Netherby Halls

An illusion so strong, he had been unable to forget it. This sort of thing never happened to him. He was a realistic man, in control of everything he was and was not.

He had even given chase. At the time he’d thought he would stop breathing if she escaped him. But she had rounded the corner, and then suddenly Percy shouted his name at his back, bringing him back to earth.

He had snapped out of it as though waking immediately from a dream. All that now was a memory, and although it was fading, he could not forget it.

He and his friend Percy had been visiting the Dellesons, who were in turn visiting friends in the area. They had returned to London that very day, but since that time he had thought about her, dreamt about her—and she remained in his mind like a haunting memory.

He came back to the present as a passing pretty serving girl cast him a saucy smile and threw him a kiss. He tipped his top hat to her and grinned rakishly, his eyes telling her if he could stop and catch that kiss with his lips he would.

London reeked with the aromas of horses, overpopulation, moneylenders, flashhouses, thieves, and vitality, and he longed to return to his establishment in the country. He sighed, for he was weary of the London scene, but at that moment he had arrived at his club on St. James Street. He pulled his team over to the curbing and handed the reins to his tiger, who jumped off the back of the phaeton to take charge. “Walk ’em, lad,” he instructed. “I shan’t be too long.”

The tasteful sign identified his club as Watier’s, the most exclusive gentlemen’s club in all of London.

He took wide, hard strides up its renowned steps to find the door opened by a flunkey who received a gratuity for his trouble. Inside, he gave his hat and cloak to another, and then the marquis made his way to one of the card rooms.

He scanned the masculine and elegantly designed room for the gentleman he sought, found him, and raised a brow as he noticed his disheveled state.

“Percy,” he said quietly in way of greeting.

A pleasant-looking man turned and gave his dearest friend a sour expression. “Hallo, Justin … you here …?”

The marquis grinned to himself as he picked up the empty brandy glass at Percy Lutterel’s elbow, gazed at it meaningfully, and then replaced it hard on the table. “Drinking deep, eh, lad?”

“Don’t read me any lectures, Justin. For one thing, you only have one year on me, and for another … I won’t have it.” Percy sank his chin onto his folded hands resting on the table.

“You should know better. Me? Read you a lecture? Don’t be a fool.”

“Eh? Then sit down and have a drink with me, ol’ boy. A man needs his closest friend when he is being delivered to hell in a cart.”

“Delivered to hell in a cart?” the marquis repeated incredulously. “This is no time for you to moon on and on about a wench!” The marquis pulled up a chair and straddled it.

“You wouldn’t understand,” moaned Percy as he sat up and ran a hand through his fair mass of flaxen locks.

“No, I wouldn’t, because this is not the way to help yourself!”

“Damnation, Justin … I’m not mooning over Miss Delleson, and I’ll thank you not to refer to her as a wench. She is … a goddess …”

The marquis’s opinion of Miss Delleson being very different, he rolled his eyes as he exclaimed, “Good Lord!”

Mr. Lutterel grumbled, “Well, might as well get it over with. Just what do you want, for I tell you to your face, I won’t have you sitting there looking all superior over me …”

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The marquis resisted a laugh and managed to keep his tone serious. “Heard you were in your cups these two days, and thought I’d have a look-see.” He studied him a moment and added baitingly, “Do you know how you appear? I cannot imagine you would allow the Beau to observe your disheveled appearance unless you were out of your mind with grief.”

“The Beau?” Mr. Lutterel pulled himself up with a start. “Never say he is here?”

“No, as it happens he is still at Oatlands this week, which is a fortunate circumstance for you. What would he think? No doubt he would cut the connection.” Inwardly, the marquis was grinning, though he kept a grim expression. His friend fancied himself a man of fashion and was proud that Beau Brummell counted him as part of his circle.

Percy, however, sank back onto his hands and sighed heavily. “What does it matter? What does anything matter?”

Justin Dartmour, Eighth Marquis of the House of Dartmour, threw up his hands and then leaned on the back of the wooden chair he straddled.

Mr. Lutterel gazed at him wonderingly but kept silent as the marquis lit into him. “I see. You have decided to give her up. Poor spirited, Percy.”

“What? What’s that you say? Give her up? Hell and fire, Justin, I have done no such thing. What a paltry thing to say to me. And wait—who was it who said, ‘Forget the chit. Move on.’? You said that only last week!”

“As to that, it appears my excellent advice was for naught, as apparently you have been unable to do so. I find that you are attached more deeply than I suspected, but I tell you to your head, this whimpering … ’tis disgusting!”