Fortune's Son (21 page)

“Nearly,” Godfrey answered. “Pringle pronounced it miraculous that your vitals were unpenetrated. He most feared intestinal injury, but with your fever breaking, one would assume you're out of any imminent danger.”

“So I live to fight another day, eh?” Philip's wan grin took more effort than he would care to admit.

George answered soberly, “You're damned lucky to be alive, you know.”

“So you say. I don't feel so damnably lucky at the moment. Too bad you missed all the revelry, George.”

“Indeed. I'm devilish sorry to have missed it, given how it ended.”

“You would be,” Philip said with a weak laugh. “As such a votary of blood sport, I think the affair should have satisfied your sanguinary cravings for some time. The sod was intent on killing me, you know. The last I recall, the buggering bastard's blade was poised at my breast.” Philip paused with a puzzled frown. “Oddly, all that follows is a blank.”

“You don't know, then?”

“Know what?”

“About Weston.”

“What of that sodding shitpot?” Philip snapped.

“He may have drawn first blood, but you, my friend, will go down in infamy.”

Philip frowned. “What in blazes are you saying?”

“That you've nigh unmanned him; that he might well be a eunuch.”

“What!” Philip choked.

“According to Pringle, who witnessed the whole drama, when you made that blind thrust you skewered the man's scrotum.”

Philip laughed. “Surely you jest!”

“By my troth, I do not! A man's jewels are no joking matter, Drake. It's said the left testicle's a complete loss and the right is questionable.”

Philip grinned. “Poetic justice, is it not?” He tried to sit up, but fell back in exhaustion.

“You might try to conserve what little strength you have, ol' man. Nor would I be making any travel plans for a while. You bled like a stuck pig even before the surgeon took his measure, and you've not eaten in over three days.”

“What of
her
, Bosky?” Philip couldn't help asking.

“Good God, Drake! Why do you care? She got you into this bloody mess. You should be glad she's gone.”

“Gone? What do you mean, gone?”

“The wicked jade's up and disappeared from London, though they say her creditors are satisfied.”

“Are they indeed?” The news came as a knife to his gut. So Weston hadn't lied after all. Philip wondered what her favors to Weston would cost her in the end. “Then I wish the accursed baggage joy of her marquess.”

“That reminds me. She sent this for you, though I've no idea why. A curious item, to be sure.” George retrieved Philip's ring from his pocket.

Philip turned it over in stony silence before finally placing it back on the little finger of his right hand. And, having offered her all he had to give, Philip avowed from that day forward to think of her no more.

Philip would have done all in his power to keep any word of the duel with the Marquess of Weston from reaching his father's ears, but the notoriety of the outcome guaranteed front-page coverage in London's cheap broadsheets.

Lord Hastings's cronies were more than eager to share the
Tatler
report that the M_ of W_ was unmanned, in the most literal sense, by the youngest son of the E_ of H_, purportedly in a duel of honor for the favor of a certain Lady M_.

Philip had barely risen from his sickbed when the ominous thump of Lord Hastings's cane against the door heralded his arrival.

“It wasn't enough to embroil yourself with that disreputable baggage,” the earl began without ado, “but now you besmirch your family name in the scandal sheets? Weston, of all people! Have you no idea of his connections?”

“I daresay I didn't think to take his politics into account when he defamed a lady and rendered me an unpardonable insult,” Philip said.

“By your thoughtless actions you would destroy all I endeavor to build by antagonizing and alienating half the peerage.”

“Have I indeed, my lord? Do you think they'll revoke my membership to White's Chocolate House?”

“Have you no care for the honor of your family?” Lord Hastings demanded.

Philip considered the question and answered with an ironic twist to the words. “Has my family any honor to care for?”

The earl's eyes were blazing even before he looked down and noticed the ring. “You thankless whelp! While I've kept your ignominious secret for twenty-one years, you would defy me to flaunt that… that… symbol of taint?”

Philip raised his right hand as if to admire its adornment. “I am told it was my mother's, and her family heirloom. I wear it without shame.”

“You should hang your head in shame! Your misbegotten birth has brought nothing but disgrace to a long and pure English line.”

