Passion (8 page)

Jules teeth set a moment. He stared out at
the garden in a kind of blurred non-vision. If his father only
knew.

Finishing the whiskey, feeling the effects of
it flush his skin, he murmured, “How much does Coulborne know?”

“Everything. He was there for me…years ago.
When I got Elena with child. I met with him recently, and we spoke
long on the years since.”

“Whose idea was it that I should delay asking
for Caroline?

“Mine. My selfish idea. You are my first-born
Jules, my heir, and I stand here in amazement at your princely mien
and masculine perfection. Did I not know what it was that made you
aloof and so in control, I would be as in awe of your reputation as
the ton is. However, I know only too well, what lies behind
detachment—when a man makes himself an island because he is forced
to, In order to protect himself against feeling.

Only, it does not work Jules. It is no insult
against Lady Caroline if I deduce you are intent on the match for
all the reasons one of your station does—that we all did. She may
well be the exception, but I challenge you to convince me that you
know her—truly know her, or yourself. Tell me you feel some
affection for her?”

Of course, Jules could not do that. His life
was calculated, which was the only way to get where he was, and
stay there.

Taking the glass to the sideboard, Jules
answered instead, “What is it you expect of me?” He let the glass
land with a click and turned to face the Duke. “Of us? We are grown
men. I cannot comfort you with the prospect of some happy reunion
between myself and Blaise, or Raith. I don’t know what you imagine
I can do.”

Artis replied, “Blaise needs our help. He
will not ask for it. He bloody should have never gone back to war
after the last wound nearly killed him. Now this—. I cannot imagine
how a man of such energy and passion for what he does, what he
seemed born for—is taking this. I dared not pull any strings or
interfere in any of his decisions. It killed me not to, but as you
say, you are men. And Blaise was ever a fierce one.”

Jules smiled slightly, and for the first time
in his father’s presence, he realized. Normally, their meetings
were so strained and distant that they exchanged only civilities.
He was starting to see another side of his sire. Whilst it was
enlightening, it was also somewhat unnerving, because he had an
image of Artis that was akin to an emotionless and detached
aristocrat.

Amazing what one held inside, behind the
façade.

“I followed the war closely. Blaise was much
discussed in the clubs and coffeehouses.” Jules relaxed enough to
supply, “Although others speculated on his reasons for
recklessness, I discerned he wanted to return and finish it after
Napoleon escaped. He deserved and earned the right to be a part of
that.”

“At a high cost.”

“He would have made Admiral, eventually.”

“Yes.” Artis smiled faintly. “I remember his
scraps as a boy, always in trouble for bucking the rules. Odd, I
thought, that he should go in the Navy. But later, I realized it
was where he fit.”

“It was also an escape.” Jules stared at
him.

“Yes.” Artis looked around the room and then
back at him. “He got to expend his anger at the same time it kept
him away from home, from Matilda, and from me, I expect.”

“It was the atmosphere we all escaped, the
indifference on your part, the bitter sternness, the rigidity of
hers—the isolation.” Jules shrugged. “He chose a life where he
enjoyed camaraderie and brotherhood.”

Artis nodded and did not challenge that
summation. “I don’t know what I expect, the best, I suppose. I
shall see him myself. However, I hope you will do so. He may take
some assistance from you, better than I.”

“And Raith?”

“We must find him, Jules. The missive hinted
that he knew who killed his wife—and that the man was wealthy,
possibly in our very circles.”

“Are you sure?” Jules was swiftly sifting
faces of peers and wealthy men, through is mind.

“I know little. Which is why it is urgent we
try to find him. If it was the prince himself, I shall stand with
Raith and see him hung. But I fear…I fear… because of lies and the
life Raith has led, what darkness he has carried from those lies,
and from this…I don’t know.”

Jules sat more heavily down in the chair
again. The rain picked up outside. A sinister chill seemed to waft
through the room.

