. As when do they not at White’s? We’ll begin with soup, though, on a raw night like this.” The waiter returned his nod and went off to fetch it.
Roger appreciated the hot broth. His stomach had been giving him trouble for months, and this was just the thing to soothe it as well as warm him. “Vile weather,” Whitfield said.
The others agreed. Compton praised the claret, and then looked worried, as if he’d been presumptuous, which was rather odd behavior for a duke. The rest merely nodded. Roger leaned forward and then couldn’t think how to ask what this gathering was about without being rude. He searched for some alternative remark, and found none. So he downed his wine instead. He was immediately given more. All the glasses were being emptied and refilled rather rapidly.
Steaming plates were put before them. The rich aroma of the beef both tantalized and unsettled Roger. He was hungry, and yet his iron digestion had deserted him lately. Or not so lately. Since the Crenshaw affair began, really. And today’s rancorous visit had brought it all back. The horseradish sauce was clearly out of the question.
“No doubt you’re wondering why I’ve invited you—the four of you—this evening,” Macklin said. “When we aren’t really acquainted.”
Roger leaned forward again, eager for an explanation.
“You have something in common,” Macklin went on. “We do.” He looked around the table. “Death.”
Had the man actually said death? Roger checked his companions, and saw astonishment on their faces. Clearly, they knew no more than he. That was a crumb of comfort. He hated being at sea in a social exchange—a discomfort that was all too familiar. So many of his troubles came through not finding the right thing to say.
The older man nodded across the table. “My nephew’s wife died in childbirth several years ago. He mourns her still.”
Furness looked more furious than grief-stricken as the table’s attention shifted to him. He obviously had not expected this information to be shared with strangers.
The earl turned to the viscount. “Whitfield’s parents were killed in a shipwreck eight months ago on their way back from India,” he continued.
Whitfield looked around the table as if he couldn’t understand how he’d come to be here. “Quite so. A dreadful accident. Storm drove them onto a reef. All hands lost.” He shrugged. “What can one do? These things happen.” His expression said he didn’t intend to discuss it.
“Chatton lost his wife to a virulent fever a year ago,” Lord Macklin said.
Though the remark wasn’t a surprise, given the foregoing, Roger felt a surge of anger. The phrasing brought back all his in-laws’ unfair denunciations. “I didn’t lose her,” he replied. He could feel his face reddening, as it did with any strong emotion, the curse of his pale skin. “She was dashed well killed by an incompetent physician, and my neighbor who insisted they ride out into a downpour.” Much as the Crenshaws wanted to blame him for Arabella’s death, it had not been his fault.
Roger saw the others pull back slightly. He’d spoken too emphatically. The proper tone was such a damned difficult thing to gauge, most of the time. And those words hadn’t been right either.
“And Compton’s sister died while she was visiting a friend, just six months ago,” their host finished.
The youngest man at their table flinched. “She was barely seventeen,” he murmured. “My ward as well as my sister.” He put his head in his hands. “I ought to have gone with her. I was invited. If only I’d gone. I wouldn’t have allowed her to take that cliff path. I would have…done something.”
Useless regrets, Roger thought. He’d had his share of those. And more than his share, he sometimes felt.
“I’ve been widowed for ten years,” said Macklin gently. “I know what it’s like to lose a beloved person quite suddenly. And I know there must be a period of adjustment afterward. People don’t talk about the time it takes—different for everyone, I imagine—and how one copes.” He looked around the table. “I was aware of Benjamin’s bereavement, naturally, since he is my nephew.”
Furness gritted his teeth. Roger thought he was going to jump up and stalk out. Whitfield showed similar signs. But the earl spoke again before either of them could move.
“Then, seemingly at random, I heard of your cases, and it occurred to me that I might be able to help.”
“What help is there for death?” Roger said. He might have wished there was, but death was an inalterable fact. There was no making up for it, as his in-laws had repeatedly pointed out to him. His temper flared. Arabella’s mother had flat out called him a murderer. A mixture of despair and ire made his stomach roil. He was sorry he’d tasted the beef. “And which of us asked for your aid?” he muttered. “I certainly didn’t.”
Whitfield pushed a little back from the table. “Waste of time to dwell on such stuff. No point, eh?”
Compton sighed like a melancholy bellows.
“Grief is insidious, almost palpable, and as variable as humankind,” said their host. “No one can understand who hasn’t experienced a sudden loss. A black coat and a few platitudes are nothing.”
“Are you accusing us of insincerity, sir?” Roger found that his fists were clenched on either side of his plate. No doubt his face had gone as red as his hair. But he wouldn’t have the Crenshaws’ insinuations echoed by a stranger. On the left, Compton edged away from him.
“Not at all,” answered the earl. “I’m offering you the fruits of experience and years of contemplation.”
“Thrusting them on us, whether we will or no. Tantamount to an ambush, this so-called dinner.” If he’d had the least inkling that the meal would be a repeat of his earlier appointment, he never would have come.
“Nothing wrong with the food,” said Whitfield, sticking his unwanted oar in. “Best claret I’ve had this year.”
“Well, well,” said Macklin. He seemed serene, not affected by their responses. “Who knows? If I’ve made a mistake, I’ll gladly apologize. Indeed, I beg your pardon for springing my idea on you with no preparation. Will you, nonetheless, allow me to tell the story of my grieving, as I had hoped to do?”
Despite himself, Roger’s attention was caught. He’d never heard anyone call grieving a story.
“And afterward, should you wish to do the same, I’ll gladly hear it,” added the earl. He smiled. The expression cut through Roger’s annoyance. He received the sudden impression of a wise, reliable man—one who took the time to listen rather than dictate, utterly unlike the choleric blusterers he’d grown up around. What if his mother had married Macklin rather than his father? he suddenly thought. Roger would have had a different life, in a softer region than the Scottish borders. Which was a ridiculous notion, because he wouldn’t have been himself, but somebody else entirely. And that was sillier still.
The earl said his piece. And then the others spoke, briefly, with varying degrees of enthusiasm and candor. Compton came very near tears, while Furness was tight-lipped and laconic. The talk was surprisingly engrossing. And when they were done, Roger found that the simmering anger the day had brought was eased. Which was a boon he certainly hadn’t expected to receive from a dinner at White’s, he thought as he headed back to his hotel.