Chapter Six

L uke woke face down and as usual, took stock. Pillows, linens, bed. Check. But the linens smelled different than his, and the light hammering against his eyelids was from a different direction than his bedroom window.

Blinking his eyes open, he slammed them shut again. What cretin hadn’t closed the curtains? Or had someone opened them before he was awake?

He frowned. The more important question was where he was. He tried to bring his last memory of the night to mind. He shifted, and a spot near his knee twinged in pain. The fall from the tightrope crystallized. Then the meeting. Then... Isabella.

Had he managed to kiss her? He remembered trying, but his head had been pounding, and all he’d wanted to do was sleep—well, after a kiss.

He needed tea, toast, and a stiff drink to talk through why he was there. He hoped she’d have a clearer idea than he did.

Rising, he looked down at himself. He had apparently struggled out of his boots and jacket during the night, but everything else was twisted around him.

Straightening his vestments as best he could, he availed himself of the pitcher of frigid water on the dresser to wash his face and hands, wet down his hair, and wake himself up. He took in the small but well-appointed guest room, done in tones of silver and gold. It felt welcoming, a neutral backdrop to whoever stayed there. The only thing missing was his boots, which he could not find anywhere. He’d even checked under the bed.

Having been vertical for longer than his belly liked, he called it good and exited the room on stocking feet, spying the stairs.

He descended gingerly, his grip on the handrail so tight he expected the wood to groan under his hand. His stomach never enjoyed being up this early, so he rarely was, and the anxiety around why he was here and what the Black Widow expected did not help.

He caught sight of the longcase clock in the hall. Good God, it wasn’t even noon. A passing footman pointed him to a door. Hoping it was the dining room, he stepped into the entry.

It was a back parlor with a very decorative hostess. Isabella reclined on a tufted navy settee with tea, resplendent in a sunny yellow dress that accentuated her dark hair and golden skin. He sucked in a breath. He’d have preferred tea first and her second, but he’d take them together gladly to enjoy her beauty.

“Good morning, Lord Lynwood.” Her tone was unreadable, flat. She almost sounded resigned, but his head hurt too much to think about why.

“Good morning, Isabella. Please, call me Luke. I’m unable to locate my boots.”

“Hmm. I still think Clodpate suits you best.”

There was no polite answer to that, so he remained silent, hoping for a cup of tea.

She saw his gaze and waved a hand toward a matching chair and the tea tray. “Help yourself. I did not agree to serve you, only to supervise you for a short time. I took your boots for safekeeping until you get yourself together.”

He gestured to her cup with the pot first, but she declined, so he poured and doctored his tea, sitting back to take a long draw. After a minute, he felt brave enough to venture, “About that... I am not certain I understand what the agreement was. Could you perhaps elaborate?”

“Apparently, the Black Widow is either finished allowing your debt to accumulate, or she thinks you’re worth saving. I am to help you get out from under your ‘bad habits.’”

Her lips twisted as she said the last words and distracted him for a moment. Their lushness and berry color were sublime. But... “Why do you say it like that?”

“I think ’tis more than a habit at this point, which also means ’tis going to be more difficult to stop. And no matter what I do, if you don’t actually want to stop, it won’t stick. I’ve seen it before.”

“You have?”

“You don’t get to my age in my line of work without having seen people become dependent on a variety of substances.” She shrugged.

“I can stop any time. I am not dependent on drink.” He ignored the twitch of his shoulders and elevated pulse at the thought of no whisky. A headache stabbed at his temples. Draining his teacup, he poured another.

“Really? We shall see about that.” She arched a dubious brow. “Shall we take a stroll to the park then and enjoy the sunshine?”

He gave an involuntary shudder. “Ah, perhaps later.” Or never. “I’d need my boots. Speaking of which, what about my home, my clothes, my responsibilities?”

“Oh, have you been so riveted on your duties then? Is that why when I sent a man and a note to your house to collect clothing, he found a pile of unopened letters and invitations?”

He groaned. “Tell me he didn’t bring those here.”

“I can’t.” She smirked. “I wouldn’t want you to shirk your responsibilities.”