One of the servants came and laid a fire,
then poured them coffee. Jules had several appointments. He had
also missed his routine visit to his club. However, with the cup in
his palms, his eyes watching the fire, he made a decision. This may
well be the year of his ruin. If he was going to meet his father’s
requests, he was going to do it his way.

He stood eventually and placed the cup on the
tray near the pot. “I shall collect you at noon tomorrow. We may as
well see Blaise together.”

The Duke stood, having shaken off his own
muse, and smiled as Jules prepared to leave. “Very well.
Jules?”

Having turned, Jules looked back at him.

“I love you.”

Nodding, more in reflex and because he did
not know what else to do, Jules took his leave. Such words were
odd, strange, like a foreign language, oblique and obscure drifting
through his head during the ride home.

He arrived at his townhouse, the butler
stepping out with an umbrella, so thick was the rain. In his rooms,
after changing, Stoneleigh sat by the window, ignoring the valet
who kept peeking in— obviously wondering why Jules hadn’t ordered
his bath and his formals laid out for the ball he was to
attend.

Rain did not stop the traffic nor the number
of coaches heading out with their finely dressed passengers to
attend the social gatherings. Jules could not recall, since he had
been coming up to London, when he had missed an accepted invite. He
chose them carefully, knowing which were of more import. Although
he indulged himself at times with boating, boxing, riding, they
were more to stay in physical shape than to be enjoyed. When one
filled every hour of one’s schedule to serve a purpose, it left no
room for indulgences of the personal kind.

Sticking to coffee, because he’d drank more
than was his habit earlier in the day, he breathed in the pungent
scent and was reminded sharply of that week when everything changed
in his life.

Peculiar as his existence was, on the one
hand, being the heir, and on the other, having no more or less than
his siblings, he had buried himself in academics, and filled most
isolated hours learning what he must to run the estates he would
someday oversee. It was not that he did not enjoy intellectual
pursuits, but as he grew older, nature introduced distractions and
the normal urges of his body intruded.

The university, as strict as the classes
were, was also easy access to brothels and females of easy virtue.
His fellow students knew where every vice and sin to be had was.
Just as often, there were women secreted into their chambers, as
well as wine and intoxicants.

It was week’s end, some holiday and like most
times he could have left, he was avoiding going home, spending his
time as he intended, reading and studying. With the lax
supervision, the Hall became one grand party, with all sorts of
raucous singing, music, drinking and dancing.

Chaps were running up and down the halls,
carrying on all sorts of foolish games. Females, had always flirted
when they spied Jules, the bolder ones plopping on his lap or
teasing him, not a few showing him their bare bottoms—and their
tops—passing by the doorway.

Unable to study and distracted by the chap in
the room with him who was making love to a woman on the chaise, not
a foot away—he’d closed his books and gone out into the hall, soon
having a bottle of wine thrust into his hand, then one more, before
being hauled about into chambers filled with wild revelry.

Foxed, and without his normal inhibitions,
Jules allowed himself to be fondled, kissed and rubbed by a pair of
coarse talking beauties, finding himself later laying somewhere on
the floor, amid a pile of cloaks and wine bottles.

Jules was amazed at his younger self now—that
he had taken no thought to the intimacies participated in, right
there in a room full of people. Somehow, with everyone else
seemingly throwing cautions to the wind, he did not give it a
second thought—even if his thoughts were hindered by
intoxication.

He had lost his virginity, smoked his first
cheroot, and been foxed and experienced oral sex, all in the first
hour. By dawn, he had learned a few more positions, and drank to
the point of puking out the windows.

He awakened in a hazy room and climbed over
snoring bodies. Sick and with a pounding head, he’d found a bath
and bed.

The next night, a bit more educated, he’d
departed the Hall early and walked a bit, ate, then drank a few
brandies—just enough, he assumed, to take the edge off his innate
compulsion to withdraw and detach himself from the temptations
around him.

