His Valet (Victorian Decadence Book 2), page 18
She poured his drink and delivered to his desk, where he was staring at a sheet of paper covered with incomprehensible figures. He didn’t appear to see her, so she set the glass down and retreated to his bedchamber, where she could watch him through the door while appearing busy.
His usually indecipherable mien was perturbed and troubled. What could he be thinking to cause such distress?
Perhaps it wasn’t her at all, but something that had happened at the shipyard today. After all, he’d invited one of the shipbuilders to dine with him at the last minute. He was a man who despised socializing and rarely even dined with his own business partners.
Well, there was nothing she could do to help him with that. All she could do was ensure he was finished with his meal early enough to get to Frau Meisen’s.
Jo felt her lips curve into a smile as she allowed her thoughts to wander to this evening. What would he have planned for tonight? Anything out of the ordinary?
Jo realized, as she absently studied a scuff mark on one of his shoes, that she hoped they would make love, eat and drink and talk, and make love some more. Tonight she would have to make sure she left him while he slept. She could not bear a painful leave-taking.
***
“My man said you quite liked the looks of The Pelican and Lady Dorcas,” the Scotsman said—not for the first time this evening.
Stephen nodded, wishing he could look at his watch but aware he’d already done so only a few minutes earlier. “Yes, that’s true. But I’ve still got several prospects to look at.”
Kyle MacDonald gave a hearty laugh that put Stephen’s hackles up. The man was a bloody highwayman masquerading as somebody’s roll-poly grandfather. “Ach, you’re thinking of Angus Cooper’s pitiful tubs, I know. The man has nothing but rubbish.”
That was rich coming from MacDonald, who was currently trying to sell—for an extortionate amount—two ships that were probably around during Sir Walter Raleigh’s time.
Stephen tried to smile but doubted he was successful judging by the other man’s expression. “I shall certainly keep you in mind, sir.”
MacDonald put his pudgy elbows on the table and leaned across it. “I tell you what. I can offer you—”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
Stephen looked up at the voice. It was their waiter. “Yes?”
“I’ve got a telegram for you, Mr. Chatham. I would have waited until after you’d finished, but I was told it was quite urgent.”
Stephen almost smiled—this time a genuine one. Leather was certainly clever—why hadn’t Stephen thought about having a telegram sent? He took the paper from the man and handed him a coin. Once he’d left Stephen turned to MacDonald, who was frowning and chewing on his cigar as if it were a cob of corn.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. MacDonald, but I’d better look at this.”
MacDonald’s smile reminded Stephen of a shark. “Of course, you must. Please, go ahead.”
The telegram was brief, and it was not from Leather:
“Need any information you’ve gathered IMMEDIATELY. Fanshawe needs by morning. Send all. Clerk will await at St. Vincent Place. Smith.”
Stephen glared at the paper. All of it? Smith wanted all the information he’d gathered? Was the man bloody mad? It would take at least an hour to send and would cost a bloody fortune. Stephen was just about to reach for his watch when a familiar voice stopped him.
“I’m terribly sorry, sir, but I’ve received a rather pressing message.”
He looked up to find Leather hovering beside the table and held up a staying hand before turning back to MacDonald, who looked positively thunderous.
“I’m sorry, Mr. MacDonald but this message is from my partners.” And they have a deal that might make you irrelevant, kind sir. “I’m afraid I need to dash.” He gestured toward their waiter who hurried back to their table. “Please see that Mr. MacDonald gets anything he wants and don’t let him pay for anything.” Ha! Fat chance of that—the man was notoriously clutch-fisted.
MacDonald looked slightly appeased by the generous offer. He should do, after all, he was the one trying to sell the bloody broken-down hulks; he should by buying Stephen expensive scotches and cigars.
“I understand,” he said to Stephen, magnanimous as his eyes spotted the desert cart the waiter had rushed off to fetch. “I suppose I’ll see you next Monday, after I get back from the country.”