Blast. ’Twould be a long few weeks if she was going to throw his words back at him all the time. He might not be dependent, but he needed a drink to deal with her. He cast a hopeful look around the room. Alarm shot through him when he noted the decanter on the drink trolley was empty.

Isabella raised a brow and stared at him.

“Why not have a daily check in or something, and I’ll stay at my own house?” he asked, the pitch of his voice rising with hope.

“Let me ask you this. How has that worked for you these past months? Do you even wish to get this under control? Have you any aspirations for your future?”

“Eh. Yes. No.”

She flattened her lips, staring at him.

“Look, I realize I’ve overindulged a bit. But I can pay off my gaming vouchers over time from my allowance. And until my pater is gone, I don’t need to have aspirations.”

“And that is good enough for you? Living off an allowance like a schoolboy”—he flinched at that phrase, but she continued undaunted—“and wallowing in luxury and gads of time with no purpose?”

He bit his lip, craving a whisky for this conversation. It hit too close to William’s words from the prior day. “What would you have me do?”

“Look at your friend William. Or Charlotte. They both find productive uses for their time.”

Speak of the devil and his lovely widow. He had never given a thought to what she did with her days while William waded through his father’s mess. His friend likely would have told him, but he’d spent less time with him since leaving Oxford, even after William matriculated and returned to London. He could say that was because William was wooing Charlotte, but much of it was because William reminded him of his failings, both at university and at life. “What does Charlotte do?”

“She teaches working class women to pool their funds and invest any savings they can scrape together, so they can retire someday.”

“Oh,” he said. To deflect, he turned her words back on her. “What do you do, then?”

“I, too, invest and thus have money I need to manage with my solicitor. More than that, when my time allows, I help younger courtesans find their way on this path.”

His head hurt too much to even try to untangle that or ask her for more details. He just needed a nip to clear the cobwebs from his brain and settle his nerves. His gaze slid to the empty decanter. His hands were starting to shake, and he clenched them in his lap. Whether it was from lack of food or the evidence of all spirits having been removed, he neither knew nor cared to dwell on. His thoughts were fuzzy, and a whisky would go a long way to clearing them, even if it wasn’t quite noon. His stomach somersaulted.

Isabella continued assessing him, distaste evident in the sneer she wore. “Perhaps you’ll think of something today. Or perhaps you’ll remain satisfied being a slag. I, however, need to continue being productive, including canceling my appointments for the rest of this week, thanks to you. I shall be in my private sitting room upstairs. The servants are available should you require sustenance, but they’ve been instructed not to allow you to leave or send notes. You’ll have to earn privileges with good behavior. Also, the house has been cleared of all wine and spirits, so don’t bother searching. I’ll check in on you later.” She stood and swept out of the room.

Luke looked around. He guessed based on what he’d seen of the house and the neighborhood that the building was small enough to have this back parlor serve as the library. Further evidence of that guess was the wall of filled bookcases.

Wandering over, he ran a listless hand along a few spines before selecting a book at random. As he had no shoes on, he lay back on the settee with his stocking feet hanging off the edge and opened the book. His goal was to sleep as much of the day as possible, given how his head and stomach felt, and five pages later he achieved that.

Late in the afternoon, Luke woke groaning. His clothes were drenched in sweat, his hair sticking to him, and yet he shivered uncontrollably.

He sat up, then groaned as his stomach tried to revolt. Curling over his lap, he sat very still, taking shallow breaths.

After a while, he straightened an inch at a time and moved to stand up. Slowly. He crept over to the decanter. Desperate, he squinted into it, searching for even a few drops. It was bone dry. He wanted to scream, to cry, to throw himself on the floor in a tantrum. Well, perhaps not that last, or his stomach might rebel. His mind raced.

The kitchen might have sherry or wine they cooked with. Perhaps he could find it without the staff seeing him and reporting to Isabella. He clenched his teeth against the shudders rattling his body, unsure if he could wait until the household was abed.

The jacket he’d worn had a flask in it. If he could make it up to his room. Keeping his movements slow and smooth to pacify his stomach, he reached the stairs. Peering up, he firmed his lips and raised a foot. Then another, pausing every few steps until he’d gained the upper floor. A few steps into his room, and he looked for his jacket. Checking the wardrobe, he found it hanging and freshly pressed.