He had taken his time picking out the female
he felt attracted to, and had plans for a more intimate exploration
of carnal knowledge. Some sort of storage room became their
trysting spot. His adventures with her lasted half the night, and
he’d found himself back with the crowd. He remembered laughing,
smoking opium from a hookah pipe and having some hazy recollection
of leaving again with someone…going to rooms that were not
familiar…

Jules shook his head and drank of the coffee,
not sure enough of anything to dispel the accusations of the
blackmailer, even to himself. The date was correct. It was not as
if he could forget that weekend. However, the experience changed
him, because he had a moment with the young woman in that little
room—where he looked at the woman, and she had been more detached
than he.

At some point, she had said, much to his
mortification, “You’ll ave to pay me double for the chaffing ye’ve
caused.”

He had paid her and even though he had joined
the others, he’d had to push himself twice as hard to find that
earlier careless attitude.

The second morning ended with him staring at
those trousers on the floor and then fleeing, dressing whilst he
dashed out. He had not slept for days, drank only coffee, suffering
hellish nausea from his indulgences.

Between the experience with the woman, and
the waking up in that room, Jules vowed to never again lose
control—or rather, not be in control of himself and his facilities.
He had infrequently had women since, though did not keep a
mistress. Jules leashed his appetites the way he did the rest of
his life, and paid in advance. He did the necessary, left, and
seldom went back to the same woman twice.

Grunting, Jules propped his feet on a stool,
looking broodingly at the toes of his boots, rather than out the
window now. He supposed it was a miracle he had reached his 30th
year enjoying the status and rep he had. Whoever was blackmailing
him, and he was paying up, leaving the money at the designated
place in Hyde Park—had carefully, knowingly, and perfectly, timed
it.

Chapter 2

Generally, the populace of London endeavored
to block out the constant noise. Blaise used it—listening to the
tolls and street patter, the palpable sounds and the more subtle
ones he would not have perceived sighted.

Being a man of military discipline, having no
tolerance for inactivity or coddling, he decided he was not dead
and so he had to learn how to live as a civilian—albeit a blind
one. He also pressed his cousin Ry to go about his own amusements,
and occupied himself with learning to navigate his own house.

His wardrobe he arranged so that he needed
the young valet less, after they put it in the order he desired,
buff trousers with brown or burgundy coats, white shirt and cravat,
gloves and the rest of those hues, linen, tweed, creams—black and
grays, were done the same, and white too. Anything multi colored,
vests, scarves, or the like, he kept separate.

He gave the young man instructions on what to
have ordered for him, and just the way he liked his tasseled
Hessians polished, and where to place them. His watch, stick pins,
cheroot case, whatever else he laid out, had an order so that he
was not fumbling and feeling around—like a blind man—for it.

His bathing chambers, regarding his personal
items, he placed in a sequence he could easily remember, and though
the valet still had to shave him, he insisted on bathing and
dressing himself.

Sir Langley came by midweek and removed the
bandages. What Blaise saw was a dull gray wall of nothing after the
salve was cleaned off. Nevertheless, the stitching was out and
Langley gave him a pair of dark-lens glasses.

“The whites are still bloody, and you’ll need
to protect your eyes from brighter lights,” the physician said.

Refraining from mentioning he could not see
any damn lights, he let the doctor probe around and he put the
glasses on, whilst the back of his head was checked for lumps. His
hair was growing fast, enough so the natural waves were there, if
not much length yet.

Blaise could feel the tender scars and marks
of the stitches when he touched his face, and the scabbing that
held the wounds together. He figured the skin was a bright pink
compared to his swarth from being a naval man. It doubtless looked
bloody awful.

He had yet to go out, getting his air, foul
as it was, from the windows, and his exercise by moving through his
house, down the stairs, counting steps—at the same time directing
which tables needed to be moved and generally trying to conquer the
enemy—which he decided was his blindness.

He began too, when Ry was there, to
appreciate the man’s dry wit. He learned that Ry was his own age,
28, and that his parents died young—that very summer they had
fished together in fact. Ry joined the army at first opportunity,
given that they had only what the Duke of Eastland provided for
income. Ry had a younger sister, still in school.