Night of Pleasure (8 page)

She respected her father’s sentimentality, but knew happiness and perfection was a matter of opinion. Her father
claimed
to have had the perfect marriage. Yet almost every silk wall in their house had to be repeatedly replaced over the years from all of the objects that had been smashed against them. He and his wife ruthlessly argued about everything for years.

Until the woman died.

Clementine remembered that night. Her mother’s sobs and shrieks could be heard throughout the house, much like the year before and the years before that, as her father had quietly assured Clementine yet again that there would finally be a brother or a sister for her to hold. He assured her that out of the countless babes that had been lost this one would survive and allow them to create the happy family they always deserved.

Her father had been overly hopeful. Neither the babies or the happiness had survived. And though it was ghastly to even whisper it, Clementine was glad her mother didn’t survive. She had never liked her mother. The woman was cold in both mind and heart and had wobbled around pregnant year after year, bitterly blaming her father and the rest of the world for the fact that she was a woman. Was it part of life for a woman to get married and get pregnant? Yes. Yes, it was. Could a woman aspire to be
more
than a wife and a mother? Yes. Yes, she could.

She simply had to plan for it.

Thunder cracked overhead, causing Clementine to jump against the cushioned seat of the carriage. Her heart skidded, and, for a gasping moment, she was crawling beneath the breakfast table as a brick came crashing through the window of their New York home.

She hated the feeling of having her emotions amplified.

At least here in London no one knew who they were. Her father had no political affiliation with the Whigs or the Tories or Parliament itself. That made her like the idea of London very much. No one was going to try to kill them for supporting the wrong political party.

Not that she was going to stay in London long enough to care.

She glanced toward the blackened sky beyond the windows. Large drops of rain slowly splattered and tapped against the glass. Within a few breaths, the window was smeared from a deluge and the cobbled street they rode on became a blur of water spraying everywhere as people draped their coats over their heads and darted beneath building doorways.

Tightening her gloved hold on the beaded reticule set in her lap, Clementine glanced toward her father.

His horsehair top hat was pushed back from his dark brows as he casually angled the leather bound book he was reading toward the glass window in an effort to get better light despite the dark sky. He turned the page and kept reading, squinting at the text.

“You shouldn’t read with so little light,” she commented.

“Don’t nag me, dear.” He attempted to lessen his squint by holding the book further away from himself. He angled his head and squinted all the same.

She lowered her chin. “If I didn’t nag you, you wouldn’t have any eyes left in your head. Where are the reading glasses I bought for you?”

“Tine, I’m far too young for reading glasses. I’m only fifty-two.” He kept reading.

He was such a child. He always had been. By all accounts, he really shouldn’t have been allowed to raise a daughter. He consumed more cognac than any human ought to gulp and shared all of his cheroots with her as if they were bonbons. Even worse, his political alliances with unpopular men he financially supported usually resulted in someone wanting them dead.

Another crack of thunder made her jump.

He lifted his gaze, revealing sharp blue eyes. “Are you all right?”

She let out an exasperated breath. “Yes. I’m fine.” Annoyingly, thunderstorms reminded her of angry mobs. And in particular, one stormy night three years ago when a group of riled men had broken into their home and tried to smash everything after her father supported a Catholic man who had been elected mayor. It was the first time she’d ever fired a pistol. And the last. She wasn’t very good at aiming and had shot holes into everything but the men destroying her home. She had far better luck using vases against their heads. “Thunderstorms unnerve me, is all.”

He slapped his book shut and set it on the upholstered seat beside him. “I imagine seeing Banfield again is what really unnerves you.”

That much was true. She had been writing letters to Banfield since she was fourteen, after she had left England to go back to New York back in ’23. And with every passionate letter he wrote, she couldn’t help but linger on the memory of an overly-flirtatious young man with playful brown eyes who, from their first meeting, seemed wildly intent and overly eager to make her his to the point of sending her into a panic. Whilst his letters had proven to reflect that he had matured and grown into an intelligent man, he simply expected too much. She repeatedly tried to tame him over the years through letters by getting him used to the idea that they were merely companions assigned to a lifelong duty (which she planned to abandon) but it only resulted in him stubbornly signing
all
of his letters with ‘
My whole heart goes out to fetch you
’. Unlike him, she wasn’t one to gush about her emotions. In her eyes, such uncontained passion led to very bad things. She only hoped Banfield was prepared to accept the truth she was set to deliver: they weren’t getting married.

Her father sat up, dug into his coat pocket and removed the silver casing holding his cheroots. Snapping it open, he held the case out. “Did you want one?”

She stared at it, wanting to say yes, but promised herself she wouldn’t. She’d grown a bit too dependent on the habit and as a result, smoked every time something bothered her. Which pushed her through
a lot
of cheroots. “No, thank you. I shouldn’t.”

Her father slid one out. Sticking it into the corner of his mouth, he shoved the silver casing back into his pocket and dug out a flint and a match. Striking the match, he cupped the flame to the end of his cheroot and puffed. “All of the wedding arrangements have already long been taken care of by Banfield and his mother. From my understanding, you’ll be getting married this upcoming Monday.”

She sat up. “
What
?”

He chuckled. “No need to panic. We will manage. Banfield got ahead of himself in planning everything. We were supposed to arrive earlier in the month and the boy was overly excited. Let him be. I find it charming.”

What was so charming about a man shoving aside all etiquette by not including his own bride in any of the formalities involved? A bride who wasn’t even going to be at the wedding. Gad. It was a mess. She still didn’t know how she was going to tell her father about it.

