Fortune's Son (3 page)

One kiss.

Just one bloody kiss and she had awakened in him a conflagration of lust. Although Philip was no innocent, she was completely beyond his experience. The feelings she'd awakened were nothing he could explain, though he cared not to ponder too heavily upon them.

When her carriage returned him from Marylebone to his lodgings at the George and Vulture on Lombard Street, Philip sought the taproom rather than taking to his bed. Restless and more than a little disturbed, he couldn't bring himself to retire for fear of deeper reflection. A drink was what he really needed.

The tapster, having long ago made the last call, glowered when Philip slapped thruppence upon the bar. “Don't ye young bucks ever seek yer beds?”

Philip answered by adding a twin to the copper coin. “A single tankard is all I require.”

“Tap's turned off for the night, and off it remains 'til a more respectable hour. Them's stays open all night begs fer nothing but trouble if'n ye ask me.”

“Strange,” Philip remarked. “I don't seem to recall asking.”

The tapster growled something indiscernible and shoved the coins back across the bar. “I 'spect ye know very well
where
to
go
…”

Philip quirked a lone brow. “How unfortunate. I had so hoped to avoid that pit at this ungodly hour.” Eyeing a heavy cudgel in a corner, Philip inquired of the tapster, “If I must venture out, perchance I might borrow your bludgeon? I seem to have mislaid my sword, and would quite dislike finding myself in need.”

The tapster assessed him with a frown that appeared to find him wanting. “Much good 'twill do, 'less yer knows 'ow to use it.”

“Fear not, my good man. After habiting this godforsaken purlieu nigh on four years, I assure you I give quite as good as I get.” Indicating the money on the counter he added, “Here, you may keep it as surety.”

Readily accepting the money, the tapster grinned toothlessly and tossed the club over the bar. Philip caught it one-handed and swaggered out of the tavern.

The tavern maid, who had been wiping down tables, looked wistfully after Philip's departing figure. The door had no sooner closed behind him than she'd torn off her apron and cap to follow after him. “Wait,” she cried. “I-I don't suppose a fine gent like yerself would want fer some comp'ny?”

Although Philip had never been disposed to look a gift horse, or in this case a fine-looking filly, in the mouth, he was suddenly struck by Lady Messingham's earlier intimation about his predilection for tavern maids. Although it rankled, it also rang true. He turned to the girl with an uncharacteristic hesitation. “I've seen you before, haven't I? It's rare I forget such a comely lass.”

She blushed. “Indeed, sir. Me name's Nell. I been working the taproom a sennight now. I saw ye the first night and 'ave hoped fer a word e'er since.”

While only a night ago he would have thrown her skirts up with enthusiasm, oddly the thought of a quick tumble suddenly held little appeal. Yet he still hadn't the heart or inclination to rebuff her. Instead, he offered his arm as if she were the grandest of ladies.

“As it stands, Nell, I am indeed feeling singularly friendless this evening. How would you care to accompany me for a pint?”

“That I would indeed, milord.” She beamed and gave an awkward curtsy.

“Philip,” he amended. “Just Philip.”

***

He dreamt of drums. Or was it cannon fire? Neither, Philip realized, awakening to the dull and incessant din of pounding on his chamber door. He groaned and pulled a pillow over his head to muffle the sound.

“Drake! What—are you dead?” the voice of George Selwyn shouted through the wooden barrier.

“Hang you, Selwyn! So you shall be, if you don't desist the infernal hammering. What the hell are you about, beating on my door at the crack of dawn anyway?”

“Dawn?” Selwyn cried. “It's bloody well noon, you laggard. Have you completely forgotten the Main? They've been at it for hours, and if you don't pull your arse out of your pallet, we'll miss the entire thing. There's to be a battle royale at the end, don't you know.”

“Bugger your mother,” Philip mumbled, and pulled himself from his rack, drew on his breeches and boots, and raked a hand through his disheveled hair. He pulled the door open just as his companion decided to throw a shoulder against it. George Selwyn crashed to the floor, upsetting both a chair and the chamber pot.