Stephen stood. “Yes, that will suit admirably. Thank you for your time, sir. Have a pleasant holiday with your family.”
He motioned to Leather, who’d gone to stand behind a nearby potted palm. “Come along,” he said, striding toward the hotel lobby. “I’ve got a real task now—not an imaginary one. I’m going to want you to—”
“Mr. Leather?”
Stephen and his valet stopped at the sound of the tentative voice and turned.
“It is you.” A mousy looking woman was staring at Leather as if she’d seen a ghost.
For his part, Leather was looking rather ghostlike. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”
“It’s me, Miss Bindon—Her Grace’s cousin,” her stunned expression shot through with a certain amount of stiff reproof. She frowned. “It is Mr. Joseph—not Mr. Benjamin Leather?”
Leather bowed. “Er, Miss Bindon. What a surprise.”
Miss Bindon—whom Stephen now recalled he’d seen trailing after the Duchess of Tarland the day of the rainstorm—was frowning at Leather.
What was this? One of Leather’s former loves? And one he’d treated cruelly by the look of it. Whoever she was, Stephen didn’t have time for this right now. He gave the woman a curt nod and said, “I do hope you’ll excuse me, ma’am, but I’m afraid we’re rather in a hurry.”
“Of course, of course,” she said, no longer judgmental but flustered as she looked up at Stephen, quailing under his severe stare.
“Good evening, ma’am.” Stephen turned to his silent valet. “We must go.”
Leather had recovered from any surprise and nodded coolly at the woman. “It was a pleasure to see you again, Miss Bindon.”
They bowed and made their way toward the stairs.
Stephen put the woman out of his mind. “I’ve got something for you to do tonight, Leather,” he said when they reached the first landing.
“Yes, sir, of course,” Leather trotted behind him, sounding rather winded.
“I need to send information to London and I need to do it quickly. I’ve got it all laid out in a ledger, so it is easy to read. But it shall take some time and I’m afraid I have none to spare this evening.” That was a bloody understatement.
“I want you to go to the telegraph office at St. Vincent Place. You’ll have to send a series of messages.” Stephen thought about the vast amount of information Smith had requested and shook his head; it would take all bloody night. But, still, if Fanshawe was asking then he must have something better than what Stephen was looking at.
Leather hurried around him to open the door to the room. Out of habit, he pulled out his watch: it was ten after nine. By the time he assembled the requisite information and told Leather what to do it would be close to ten. Bloody hell!
Stephen tossed his gloves into his hat and dropped both into a nearby chair. “Come into the study with me, I’ll show you what you need to do. We’ve not got much time.”
***
Jo stared at the telegrapher’s bent head and screamed inside.
The information she had to send was an outrageous amount and she speculated it would run well over a hundred pounds. She looked at her watch: it was eleven-thirty and she had to find some way of getting a message to Mr. Chatham.
She glanced down at the brief letter she’d written, chewing her lip. Was it too little? Too much? Her head pounded from wondering what to say. If she didn’t send it soon, he might simply leave.
Jo heaved a sigh and folded it before tucking it into the envelope she’d taken from the hotel when she’d known she wasn’t going to see him tonight.
“I need to send a message to somebody,” she told the clerk. “Can I leave for a quarter of an hour?”
“This will keep me busy for twice as long,” the clerk said absently, not looking up from the columns of numbers and words.
“If I’m not back you can start on the top page of that stack. You’ll need to do all of them.”
“Yes,” he said drily, “You mentioned that already. A few times. I know what to do, this is my job.”
Jo stepped out into the cold, clear night and walked toward Hanover Street rather than Buchanan, even though there would be far more cabs on the busier street. But she needed a little time to clear her head and make sure this letter was the best decision.
She tried to imagine what he must be thinking right now. He would be worried—wondering if something had happened—she knew that.
Why tonight of all nights? Why?
Jo tried to console herself that it would have come to an end in a few hours, anyhow, but that was cold comfort.