Waving away the flame to extinguish the match, her father tossed the burnt stick into an ash pan attached to the seat and dragged in a long breath before letting smoke out through his nostrils and mouth. “Whilst I don’t doubt Banfield invited a jolly bunch, maybe we ought to have the footmen deliver invitations to random doors throughout London and see who shows up. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

Her father’s idea of fun had always been the opposite of her own. “Yes, and why not invite the Zoological Society, including the animals themselves? At least that way we would know what to expect from all of our guests when they arrive.”

He wagged the cheroot at her. “Stop nagging. Can’t the father of the bride have ideas?”

“When they belong to you, I worry.”

“Yes, yes, and I love you, too. I’m certainly not going to miss all of your spoilsport nagging. Banfield can have it.”

She tightened her hold on her reticule. “Begging your pardon,
Mr. Grey
, but my nagging kept your hands out of the sideboard all these years.”

He grunted. “Men drink, Tine. It’s what we do.”

“No. It’s what you do. Because rational men don’t drink four decanters of cognac in the middle of the day then stumble around looking for more. You may think me to be naïve, but I’m not
that
naïve. I was the one who pulled every drink from your hand since I was ten. Every drink. And you know it.”

Her father said nothing. He rolled the cheroot in his hand, staring down at it.

It was like seeing the broken man she grew up with. She softened her voice. “You are doing infinitely better.”

He shrugged. “I’m trying.”

She reached out across the distance between them and touched his knee to acknowledge his pain. She wasn’t one to give affection, even to her own father, but whenever he needed it (like he clearly did now), she delivered. “I know you’re trying, Papa. And I’m very proud of you for that. You haven’t faltered in over eighteen weeks.”

He cleared his throat. “About that. I uh…I drank some cognac with Banfield yesterday. More than I should have. He offered it during contract negotiations. I felt awkward saying no.”

She groaned. “Papa. You didn’t have to drink it just because he offered it.”

He winced. “I know. I…” He puffed out a breath, deflating both cheeks. “Fortunately, I didn’t let it get out of hand. I stopped myself right after I emptied a full decanter.”

Which, sadly, was light drinking for her father. She sighed. “So now I have to worry about you again? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“No. I’m fine. My valet knows to keep all the decanters filled with water and I already paid off everyone in the hotel to ensure they don’t service me anything stronger than tea.”

That was something.

The carriage rolled to a halt, causing her to sway against the movement. The torrential rush of rain drowned out all sound. She paused and glanced toward a looming four-story aged limestone home bordered with iron black gates bearing a crest of a sword placed over a sprig of heather. Footmen holding umbrellas scurried to open the gates.

The carriage rolled through, drawing closer to the massive limestone home beyond.

She leaned toward the window, her lips parting. Ivy, living and dead, covered most of the limestone and fingered the very sills of each narrow window. It made the house look old. Not at all what she remembered. Set against a thick, dark sky heavy with rain, the structure had no welcoming light glowing through any of the countless windows. It was like visiting a cemetery. “This isn’t Banfield’s house, is it?” She tried not to sound appalled.

“Yes. It’s his London residence. Don’t you remember? We visited him almost every day for ten weeks back in ’23.”

Most of the ivy had not only grown but died. Despite what her father thought, she remembered the house very well. She remembered it being so much more inviting and manicured. Perfect. Not this. “Have you been sending him money?”

“Of course I have.”

The unkempt dead ivy said otherwise. “How much?”

“Clementine, please. You make it sound like I’ve been neglecting the boy.”

She pointed at the house. “Something has clearly been neglected. How much have you been sending him? I have a right to know.”

“A full thousand every June, every year. Why?”

“
Only a thousand a year
? Papa, how did you expect him to upkeep a house like this and a house in the country on a thousand? My clothes cost me more than that. How—”

“He never asked for more. If he had, I would have gladly given it. I simply didn’t want him to think he had access to unlimited funds until the marriage contracts were signed.” He lowered his voice. “As popular as he has always been in his circle, he could have very well taken off with someone.” He paused. “Don’t tell him I said that.”

She wished to God she had been more aware of the funds he’d been distributing to Banfield. Her father, whilst generous, had a tendency to get protective of his money. “He is the son of your closest and dearest friend whom you swore to protect from ruin. How could you—”

“Don’t lecture me, Tine. He is getting three million in return for your hand.
Three million
.
That
is how I am honoring and protecting the boy. As for you, Miss Clementine Henrietta Grey, I damn well hope you’re no longer associating with that Persian nonconformist. It was fine to socialize with him as a friend back in New York but you’re about to be a married woman. And married women don’t align themselves with Persian bachelors.”

She decided not to say anything. That Persian nonconformist, after all, was her closest and dearest friend who was going to ensure she hopped on the next boat to Persia. She glanced toward the old Georgian house. An old house that dredged up memories she wasn’t ready to face. She could almost taste him through that spiced candy that had burned her mouth well enough to make her think she still tasted it. All of her fears, all of her emotions and all of her buried insecurities unfurled itself into the one thing she never expected: Banfield.

Her throat tightened.

It was why she was leaving him. She was a woman of control and he was a man of no control. Their union would never amount to anything but the misery she grew up with. Lowering her gaze, she opened her reticule and dug out her personal silver case of cheroots she always carried. She promised herself she wouldn’t smoke, but how else was she going to survive the afternoon? She needed it.

Flipping open the monogrammed casing, she pulled one out. “So when does Banfield get the money?” Setting the cheroot between her lips, she struck a match and lit it, gently puffing. Wagging the match, she tucked it into a small ash pan embedded onto the side of the seat. Inhaling the earthy smoke, she slowly blew it out, finally feeling at ease. “It’s important that he get the money soon.” Before she left to Persia.