Surely, Henry could fix this. He just needed one good night at the tables and—
No!
Henry clenched his fists and gritted his teeth. He could not gamble his way out of this. He would go to Surrey, confess what he’d done to his mother, and find a way out of this. A way that did not involve cards.
One of his former footmen opened the door to the coach, and Henry climbed inside.
“Goodbye, Your Grace,” the footman said.
Henry tried to reply, but the words caught in his throat. He raised a hand and stared forward as the coach glided away from Berkeley Square.
He still had his coachman and outriders, so at least he was leaving Town in style. As to how long he could afford them, well, that was another question entirely. Henry had a lot of questions these past few days. Chief among them was how the Marquess of Shrewsbury had managed to beat him at vingt-et-un. Henry was certain Fortuna had been on his side. Why had she deserted him?
The other question that plagued him was the woman in the fire. What was he to think of her? Was it a hallucination? Was it actually the witch from his childhood? Was she the reason he’d lost—either because she’d cursed him or he’d been distracted by her?
He’d turned these questions over in his mind so often that if he hadn’t been mad before, he was making himself so now.
Henry peered out the window of the coach and spotted several well-dressed men lurching along the road. They’d most likely been out all night drinking and whoring. But there was a gaming hell nearby. Perhaps they’d been playing. Henry narrowed his eyes at them. They looked happy enough. Had they won? Henry still had some blunt in his pocket. What ifhe wagered it and won? He couldn’t go to White’s. Everyone there knew what had happened to him, but might he go to an anonymous gaming room and try to recover some of his losses? He’d said no more cards, but what about dice?
He reached up to tap on the roof of the carriage with his walking stick, then lowered his hand and had to sit on it.
No more gambling, Henry.
He had a problem. Hemusthave a problem. Most men didn’t struggle this much to walk away from the tables. Why did he? Why couldn’t he stop?
He sat on his hands most of the journey to Carlisle Hall. In the past, the trip had always seemed to take an eternity, but now Henry hardly had time to settle in before he recognized the familiar landmarks near his family estate—correction: the estate of the Marquess of Shrewsbury.
Thank God his father had had the foresight to make sure the dower house was given to his duchess upon his death. If not, neither his mother nor he would have anywhere to live. Of course, he might still have nowhere to live. He’d written to ask his mother if he could stay with her while he “got back on his feet.”
She hadn’t answered.
He’d come anyway because, quite frankly, he had nowhere else to go. He wasn’t about to crowd in with King in a tavern in Seven Dials. Rory was somewhere on the Continent, mourning his dead wife. Henry hadn’t heard from him in months. He had other friends, but they were friends of convenience, not true friends like King and Rory, whom he’d known since their school days. He supposed if his mother refused him, he could ask one of his sisters to take him in. His brother was on a ship in the Navy, but he had a cousin who was a clergyman. Clergymen had to take in poor relations. But Henry didn’t intend to be poor for long. He could win everything back if he just found the right game…
A sudden jolt sent him sprawling across the seat, and another caused him to tumble to the floor. “John Coachman!” Henry yelled, along with a stream of more colorful expressions. His voice was drowned out by a loud crack, whereupon the carriage halted, and Henry was forcefully thrown in the opposite direction. A moment later, the coach’s door opened, and one of the outriders poked his head in. “Your Grace, are you hurt?”
Henry pushed himself to his elbows. “Hard to say, Milton. What’s happened?”
“I’m not sure, but I believe one of the wheels is damaged.”
Henry climbed out of the now-listing coach and stood beside John Coachman, who was studying the disabled conveyance. One of the wheels had indeed come off. A puddle on the road had filled in a rather deep hole, and when the coach’s rear wheel went over it, the wood had cracked and given way. Now the wheel lay in pieces on the side of the road. God’s teeth! What else could go wrong?
“Can you repair the wheel?” Henry asked.
Milton climbed out from under the coach. “The axle is cracked.”
“Of course it is,” Henry said. He glanced down the road. “It’s only another mile or so to the dower house. I’ll walk and send one of the duchess’s servants back for the horses and the luggage. One of you will stay with the coach until it’s repaired.”
The coach, which boasted every accoutrement suitable for a duke, was worth a great deal. Not to mention, it was practically all Henry had left in the world. He went back to the door, reached in and took his hat and walking stick, and, with a deep breath, began walking. The day was warm, with a slight breeze, which Henry appreciated. Spring in London was still quite chilly, but south of London, in Surrey, the weather was usually a bit milder. Normally, he appreciated the warmer temperatures. Not so at the moment. He wore his greatcoat over his coat, whichmade him look ever so dashing, but it was also rather heavy. He was beginning to perspire. He supposed he could remove it and carry it over his arm, but he wanted to walk into his mother’s house looking as hale and hearty as possible, and the many-caped greatcoat made an impression.
He’d gone about a half-mile and could no longer see the carriage when he heard hoofbeats and the creak of a cart. Henry squinted as a farmer’s cart, led by a large cart horse, came around a bend in the road. The driver was a man only slightly smaller than the horse itself, and sitting beside him was a tiny woman—though perhaps she only looked tiny due to the driver’s enormous size—with a port-wine stain mark on the left side of her face. She was dressed in shabby clothing, and her brown hair had fallen about her shoulders and was strewn with bits of straw. Some sort of cloth clung to the ends of her hair. Perhaps it had covered her head at some point.
Clearly, this was a farmer and his wife or daughter. Perhaps they were his tenants—correction: the Marquess of Shrewsbury’s tenants.
The driver called to the horse, and the enormous beast slowed. “Good afternoon, sir!” the driver called, lifting his hat respectfully.
“Not much good about it from where I stand.”
“Do you need assistance, sir?” the woman asked. She had an upper-class accent, which contrasted with her shabby appearance.
