“Good God, Ravenel,” Tom Severin commented as West entered his carriage and took the seat opposite him, “I’ve seen better groomed whorehouse rats.”
West responded with a surly glance. In the week since he’d left the Clare Estate, primping and self-grooming had not been a high priority. He had shaved recently—a day or two ago—maybe three—and he was more or less clean, and his clothes were good quality even if they hadn’t been pressed or starched. His shoes could use some polishing, and yes, his breath was a bit rank, as one would expect after days of drinking too much and eating too little. Admittedly, he wasn’t a fashion plate.
West had been staying at the terrace apartment he’d maintained even after having taken up residence in Hampshire. Although he could have made use of Ravenel House, the family’s London home, he’d always preferred to maintain his privacy. A cookmaid came once or twice a week to clean. She had been there yesterday, wrinkling her nose as she’d gone from room to room, picking up empty bottles and dirty glasses. She’d refused to leave until West had eaten part of a sandwich and some pickled carrot slices in front of her, and she had scowled when he’d insisted on washing it down with some fettled porter.
“You’ve a thirsty soul, Mr. Ravenel,” she’d said darkly. He could have sworn she’d poured out the rest of the porter before she’d left—surely he couldn’t have downed all of it in one afternoon. But maybe he had. It all felt wretchedly familiar, this churning in his gut, this endless poisonous craving that nothing would satisfy. As if he could drown in a lake of gin and still want more.
He’d been in reasonably good condition, that morning he’d left the Clare Estate. He’d breakfasted with Phoebe and the children, smiling at the sight of Stephen’s small hands grasping bits of fried bacon and mashing buttered toast into shapeless wads. Justin had asked more than once when he would return, and West had found himself responding the way he’d always hated in childhood when adults would say, “Someday,” or “We’ll see,” or “When the time is right.” Which everyone, even a child, knew meant “No.”
Phoebe, damn her, had behaved in the cruelest way possible, by being calm and gentle and understanding. It would have been so much easier for him if she’d pouted or been spiteful.
She’d kissed him goodbye at the front door before he’d gone to the train station . . . clasping one side of his face with a slender hand, her soft mouth brushing his cheek, her fragrance sweet in his nostrils. He’d closed his eyes, feeling as if he were surrounded by flower petals.
And then she’d let him go.
It was at the train station that the bad feeling had overcome him, a mixture of grayness, exhaustion, and powerful thirst. He’d planned to buy a ticket for Eversby Priory, and had instead found himself asking for Waterloo Station, with the vague intention of stopping in London for a night. That stop-over had turned into two days, then three, and then somehow he’d lost the wherewithal to make any decisions about anything. Something was wrong with him. He didn’t want to go back to Hampshire. He didn’t want to be anywhere.
It was as if he’d been taken over by some outside force that now controlled everything he did. Like demonic possession—he’d read about the condition in which one or more evil spirits would enter a man’s body and take away his will. But in his case, there was no speaking in tongues, lunatic ravings, or doing violence to himself or others. If he was unwittingly hosting demons, they were very sad, lethargic ones who wanted him to take long naps.
Of all the people he knew in London, the only one West found himself reaching out to for companionship was Tom Severin. He hadn’t wanted to be alone this evening, but he hadn’t wanted to spend time with someone like Winterborne or Ransom, who would ask questions and offer unwanted opinions, and try to push him into doing something he didn’t want to do. He wanted to keep company with a friend who didn’t care about him or his problems. Conveniently, that was exactly what Severin wanted, and so they had agreed to meet for an evening of drinking and carousing in London.
“Let’s stop off at my house first,” Severin suggested, eyeing his scuffed shoes with disfavor, “and my valet can do something to spruce you up.”
“I look well enough for our usual haunts,” West said, staring at the passing scenery as the carriage lurched and rolled through the streets. “If you’re too fastidious for me, let me out at the next corner.”
“No, never mind. But we’re not going to the usual places tonight. We’re going to Jenner’s.”
West jerked at the name and stared at him incredulously. The very last place in London he wanted to go was the gentlemen’s club owned by Phoebe’s father. “The hell you say. Stop the bloody carriage, I’m getting out.”
“What do you care where you do your drinking, so long as someone keeps pouring? Come, Ravenel, I don’t want to go alone.”
“Why do you assume they’ll let you past the front door?”
“That’s just it: I’ve been on the membership waiting list for five years, and last week I was finally allowed in. I thought I was going to have to have someone killed to clear a space, but thankfully some old codger passed away and spared me the trouble.”
“Congratulations,” West said acidly. “But I can’t go in there. I don’t want to risk crossing paths with Kingston. He visits now and then to keep his thumb on the business, and it would be my bloody luck for him to be there tonight.”
Severin’s eyes were bright with interest. “Why do you want to avoid him? What did you do?”
“It’s nothing I’d care to discuss while sober.”
“Onward, then. We’ll find a quiet corner and I’ll purchase the best liquor in the house—it will be worth it for a good story.”
“In light of past experience,” West said sourly, “I know better than to confide anything personal to you.”