Philip laughed outright. “Knowing my ancestry, I would call
that
statement highly debatable.”

The cavalier remark pushed the incensed earl over the edge. He raised his silver-handled cane and would have struck if not for the entrance of Captain Godfrey.

“How now, my lord?” Godfrey seized the cane with a manner that was civil but with a grip made of iron. “Assuredly the lad should have time to recover from his wounds before inflicting new ones.”

“Unhand it at once!” Lord Hastings snarled.

Philip braced himself on the chair arm during this brief altercation and rose gingerly to his feet. Ashen-faced with the exertion, he nevertheless laid a staying hand on his friend's shoulder. “I appreciate your concern, Godfrey, but as you can see I'm quite able to handle my own affairs.”

Looking dubious, Godfrey released the cane and with a wince of pain, Philip squared his shoulders to face his father. “You were saying,
my
lord
?”

“I had come here thinking to give you one last opportunity, but you have proven a shameless recalcitrant. You are useless to me and from this moment, dead. Cut off forever.”

The earl grazed them both with the full hauteur of his aristocratic stare, before he and his trailing footmen departed.

“While I would be the last man to condone such a browbeating, are you sure it was wise to incite him so?” Godfrey asked. “By all indications, you've just been disinherited.”

“What have I lost? I haven't drawn a groat from his sacred coffers since I left school and have managed to keep body and soul intact thus far. Edmund's the heir, not I. It is he who must make his obeisance at his lordship's every whim. I decided long ago I shan't be led by a ring through the nose—even by a golden one.”

“Ah, now it all becomes clear, the basis of his lordship's wrath. But you—a placeman politician?” Godfrey chuckled. “No, indeed. The pragmatist is the mold for the politician. You, my lad, are cut from entirely different cloth.”

“So you say? What cloth might that be, Godfrey?”

“You, dear boy, are an incorrigible idealist.”

“You mock me!” Philip accused.

“By no means! You are undoubtedly an idealist, though I had thought the species near extinct.” Godfrey chuckled anew. “You are due many disappointments. I fear you will soon learn that principles do little to line a man's pocket.”

“'Tis precisely why I have no desire for politics.”

“I agree. That would never do for you. Idealists, Drake, are men of action made to inspire those around them to attempt impossible things, like leading men to their deaths in a hailstorm of musketfire or advancing into a field of exploding cannons. You, lad, were born to be a soldier.”

For a beat, Philip gaped. “Why would you think such a thing?”

“I only state the obvious. You come from a titled family. You are young, fit, and intelligent. You do not want for spirit, but are still able to keep a cool head under duress. Lastly, you've shown superlative talent given your limited instruction in swordplay. I might ask if you ride?”

“I've held my own on the Rowley Mile.”

“All the requisites of a fine junior officer. Action on the Continent is an inevitability. We're already waging a naval war with Spain and France is rattling her own sabre. Should King Louis honor the
Pacte
de
Famille
and join forces with his Bourbon uncle, you can be certain our martial monarch will be raising British troops to join his Hanoverian mercenaries.”

“You are suggesting I buy a commission?”

“A lieutenancy in the First Foot or a cornetcy in the King's Horse may be had for under a thousand pounds. Though the pay is contemptible and the conditions in the field execrable, an officer's life does have its perquisites.” The captain grinned.

“Am I to take your own life of sporting events and gaming tables as a model?”

“You forget the women, Drake. I have found a well-turned-out uniform is a powerful aphrodisiac.”

***

With the formal declaration of war, an invasion of British shores by a combined French and Spanish force became a real and tangible threat.

Having long reflected on Godfrey's words, Philip was among the first to purchase a commission, paid with a portion of his maternal inheritance. As Godfrey had predicted, his natural abilities and cool head proved him an excellent officer, yet a dearth of funds impeded his advancement from the lowly office of cornet.

Disillusioned after months of tedious and fruitless patrols of the southern coast (the French having opted to maintain neutrality) Cornet Drake and company arrived back in London for their first furlough. While the less-discerning sought out the seedier brothels on Covent Garden Square, Philip met his former mentor at the Rose Tavern, where applying himself to hazard, the jealous Lady Fortune generously bestowed her favors. By the end of a full evening Philip had gained not only a considerable sum in gold but a captaincy to boot.