The maid had certainly taken the flask to her employer, but he nonetheless checked the pockets, panting at the imagined taste of even the dregs of whisky from it.

Blast. There was nothing.

She said she’d be in her private sitting room, which was somewhere on this floor. He dragged himself back into the hall and noted the three other doors. The front room’s portal was open, showing him another guest room, this one in pale greens and blues that might make him seasick. Turning, he knocked at the door next to his.

A maid answered his knock. “My lord?”

Taking a breath, he held the doorframe with one hand as the shivering became quaking. Peering in, his gaze circled the room, finding an empty pedestal leather top desk, two wingback chairs patterned in caramel-colored paisleys by the fireplace, and a table—a bottle of sherry!

Closing his eyes, he strategized as best he could beyond the pounding headache and nausea. “Isabella, your mistress, was looking for you. She is downstairs in the back parlor.”

“Oh. I thought she...” The girl trailed off, frowning, and looked toward a door in the side wall, which Luke guessed led to Isabella’s bedroom. “Right, then. If you’ll pardon me.”

He retreated, and she stepped past him, closed the door, and started down the steps. He ambled toward his bedroom, checking on her progress until she was out of sight. Spinning around, he groaned and leaned against the wall, fighting his belly’s wish to purge.

He snicked open the sitting room door. Still empty. Closing it behind him, he beelined for the sherry. He poured a glass with hands that shook hard enough to warrant not filling the cup to the top. Raising it to his mouth required his free hand on his wrist to help steady it. He took a huge gulp. Breathing, he checked on how it was received. He still shook, and his belly still wasn’t happy, but there wasn’t an outright revolt. He raised the glass again, sucking in a mouthful—

“What do you think you are doing?” Isabella’s voice was a whip.

Choking, he lost most of his mouthful to his shirt and waistcoat. Brushing at it with one hand, he said, “I just needed a nip to stop shaking. Christ, woman, you’re a menace. Look what you made me do.”

She stalked across the room, having changed to a Tyrian purple gown for the evening meal.

Luke abandoned any worries about his clothes and raised the glass, chugging as much of the sherry as he could get down before she reached him and grabbed it away.

“Damnation. Apparently, ’tis too much to ask that I am able to enjoy my one vice of a sherry before bed with you in my house for more than a fortnight!”

Luke’s trembling had begun anew with the knowledge that he’d get no more spirits that night, or likely for that fortnight. He hung his head, his fists clenched at his sides to hide the tremors, awaiting her wrath.

“Where did Melinda go?”

“I sent her downstairs under the pretense you were looking for her.”

She rolled her eyes and crossed to open the door of the room, calling, “Meli!”

The girl ran up the stairs, and Isabella handed her the sherry and the glass. “Please remove these from the house. Perhaps the staff will enjoy it as they did the other spirits. There is no sense in wasting them.”

Returning to him, Isabella seemed less angry than he’d expected. There were no pressed lips, foot tapping, or crossed arms. Instead, she tilted her head and gazed at him with... pity?

Blast. He didn’t need anyone’s pity. He straightened his spine and glowered. “What now?”

“What do you want now?”

That was not fair. He didn’t know what he wanted. How could he when every decision had been made for him either by right of birth or The Earl’s decree? He swallowed, ignoring the fact that at two-and-twenty, he should have an idea of what he wanted for himself.

“Do you wish to return to your life of gaming and drinking and debts and allowances? Or are you ready to try a new path?”

“I just needed a—”

“Beyond today. What. Do. You. Want?” she repeated, her tone brooking no nonsense.

He swallowed. Glanced at the sherry. She asked challenging questions like his father, and that made him want to dive into the nearest bottle headfirst. Finally, he came up with, “I do not want to accrue any more gaming debts.”

She nodded. “Right, then. That is a good first goal. If you keep drinking, do you think you’ll be able to refrain from heading to the gaming houses?”

“No.” His tone was sullen. He almost rolled his eyes at himself. Was he ten? He repeated it more firmly. “No.”

“So . . . ?”

“So I apparently do not wish to continue drinking so much. But one drink would go a long way to getting me past tonight,” he begged.