All too quickly she reached Hanover, where several carriages were lined up, waiting.
The drivers were standing together off to the side, smoking and laughing. They broke up when they saw her and one of the men came toward her.
“Need a lift, sir?”
“I need you to deliver this message for me.” Jo held up the envelope. “I’ll give you this,” she put a crown in his grubby palm, “to deliver it to the name and address on the front. I’ll give you this,” she held up two more, “when you bring me back a note saying the message was received. Understand?”
His eyeballs threatened to roll out of his head, as well they should. “Aye, sir. Nay bother. Will ye be here?”
“No, come to the telegraph office on St. Vincent’s Place. I’ll be there for the next several hours.”
Jo watched him head off at a rather reckless pace and questioned the wisdom of getting him so excited. What if he got into a wreck before ever getting there?
But if she hadn’t, there would have been nothing to stop him from throwing away the message once his carriage turned the corner.
Anyhow, it was done. In every sense of the word.
Jo took a deep breath and headed back.
Chapter Fifteen
Stephen spun around so quickly at the knock that he sent amber liquid sloshing over the lip of his glass.
Not until he was facing the door did he recall that Josephine didn’t knock, she just entered.
“Come,” he said, throwing back the contents of his glass.
It was Julian.
“What do you want?” Stephen snapped, setting his empty glass down with a thump.
“I’ve got a message for you, sir.” He stood hesitantly in the threshold.
“What are you waiting for—bring it here.” Stephen was already moving toward him, his hand out.
It was just a plain white envelope with Frau Meisen’s name and address on the front. The handwriting was not one he recognized.
“When did this come?”
“Just a few moments ago, sir.”
“Did you see who delivered it?”
“A cab driver.”
“Is he waiting for an answer?”
“I’m afraid not, sir.”
Stephen recognized the avid glint in the other man’s eyes: he thought he was going to earn some money tonight.
“You may go.”
Julian’s face fell. “Yes, of course, sir. Please ring if you have need of . . . anything.”
Stephen turned his back and slid his thumb beneath the flap of the envelope.
He sat down before unfolding the single sheet.
Dear Stephen,
By now you will know I’m not coming tonight.
“Goddammit,” he hissed under his breath. He had known it, but he’d not wanted to believe it.
I regret that I’m unable to be with you on our last night, but I’m afraid something came up I could not ignore. Never fear, I’m not injured, I’m just not my own mistress tonight.
I want you to know that the past four days—or nights, rather—have been the best in my life. Some might see that admission as a sad commentary on my life! Not only was I able to experience many of the things I’ve only ever fantasized about, but I was able to experience them with you. I will think of you often in the years to come.
I wish you the best in your life.
Yours,
Josephine
Stephen turned the page over, as if there might be more. There wasn’t.
He gave a bitter laugh and crumpled up the page. That was it, was it? He flung the letter to the floor and stood, refilling his glass yet again. When he lifted the glass to his mouth he realized he’d lost track of how many he’d had. Two at dinner, two here, this would make five.
He ground his teeth. “Dammit.”
Stephen thumped the glass down without even taking a sip. She’d turned him into a foolish wreck, he would not allow her to make him into a drunk.
Instead of drinking, he paced. It occurred to him he could simply leave—go back to the hotel. After all, there was nothing here for him, was there?
He could go find Leather and see to the telegrams, which were really his affair, not his valet’s.
Stephen knew it wasn’t true that she’d made a fool of him; he’d made a fool of himself—he’d been the one foolishly thinking of marriage, not her.
All week long he’d felt it, that lurching sensation in his stomach—the feeling you have when you step on a patch of ice and slide, knowing that a painful fall will be the only way of stopping.
So, he’d fallen. Was it painful? Marginally.
Liar, liar, liar.
