Authors: Cupboard Kisses
Barbara Metzger
Cupboard Kisses
By Barbara Metzger
Copyright 2011 by Barbara Metzger
Cover Copyright 2011 by Ginny Glass and Untreed Reads Publishing
The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.
Previously published in print, 1989.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold, reproduced or transmitted by any means in any form or given away to other people without specific permission from the author and/or publisher. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to the living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Also by Barbara Metzger and Untreed Reads Publishing
A Suspicious Affair
Ace of Hearts (Book One of The House of Cards Trilogy)
Jack of Clubs (Book Two of The House of Cards Trilogy)
Queen of Diamonds (Book Three of The House of Cards Trilogy
An Angel for the Earl
Father Christmas
This one is for Gail and Noisy, for their love and loyalty
Contents
“Dash it, Kenley, it’s two in the morning and you’re in no condition to make a night of it. Let’s go on home.”
“You’re wrong, my friend. Home is precisely where I’m in no condition to be. Much too sober. One more club ought to do the trick.”
The two gentlemen were standing on the empty pavement outside Brooks’s, one of London’s exclusive men’s clubs. The shorter of the two looked up and down St. James’s Street, where a few sporadic street lamps lit the way.
“You’ve already sampled the brandy of every respectable place. Where would you like to continue the exercise?”
“Why, an unrespectable one, of course! You’re the London expert though, Perry, the compleat town buck. You lead on.”
“There’s Hazlip’s a few blocks away,” Perry answered, knowing it was hopeless to protest further. “Shall I call for my carriage?”
“For two blocks? Gads, man, stop fussing. Since when did you turn into a nursemaid anyway?”
“Since you forgot to duck, damn you, Chase! You’ve been wounded, near drowned, gaoled in a French warship’s brig till you almost died from the gunshot in your brain box, and now—”
“And now I am going to enjoy myself,” firmly declared Captain Kenley Chase, late of His Majesty’s warship
Invicta,
which was presently lying at the bottom of the sea. “I’ll grant you I am not ready for total debauchery,” he said, gesturing to his forehead, where the dim light barely showed the edges of the black eye patch he wore. “Women seem to prefer dueling scars, you know. But some heady wine, heavy wagers, and good fellowship are just what I needed, especially tonight.”
Perry cleared his throat, choking on the concern he’d almost displayed, obviously unwelcome to his companion and contrary to his own habitual Corinthian attitude of weary boredom. The two men had been friends since Eton, though, no matter how far apart their paths had wandered, and the emotion was there. Perry disguised it with a reminder that Chase had visited Hazlip’s on his last leave, nearly two years ago.
“The place ain’t White’s, of course, but the wine isn’t watered, and the dice aren’t weighted, and, well, I’ll stand by to carry you into the carriage for the ride home.”
The captain put his arm around the smaller man and chuckled. “You and how many footmen, bantling?” He squeezed Perry’s shoulder in silent appreciation as the two men walked down the nearly deserted street.
Chase’s slightly rolling gait, legs spread as if to maintain balance, was what one could expect from a man used to maneuvering on a pitching deck. Almost fifteen years at sea had left at least that mark on him. Otherwise the two comrades could have been any ordinary Regency gentlemen, slightly on the go, out for an evening’s amusement. It wasn’t till they reached the lamp’s glow in Hazlip’s entry way that the real differences showed between Kenley Chase and his friend Perry Adler, nay, between the naval veteran and most other gentlemen in the top ranks of London society.
Perry handed over his greatcoat, with ten capes at least, his gloves, his ornamental walking stick, and high hat, distributing smiles and gratuities alike with easy charm. His dress was totally a la mode, from his black coat and waist, to gleaming white starched cravat, to the one precise fob chain dangling at his somewhat stocky waist. He had thinning blond hair attempting a Brutus cut and a rounded face that kept him still boyish-looking at thirty-two, especially when he smiled, which he did now at Hazlip’s effusive greeting.
“Welcome, welcome, Mr. Adler. We’ve missed you. How are you on this fine night? It’s always a pleasure to see you young gentlemen here. Not like some, who don’t know their limits, heh heh.” The proprietor glanced worriedly at the back of Mr. Adler’s large, dark-haired companion, now struggling to extricate himself from his greatcoat. Not another foxed, belligerent nob, Hazlip prayed to himself. At least not the new chandelier, please Lord. Ah, he sighed in relief, recognizing the man who finally turned his way.
“Why, it’s Captain Chase, isn’t it? What a happy surprise! Sir, may I tell you how honored we are to have you visit Hazlip’s, and what a fine pleasure, yes, pleasure indeed, to see you back from the war alive and we…we…Welcome, Captain.”
