Her voice was raspy, the tone always this side of exasperated.
He remembered one incident when he was eight years old and had broken a bowl. He hadn’t meant to do it; it had been an accident, but Betty didn’t see it that way.
“You clumsy, worthless, disgusting piece of trash! See what you’ve done now?”
She reached for the strap by the door and proceeded to beat him until his legs bled. When she was done, or her arm tired, she’d thrown the shards of the bowl at him, one of them cutting his cheek. He still had the scar to remind him of his mother.
Yet she was as given to worshipping the Adaire family as Sean. No one was as handsome as Harrison or as talented. No one’s future looked brighter than the boy made earl.
When Gordon had gone to study with Harrison and Jennifer, she hadn’t been impressed at the countess’s generosity.
“You’ll get ideas above your station, boy. You just remember he’s the earl.”
Although he doubted that he’d ever need Latin or debate Pythagorean theory, he was determined to be educated, to learn as much as Harrison knew or even more.
Yet he’d never appreciated, until he’d been nearly grown, Betty’s influence. She’d given him something he’d not expected: independence. He’d been forced to depend on himself, to grow a skin thick enough to endure his own mother’s antipathy.
For that he would have thanked Betty, had she still been alive.
“If you’re not a ghost, then you must be himself.”
He turned to see his father leaning against the doorframe of his bedroom, one hand clutching it to hold himself up.
Sean was the one who looked like a ghost. Clad in his nightshirt, he was rail thin, his pallor so great that Gordon put the frame back on the mantel and walked quickly toward him.
“You shouldn’t be out of bed, I’m thinking,” he said, reaching his father.
He put his arm around Sean’s waist and walked with him back to the bed.
“I’ll not have you playing nursemaid.”
“Someone obviously has to,” Gordon said.
“I’ve got a nurse, thanks to Lady Jennifer. She insists on sending me a girl around the clock. I think she’s afraid I might die without someone notifying her.”
He should have known that Jennifer would ensure that his father was cared for.
“Where is this nursemaid of yours?”
Sean took a moment to answer, the effort evidently tiring him. “She went to fetch something from the Hall.”
Gordon helped him into bed, covered him, then reached over to arrange his pillow.
“What does the physician say?” he asked, realizing he should have asked Jennifer that question.
“Damn fool. Same thing they always say. They don’t know, but I should take this tonic or that medicine. Just in case, you understand.”
Sean looked as if he’d lost nearly half his body weight. He was so frail a stiff wind might blow him away. His hair, once the color of straw, had thinned until there were only strands covering the bald patches.
“He had to have said something.”
“My insides aren’t working like they’re supposed to,” Sean said, scowling at him. “I’ll not tell you more than that. I’ll keep my own counsel, thanks.”
Gordon pulled the chair close and sat.
Sean looked over at him. “So, you’ve been living in London all this time, boy? What makes you think you need to come home now?”
His father hadn’t changed. Nor had Gordon expected that illness would soften Sean in any way.
“I take it Jennifer told you where I lived.”
“It’s Lady Jennifer to you.”
Gordon didn’t correct himself.
Sean turned his head away.
For a moment Gordon was tempted to recite a litany of his accomplishments to his father, but he realized it wouldn’t make any difference. Sean would never acknowledge that he’d done anything right or worthy of praise.
“So, you’ve come back to see me die, is that it?”
Gordon sat back in the chair, knowing that Sean would probably not be surprised by the truth. His father’s illness had been just an excuse. In his heart he knew that he’d come back for one reason. To see if he’d been wrong all this time and McBain had been right.
Had Jennifer loved him as he’d loved her?
Chapter Five
The interior of the Mayfair Club was impressive with its soaring columns and three-story foyer. It reminded Ellen of a Roman bath she’d once seen. Although there wasn’t a pool of water at the base of the columns, all the other details were intact.
She couldn’t hear anything. No indication that this was a place for men to come to ogle women and lose a fortune at gambling. No doubt they were also fed well, and she’d come to understand that there were even living quarters on the upper floors for those who could afford them.
Thanks to Colin’s indefatigable secretary, who had remained in her employ, she’d gotten some advance information about the Mayfair Club. Unfortunately, however, there was little she could discover about its owner. The man, who was rumored—according to her sources—to own various entertainment establishments throughout the city, was cloaked in secrecy.
She was therefore surprised when he agreed to meet with her so readily. Of course, she had mentioned Harrison’s name, title, and the fact that she was a dear friend of the family. She didn’t think it necessary to mention that she was Jennifer’s godmother. Nor that Mary had been her one close friend, someone she mourned every day.
Some things about her life were too important to be used, even as a negotiating point.
She had every intention, however, of putting pressure to bear against the ownership of the Mayfair Club if they refused to cooperate with her. She had no doubt that Harrison had proved to be an exemplary member. Not only had he taken up residence in one of the apartments on the upper floors, but she suspected that he’d lost a great deal of money gambling. Ascending to his father’s title had not granted Harrison any sense.
Before her death, Mary was at her wit’s end about her son. Ellen felt that this errand was more for both her friend and her goddaughter than it was for Harrison’s benefit.
The porter escorted her to a parlor looking out over the street. The walls were thankfully not covered in that dreadful red flocking that was all the rage. Nor was there any indication that the owner of this establishment had an affection for gilt. Instead, this room was tastefully decorated in shades of beige and brown, giving her an indication that it was a masculine retreat.
A maid entered the room, bobbed a curtsy before stepping aside for another maid to enter, laden with a tea tray. Both girls were extraordinarily pretty and although they were dressed as modestly as they might have been in a London household, Ellen couldn’t help but wonder if they had additional attire for the evening hours. As the sun set was their modesty also put to rest?
She smiled her thanks and watched as they turned and left the room, still speechless. What a very strange encounter. Had they been taught that women were better seen than heard? If so, that was a mark against the owner of the Mayfair Club.
Rather than wait for her host, she served herself some tea as well as two biscuits. Age had something to recommend for it. She truly didn’t care if her waistline expanded a bit. Not too much, of course, but she wasn’t about to turn down a biscuit with currants along with her tea.