Yes, it was bloody painful—and mortifying as well. After all, he hardly knew the woman. But his inner, mocking voice was right: he was a liar. The fall was incredibly painful and made more so because he’d allowed himself to have expectations. He’d not come here tonight to bid her goodbye; he’d come to offer her marriage.
He should be relieved and grateful. After all, he’d been about to offer marriage to a woman whose hastily scrawled regrets were no deeper than those of an acquaintance writing to apologize for missing a dinner party.
That’s all he was, wasn’t he? Her acquaintance. Just when had he begun to believe he was more? She’d never led him to believe anything other than what was in her letter. If anyone was to blame here, it was Stephen.
Why did that just make him feel angrier at her? She’d done nothing to him.
Including not caring for you.
Stephen closed his eyes and pressed his fingertips against his pounding temples, as if he could manhandle the pain away.
The pain of not being loved. Just like Louise never loved you. Just like your parents. Just like—
“Enough!” he roared, appalled to realize that prickling feeling behind his eyes heralded actual bloody tears.
When would he finally be able to forget things that had happened another lifetime ago? Was this to be his life? Condemned to constantly repeat his mistakes? Destined to become an old man still paying women? A man who loathed his own past but could still never manage to escape it?
He was breathing so hard he barely heard the soft scratching on the door.
“Goddammit! What the hell is it?” he yelled.
The door opened hesitantly and Julian’s face appeared in the crack.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, sir, but—”
“Get in here and shut that door.”
Julian obeyed quickly.
“Come here.”
The younger man stopped in front of him, his hands behind his back, his eyes downcast.
“Look at me.”
Julian’s blue eyes flared when they met Stephen’s: this man wanted him, and not just because he would get paid for it. Like the degenerate Stephen was, the realization penetrated his fog of anger and despair and stirred him. He couldn’t have Josephine, but he knew the man’s eager, skilled mouth would remind him of watching Josephine. He could relive her in that small way . . .
He really was no better than a dog.
“I need you to get a carriage for me—I’ll also need to settle with Frau Meisen.”
“I—I wish you wouldn’t go.”
Stephen snorted. “Quite the salesman, aren’t you?” He reached into his coat and took out his wallet. He’d purchased the younger man’s services these past two nights and knew what he cost. He handed him enough for a week, hating himself even more than ever. “What do you know about the woman from the last two nights—Josephine?”
Julian held the money in the palm of his hand and stared down at it for a long moment before shaking his head. He met Stephen’s eyes. “Nothing. Frau Meisen always dealt with her manservant.”
Stephen’s eyebrows shot up. “A servant made her arrangements?”
Julian nodded, his eyes slipping back to the money again.
“What did he look like?”
“I don’t know—I only saw him leaving. He was dressed like a butler, all in black, a bowler.” He shrugged.
Stephen considered that rather surprising information. Somehow he’d gotten the impression that she was too poor. Even if she wasn’t, who trusted a servant to arrange such an affair?
I trust Leather to manage such matters.
Yes, but that was Leather, and there were few enough servants like him.
“How much money would it take to get Frau Meisen to tell me her real name?” he asked.
Julian was shaking his head before Stephen even finished. “I don’t think she would take any amount, sir.”
“I find that difficult to believe.”
Julian opened his mouth, glanced at Stephen’s wallet, and then closed it again.
Stephen heaved a sigh and took out more money, slapping it down in Julian’s palm.
“She used to do this same thing someplace in Prussia—her, well, her last partner, Gerhardt, told me this.” He gave Stephen a coy smile. “He was with Frau Meisen but he wasn’t with her, if you know what I mean.”
“Yes, yes, he was fucking you. Get on with it.”
“The place she had over there was like this one. She took money to give out the identity of one of her clients and it turned out the man was a prince or duke or something. When he learned it was Frau Meisen, he had her thrown in jail. She lost everything—she almost lost her life, but Gerhardt was able to bribe a guard to get her out. She’s terrified of such information getting out here and ruining her life a second time. She manages all of the sensitive clients herself so none of us know anything.”