“I would not wish to be a fly on the wall when the
former
Captain Simpson gives his account to his father, the duke!” Godfrey remarked.

Philip chuckled. “Nor would I, but one should never wager what one is ill-prepared to lose, eh? The night is yet young, Godfrey, and I am flush in the pocket. What would you suggest?”

“If you truly care to revel in your good fortune and are not averse to parting with all the gold in your pockets, I have just the place,” Godfrey said.

“Indeed?” Philip was intrigued. “Where might that be?”

“The King's Head, a true sensual mecca, and regardless of price a place every man must visit at least once.”

***

Upon entering the gold-painted doors opening into a large marbled foyer, Philip was awestruck by the sheer voluptuous opulence. The soaring, fresco-ceilinged entry, leading into an immense gilt-furnished drawing room, was lit by exquisite Venetian chandeliers illuminating the gilt-framed old masters hung on silk-paper walls.

The footmen in crimson and gold velvet livery offered flutes of champagne before escorting them to a large, lavishly appointed chamber comfortably arranged to accommodate the two dozen or so gentlemen who either lounged or assembled around the green baize tables. Glancing about, Philip recognized the faces of several high ranking officers playing at cards with their fellow peers of the realm.

Godfrey, however, lost no time in surveying the room for their hostess. “Ah! She now arrives.” Godfrey inclined his head toward the woman poet John Gaye had once described as “the incomparable courtesan.”

Now, as procuress rather than a courtesan, Jane Douglas promised, for an exorbitant price, the highest quality merchandise. Her handpicked girls were equally as celebrated for their beauty, elegance, and genteel manners as for their sexual expertise.

The voluptuous painted hostess addressed her guests with a low curtsy meant to display the full measure of her legendary charms. Having made her dramatic entrance into the receiving chamber, she rose with a welcoming smile that encompassed the room.

“My lords and gentlemen, pray enjoy a glass of port whilst you consider a selection of delectables assured to satisfy the most discriminating palate.”

This speech was received with hearty toasts and salacious salutes as the bevy of beauties followed, all gowned and bejeweled in scandalous French fashion.

The soiled doves ranged in age from a questionable eighteen to five and thirty, and in type varied from the mahogany skin and sultry eyes of a Negress to the flaxen hair and China-doll complexion of a would-be school miss.

Beaming with the knowledge that she'd provided a girl for every taste, Mother Douglas worked the room. She smiled, flirted, and cooed, while with deference to rank she paired each gentleman with the girl of his fancy and then dispatched each couple to their respective venues of pleasure.

Philip and Captain Godfrey had been among the last to leave the receiving chamber. Godfrey had slung his arm about the waist of a plump, titian-haired siren with a wink, and Philip had selected an opera dancer named Lisette.

When they reached their assigned chamber, Lisette paused outside the door. “It is locked,
monsieur
.” She licked her index finger and ran it leisurely down her neck and between the cleft in her breasts. “You must retrieve the key.”

Determined to enter into the spirit of the game, Philip made to follow the trail of her hand with his mouth, but rather than breathing in the subtle essences of bergamot and woman, his senses were overpowered with stale sex and cheap perfume.

“You must go much deeper than that.” Lisette giggled, a shrill titter he found grating.

The green-eyed, chestnut-haired temptress had at first reminded him of another emerald-eyed beauty, but upon closer inspection he found her appeal purely a creation of artifice. He closed his eyes to overcome these thoughts, but only evoked images of
her
.

Damn
it
all!
He had needs! Why couldn't he just put Sukey out of his mind? He clawed a hand through his hair in frustration. Drink had already failed to evict her memory, and it seemed even the best whore could do no better.

Philip hesitated for a beat, wondering if
two
skilled courtesans might have the power to finally banish the memory of Sukey's touch, but was mortified to discover he had no real enthusiasm to find out.

He offered Suzette his coin purse with a brief smile tinged with regret. “You are too generous, mademoiselle, but another time perhaps?”

Philip departed The King's Head with the secret fear that even a hundred women would never be enough to banish his craving for a particular one.