“As you recall, I’ve done this before. Trust me to know what you need. Today and the next few days will be the worst of it, then you’ll start to feel better.”

“Few days ?”

“Yes, now come eat.”

His stomach rolled audibly.

“Trust me,” she repeated.

He’d asked for direction. Like it or not, this was direction.

The clothes brought from his house had been hung in the wardrobe and laid in the chest of drawers. He quickly changed for supper. He suspected the ones he’d sweated through sleeping the day away were a lost cause, but he couldn’t find the energy to care. Navigating the staircase was its own form of hell. Perhaps she’d let him remain upstairs the following day. She’d likely tell him servants had better things to do than fetch and carry for him, and while the thought of food made his throat constrict, he’d not make it through the day without tea.

The dining room, like the rest of the house, had the finest quality furnishings and decorations, without being ostentatious. The table held six comfortably, eight in a pinch.

He slid into the chair with a table setting at a right angle to hers at the head, only to have his stomach turn when a vegetable soup was placed before him. He leaned back and lowered the spoon. It clattered once from the shaking in his arm.

“’Tis soup. Surely you can manage that,” she said, her exasperation evident in her pressed lips.

“It, uh, smells delicious.”

“Is that why you’re green?”

He swayed.

“Here. Eat a few bites of bread. Small bites at first. See if that helps.” Isabella passed him a small loaf of fresh bread with a hunk already missing.

Tearing off a small piece, he attempted a bite. His stomach stayed still, so he nibbled on another. A fresh pot of tea was brought in and poured for them both. He added milk and sugar and sipped. Feeling a mite stronger, he picked up his spoon.

Apparently, she’d been watching him as he took stock. She said in a softer voice, “No one here will care if you dip the bread in the soup to start. You need sustenance to get you past the effects of drinking so much for so long.”

Flashing her a grateful look, he did as she suggested. Ah, that was delicious, and without the threat of liquid sloshing in his belly, he was able to enjoy the scent and taste.

Still, after two pieces of bread and half the soup—all the tea, of course—he was less certain of his stomach.

“I must be ill. I haven’t felt this puny in months.”

She laughed at him.

He watched her, his eyes narrowed.

She wasn’t just laughing. She was practically pointing and giggling. Every time she looked at him, her mirth ratcheted in volume.

“’Tis impolite to laugh at a guest,” he grumbled. “Particularly a sick one.”

She only laughed harder.

Finally, she calmed. “Do you think a splash of whisky might help, then?”

He brightened. “It absolutely would.”

“And that”—her tone was smug—“is why I said you were dependent. Your body is struggling with the removal of that from your diet. You’ll feel like this for the better part of a week, to my guess.”

His frown at her first sentence changed to a grimace at that prediction. “Wait. Upstairs, you said a few days.”

She shrugged. “It will depend on your body and your resolve.”

What resolve? He’d never been less certain of anything, and he rarely had to decide anything, even what to eat or wear. And shouldn’t he wean himself off slowly, having small amounts of whisky to maintain his equilibrium? No, he was supposed to trust her. Using the bread for the soup had helped disguise his trembling hands, but he could not eat any more. He needed a distraction.

“Perhaps you could suggest a way to take my mind off this? A game—no betting? Or a task you’d like me to take on?”

She leaned forward to stare at him, holding the table’s edge in both hands. “Luke, I could do either of those things. And continue to do so. However, that will not solve your problem. You need to take control of your own life. Otherwise, you’ll end up even deeper in debt and drunker than ever within a week of leaving here. Did you think about a new purpose today?”

“My father never loosened the reins enough to allow me to do any of the things you mentioned earlier. Or much of anything, really. Anyhow, it all sounds a bit of a bore.” He waved a hand, pretending boredom and hoping she didn’t notice his fear. He had no idea what might interest him; he’d been too busy defending himself against his father’s expectations to ever spend much time considering his own interests.

“What would you rather do then?”

“Perhaps a game of whist?”

“I am not here to entertain you. What would you do at home?”

“Besides the obvious?”

She sighed. “We are talking about replacing old habits with new ones. Now, I have things to do. I will see you in the morning.”

She stood and left. It was probably for the best. He did not think he could concentrate on cards or even remain upright much longer. Perhaps the next day would be better.