“Piss on you, you sodding jackass!”

“More like the piss is on you! 'Twasn't my idea to break down the door. By the by, you land like a sack of shit, Bosky.”

“Sod off, ye whoreson. Are you coming to the cockpits or what?” George asked, as he stood and brushed himself off.

“Since you asked so charmingly, how could I possibly refuse?”

***

The cockpit at Grey's Inn Walk dated back to the Restoration, when the Merry Monarch seemingly made it his life's purpose to restore all of the pleasures prohibited under the former Commonwealth. It was circular in design and built for the singular sport of cocking. Laid out much in the manner of an anatomical theatre, it featured a raised platform surrounded by a railing with semicircular benches rising in tiers to accommodate a multitude of spectators.

Entering the theatre, Philip's nostrils flared in affront at the mixed redolence of whiskey, pipe tobacco, stale sweat, chicken dung, and blood.

Unfazed by his surrounds, George pointed eagerly to the front where the next bout was set to commence. “What a stroke of luck! We haven't missed it. They say 'twill all end in a match between that blinkered claret, Sir Robin, and the bloody-heeled bantam, Billy Pitt.”

“I'll wager twenty pounds on bantam Billy, for surely Sir Robin's reign is nearing its end.”

“Do you now speak politics or cocking?” George asked as they elbowed through the socially mixed throng.

“Devil take me if I ever become political! I've no such leanings, I assure you.”

“So you say, but what else is a younger son to do but support the elder in his political endeavors, and serve as a spare lest some mishap befall the golden one. You are no different in your family's expectations of you, Drake—placeman politics, later rewarded by some comfortable sinecure.”

“Is that all you aspire to, Mr. Selwyn?” Philip's tone was laced with derision. “To place yourself in the pocket of some lord? To be only a greater man's puppet in Parliament?”

“Every man has his price, you know,” George answered just as cynically. “But I shan't be bought cheaply. No. My support will require a number of perquisites and emoluments. As a matter of fact, now I've reconciled with m' father after that unfortunate incident that sent me down from Oxford, my name has been put forth as a nominee for the Clerkship of the Irons and Surveyor of the Meltings.” He puffed his chest visibly with the pronouncement.

“Has it indeed, George? That's quite a mouthful too. I stand duly impressed. But what the devil does the Clerk of the Irons and Surveyor of Meltings actually do?”

“Hell if I know.” George grinned. “Aside from attending the weekly dinners provided at the public expense, I fully expect that any actual duties assigned to my position will be cheerfully dispatched by my clerk.”

“The clerk to the clerk?”

“Indeed. All of these government positions include an underling of some sort to do the dirty work. I don't suppose you are disposed to consider such a position?” he offered cheekily.

“Your personal lackey? I'd rather be hung… by my bollocks.”

George affected affront and then laughed. “So you say now, but you'll come around just like the rest of us, once you've done with your bout of rebellion.”

Philip frowned. “Of
that
you are gravely mistaken, my friend. I desire nothing more than to be completely free of my family's hold. I've already told you, I've no liking for politics, nor do I adhere to my family's particular leanings.”

“Jacobite sympathies, you mean?”

Philip shot his friend a warning stare.

“Now don't look so surprised, Drake. It's a poorly kept secret after all, though your brother would try to play both sides.”

“I'd rather not discuss my bastard of a brother if you don't mind. Besides, you couldn't understand anyway. While your family survived the viper's nest of two courts and even thrived, mine, having never fully accepted the Hanoverian crown, has fallen completely from grace.”

“But what are your aspirations, if not politics? Don't say you are bound for the church?” George gasped in mock horror.

Philip laughed at the absurdity. “You know how I despise the hypocrisy of the church, with its deans and bishops who defile on Saturday the very law they would impose upon others every Sabbath. You only need look around this very place for the evidence.” Philip gestured broadly.

Surveying the crowded cockpit, George knew he couldn't argue the truth of it. “I had no notion you suffered from such idealism.”