Chase inclined his head the barest fraction in acknowledgment. He’d gotten rid of his greatcoat, which was serviceable, no capes, and handed over his gloves. He had no hat, no cane, and no smile for the bumbling toadeater. What he had was his dress uniform, adorned with gold braid and hanging loosely on his tall frame everywhere but at his broad shoulders. He had dark, curly hair, not combed into a Windswept or anything purposeful, simply allowed to fall forward over his forehead. He had a lined, weathered face from his career at sea, but instead of the swarthy complexion one might have expected from those years of exposure, his face wore an ashen pallor, making him look years older than Perry when, at thirty-one, Kenley was actually the younger man. The eye patch didn’t help, except that it covered most of an angry red gash that ran jaggedly up his forehead until lost in the forward-falling curls. His other eye was gray where it wasn’t bloodshot. The look he gave the proprietor, turning his head to do so, was glassy-eyed and cold. No one, not even an avaricious nodcock like the gaming hall owner, could have said he looked well.
“Clunch,” he muttered under his breath as he and Perry moved into the gaming rooms proper.
“I warned you this place mightn’t be up to snuff, Lee,” Perry reminded, helping himself to a glass from a passing waiter. He handed another to Chase.
The captain sipped some of the ruby liquid and grimaced.
“What, has it turned? We’ve had so blasted much to drink tonight I wouldn’t think you could tell Bohea from blue ruin.”
“No, no, the wine is excellent. French, unmistakably, and almost as certainly not under a revenuer’s label. Damn, how those dastards slip through the blockade!”
“You cannot be against a little free trading, can you? It’s…it’s the British way.”
“Nay, I’d not gainsay the
ton
its wines and laces or even the poor fisherman trying to make an easier living. It’s the gold that goes
back
to France that galls me. All that money, right into Bonaparte’s coffers, buying guns, horses, and soldiers’ loyalties.”
“Do you wish to leave, then?” Perry asked anxiously. “Doesn’t sound like you’d enjoy yourself here. I know I’ve got some cognac m’father put down years ago. No need to worry for the excise.”
Chase smiled, a not-quite-cheerful look on his haggard face. “What a trial I am to you. I don’t mean to be such a bear. No, this is exactly what I wanted, the British way and all.” He took a deep breath. “Just smell that, stale smoke and spilled wine, unwashed bodies and yes, the delicate bouquet of mildew. Now I know I’m home in England!”
“Gammon. Next you’ll be wanting a welcome back party in the stews at Seven Dials.” Adler waved his arms around the room. “So what’s your pleasure? Dice? Hazard? That’s young Torrington playing vingt-et-un in the corner. It’s bellows to mend with him, vowels all over town. The old earl suddenly refused to make good on them, they say. Too late if you ask me.”
They were strolling around slowly, Adler nodding to acquaintances, making a few introductions to those men not rapt in their wagering. Chase stopped him with a hand on his sleeve. “Perry, am I seeing things, or does the faro dealer have pointed teeth?” The room was so blanketed in concentration even his whisper sounded loud in the hush.
An older man at the nearest table glanced up from his cards and explained, “It’s all the rage now. The young jackanapes file their front teeth down, supposedly so they can spit through ’em, like coachmen.” He laughed at the captain’s shudder. “It’s nothing compared to when they think they can
drive
like coachmen. The name’s Rampling, by the way. Care for a hand or two of whist?”
Perry was still trying to focus his monocle on the faro dealer. “Damn if you can’t see better with one eye than I can with two and my quizzing glass. Anyway, I don’t know where chaps get these gnaggy notions,” he said as he sat down next to Rampling, who was wearing his jacket inside out—to change his luck.
The jacket reversed again, and Rampling’s losing streak still held. He tossed in his last hand. “That’s it for me, sir. I thought you’d be less attentive to the cards. My mistake.”
Adler lightened another waiter’s load and grinned at the older man. “What, the eye patch?” he teased. “That’s just to make him look interesting, don’t you know. Give him a week on the town and you’ll see all the young fops sporting ’em.”
“Satin, I’d bet, in colors to match their waistcoats.”
Perry disagreed. “I’d put my money on black, more gothic, romantic.”
Chase, meantime, impatiently drummed his fingers on the table. He got up and wandered off when the other two got down to the particulars of an actual bet. On eye patches, by Jove!
An old debauchee now held the bank at the faro table. He called the captain over to try his luck at a real man’s game, not one of those chicken-stakes drawing room pastimes. Chase recognized the speaker as Baron Harwood, a dissolute gambler who’d been frequenting the gaming halls since before Chase went into the Navy. Harwood had pouches under his eyes, yellowed teeth, food stains on his linen, and wore his hair slicked back with greasy pomatum. The captain didn’t want to sit at the same table, much less play with such a loose screw. He declined with a slight shake of his head.
“What’s the matter, hm, fortune at low tide, Captain?” Harwood quipped. “Or maybe I should say ‘my lord.’ It’s Viscount Winstoke now, ain’t it? Damn if the young gudgeon don’t go off to war all hot to hand, comes back a hero, and walks into a title and handsome fortune at the same time. Blast if I want to play with such a lucky devil, after all.”
Lucky, when he’d lost his ship and perhaps his eyesight? Lucky to come into a title by losing a well-loved brother? He’d show that miserable maw-worm a thing or two about luck!
“Captain will do, until I resign my commission, my lord,” Chase replied into the quiet following Harwood’s drunken mutterings. He clenched his teeth and sat down, taking the farthest seat from the baron possible. He gestured for another glass and a fresh deck of cards. Softly, during the wait, he asked, “I wonder how pleased you would be to hear your heir calling himself the most fortunate of fellows.”
Harwood cackled. “No one’s taking post-obits out on me, boy. Got no hopefuls waiting for the title at all. Just a plaguey old-maid schoolmarm of a niece somewhere. M’brother got religion before he died so the blasted female thought she could preach to me about my duties. Hah! No dragon in Puritan petticoats is telling Charles Harwood how to spend the ready. Are we going to play,
Captain,
or are you saving your blunt for your grandchildren?”
They played. The only sounds were the slap of cards, the rustle and clink of bets being laid down and then swept to one pile or another. Harwood’s pile dwindled. Chase’s grew. Drinks were forgotten, leaving wet marks on the table; new candles were lit as old ones added their guttering smoke to the room’s haze. Soon Harwood and the captain were the only players in the game, drawing spectators from the other tables.
Harwood lost another round and there were no more notes, coins, or chips in front of him. Perry Adler, standing behind his friend’s chair, let out a sigh of relief. Good, now they could go home. All the watchers turned to Harwood, who was staring at the captain, weighing his chances. Kenley was squeezing the bridge of his nose with a shaking hand; sweat beaded on his forehead. The wound above his eye looked raw, inflamed.
“Will you accept my marker?” Harwood had decided. “It’s good, I assure you.”
Chase looked behind him to Perry, as if to ask if the bet would be honored, but it was Rampling, catching the glance, who nodded in the affirmative. Perry groaned when his friend called Hazlip himself over to bring paper and pen.
Harwood gave a last calculating look in Chase’s direction before dipping the pen. “Bloody fool can’t last much longer,” he groused, figuring the captain’s luck—or concentration—would have to desert him soon. The baron tossed his note onto the center of the table.
“Long enough for this,” Chase answered, bringing an angry flush to the older man’s already whiskey-florid face. Those few men around the table who may have thought about joining the game thought again when they caught the captain’s one-eyed glare. Hazlip stayed nearby with the pen and ink.
Harwood pondered every discard. Chase fumbled for a handkerchief to wipe his moist forehead, tossing down a seemingly random selection. Yet now a flurry of white scraps joined the stacks in front of him. While Harwood wrote, Chase neatened the piles. One for coins and chips, one for bank notes, and one, growing steadily, for Harwood’s vouchers.
Beads of perspiration dripped onto the table, a trembling hand sloshed liquor onto a lace-edged cuff—and Kenley Chase wasn’t feeling too well either.
Finally, finally he stood to leave, holding onto the chair back. “Get that, will you, old man?” he asked Perry, gesturing to his winnings.
“One more hand, Captain. Just one more hand,” the baron whined, almost begging. “I know my luck will turn. You can’t leave now. You’re winning, blast you.”
“Oh, yes you can,” Adler exploded, all his frustrated anxieties finally bursting forth. “You’ve been winning all night, and you’ll go on winning as long as this bedlamite has something to lose—and look at you! You can barely stand, you can hardly hold the cards! Blister it, you should be home in bed. Did you forget about the surgery tomorrow?”
Chase sat down again, heavily. “I was trying to, Perry, by God I was. Almost did it, too. I need a drink.”
Almost. It was hard to forget when his head ached and his vision blurred. It was hard to forget when the best physicians the Admiralty could find all agreed he’d certainly die without the operation to remove the metal shard lodged above his eye. Brain fever, they’d said. Putrefaction, they’d said. Of course, they’d also said that he could be blind in both eyes after the operation—if he lived through it. What were the odds? he’d pleaded to know. One doctor just shook his head; another tried to be conciliatory: Just hope for the best, he’d soothed, before a calloused fist smashed down on his desk, making the inkwell bounce.