“Idealism? No such thing!” Philip replied. “I simply deem that if one chooses to sin openly and without shame or remorse, he is more virtuous than one who hides his sins behind acts of piety.”

“Apostasy!” George barked with laughter, but recovered enough to ask, “Then if not the church or the House of Commons, do you look to the Inns of Court?”

“Gad no! I've neither love for the law nor talent for academia.”

“So we may safely rule out any career as a barrister. Then what
are
your plans, Drake? You cannot think to continue indefinitely on your feckless adventure as the prodigal son.”

“My life of independent indolence has suited me well enough these past four years, but if you really wish to pry like an old women, I expect to soon adopt the life of a respectable gentleman.”

George was incredulous. “You what? Just how do you propose to manage the ‘respectable' part when you make your living by frequenting gaming rooms, late-night drinking dens, and the occasional horse race? How will you come by the funds? Though you're no doubt one of the luckiest bastards I know, you've lived fairly hand to mouth since we've been acquainted. Have you begun playing deep of a sudden? Broke the bank at basset?”

“Let's just call it a long-anticipated windfall.”

“Windfall? What sort of windfall?”

“I am soon to come into a very adequate competence. Not a fortune, but shrewdly invested, it should provide sufficient income for me to set up a modest establishment.”

“How is this, Drake? You've never spoken a word of it.”

“It is a trust left by my mother, part of her original marriage settlement. I have not mentioned it before because I shan't come into the bequest until my twenty-first year. I also did not care to advertise the fact and become prey for scoundrels.”

“You may trust me to keep mum, then. But we'll surely celebrate the event, eh?”

The peal of the bell, indicating the start of a new match, diverted George's attention. “We'd best find a position on the rail. We'll see nothing of the real sport from here,” George said, and began edging closer toward the stage where the setters-on were already applying the gaffs to the legs of their respective cocks.

“Nothing of sport, or just not enough blood for your fancy?” Philip asked.

George held his reply until they had threaded and wedged through the stinking throng for a better view at the center of the amphitheatre. “It's the purpose of the sport, after all.”

“What
is
the purpose?”

“The blood, of course, the sight of which fires the passions of any true Englishman.”

“I fear you are endowed with a much heightened lust for it, my friend,” Philip said.

“Mayhap you are right, but look how much more easily
my
lust may be sated compared with yours.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You've been strangely abstracted since encountering a certain female at Marylebone, is all.”

Philip ignored the intimation, knowing his friend right but refusing to admit it. He was glad of distraction. “Dog's bollocks! What is he doing?” Philip exclaimed upon observing the trainer's final preparations for the match.

George chuckled his reply, “I see we have at least one adherent of the Richard Seymour school of cocking.”

“Is he actually licking that bird's head?”

“Both the head and the eyeballs, to be precise.”

“Good gad, what for?” Philip exclaimed.

“'Tis one of the more mysterious and amusing of Seymour's famed training practices, to include bathing a wounded cock in warm urine. After battle, many suck on the bird's head to draw out blood. At least they shave the fowl's head first. Can't say I'd relish a mouthful of feathers.”

They turned their attention back to the pit where the masters, having strapped on their respective warriors' sharpened spurs, handed them off to the respective “setters-to” who brought their birds, well-in-hand, to the center of the pit. Holding the birds face-to-face, they allowed the cocks to eye one another, until Bantam Billy nearly leaped from his handler's grasp to get in the first peck.

“Do they use silver or steel, I wonder?” George asked.

“The spurs? What does it matter?”

“You really know little of this sport, don't you, Drake?” George remarked impatiently.

“I've spent far more time at dice, cards, and horse races than at cocking matches,” Philip said. “You are by far the greater votary of blood sport than I.”

“And yet, I do not yet despair of converting you. Just look at them facing off!” George cried as the two birds, now released, began to circle around one another with feathers fanned and puffed out to intimidate. In a sudden flurry of beating wings, the combatants assailed one another, but Philip's mind was far from the spectacle.