Fortune's Son (6 page)

Philip rose well before his habitual noontide with a purpose he refused to dwell upon too closely. He set about his toilette with unusual care. For lack of a manservant, he washed and shaved himself. He then donned his best white lawn shirt whose former magnificence had since dimmed, adding the mark of gentility, cascades of French lace at his throat and cuffs that spilled over his hands to reveal only the tips of his fingers.

With as much tenderness as the best valet, he dressed in his claret-colored silk breeches and brushed the nap of his velvet coat, pausing with a frown at the visible wear in the fabric, the fray of the silver lacing, and the thinning of the elbows. One would hardly note his shabby finery in the darkened gaming rooms he frequented, but surely his less-than-prosperous state of affairs would be remarkable under bright streaks of morning sun.

He shrugged with resignation. If invited by his lordship to sit, he would simply choose a place away from any window. Philip paused at his reflection in the tarnished looking glass, wondering if he should have powdered his hair, and although it was morning, he took a generous fortifying swig from a flask he then secreted in his pocket.

The sudden summons from the earl after a four-year silence had him more shaken than he cared to admit. Exiting his lodgings, Philip hailed a passing sedan chair to convey him via Oxford Street to King's Square.

***

Arriving at what was, in the last century, one of the most fashionable addresses in London, Philip alighted from the sedan chair and paid the two bearers. Surveying the locale, he noted little change during his extended absence. At the center still stood the two distinct landmarks, a half-timbered hut for the gardener of the meticulously manicured square and a statue of Charles II, carved by Danish sculptor Caius Cibber.

The square itself was originally named after the Duke of Monmouth, one of the monarch's many bastard sons, who had resided there until his rebellion against his uncle, James II. After Monmouth's subsequent execution, the address thereafter became known as simply King's Square.

The statue also was claimed by many to have actually been of Monmouth rather than of King Charles, and, confessing a certain admiration for the bastard son who would attempt to usurp the crown, Philip had always fancied the notion that it was. Feeling in many ways a kindred spirit to the king's ill-fated bastard, Philip swept a playful obeisance to the statue.

Having now stalled long enough to marshal his will for the much-dreaded interview, Philip strode purposefully up to the door of Hastings House.

***

Grayson, the faithful retainer, answered the door. “Master Philip, what a delight to see you home.”

Philip noted, with a degree of pleasure, the almost-smile that registered on the butler's stolid face. “I don't know that I ever called this place home,” he said upon entering. His gaze swept the twenty-foot ceiling, Italian marble floors, and luxurious appointments, as if retrieving the entire layout from a distant memory. “Indeed, I'm not sure I was ever here but twice in my life.”

“It was meant figuratively,” Grayson explained. “Home is the bosom of the family from which you have been absent for far too long.”

Philip grinned. “Is that a scold, Grayson?”

The butler gave a dignified sniff. “Suffice to say, you have been missed.”

“Thank you. It means much, but I still wouldn't have come at all were it not for his lordship's summons. Do you have any idea what he wants?”

“I would have little notion. The earl does not confide in his servants.”

“True enough.” The Earl of Hastings was a man who held his cards closely and kept his own confidence at all costs. Two separate charges of treason, even though acquitted, might do that to a man, Philip decided cynically.

“He wishes to see you in his private chambers.”

“Gout attack?”

“It's one of his longest episodes, I'm afraid. He refuses to follow the physician's recommendations.”

“What a surprise that is. He'll no doubt be in a damnable humor.”

Grayson offered only a tight-lipped smile in reply.

With the exception of their two sets of echoing footfalls, they continued in a protracted silence through the long corridor to the earl's private apartments. The foreboding starkness penetrated into Philip's very bones.

Philip was bleakly reminded of his last encounter with the earl. He'd been sixteen years old and certainly no wilder than most of his cohorts at Harrow, but less prone to feigned contrition. He'd also failed to govern his tongue, for which he'd suffered many a lashing at the master's hand, and finally expulsion.

He'd been falsely accused of leading the other boys astray, when in truth he'd learned gaming from the very schoolmates who'd peached him, once he began to clean out their pockets. After the requisite caning, he'd been expelled in disgrace with no opportunity to defend himself. When he'd faced Lord Hastings, who would believe the worst of him in any case, Philip had maintained an obdurate silence under his interrogation, resulting in a reopening of the stripes on his backside that had only begun to heal.

For a young man of sixteen to be publicly whipped by a servant, at his father's command, it was more humiliation than Philip could bear. Rather than facing the daily opprobrium of a father who despised him, Philip had obstinately struck out on his own, determined more than ever to live down to his father's expectations.

This, to his anguish and regret, had also broken his mother's heart. In the first six months, he'd written her only one letter to inform her he was well, and shortly thereafter she was gone, consumed by the wasting disease.

The guilt had nearly been his undoing. He'd taken to heavy drink and low company shortly after that, and might well have lost his life on three occasions. The experience had taught him the three rules he would come to live by: trust no one, as every man is a cheat; always follow one's instincts when in doubt; and lastly, depend upon no one, as ultimately every man will fend for himself over and above any other. These three cardinal rules had guided him well enough until now.

Grayson preceded him into the earl's chamber to announce his arrival. Philip followed more tentatively than he had hoped he would when he'd envisioned the interview, but this long-accustomed regard of mixed awe and loathing was difficult to overcome.

Lord Hastings, garbed in a Turkish-style banyan and cap, reposed in an overstuffed chair with his bestockinged and visibly swollen right foot resting atop a mound of pillows on a gout stool.

Although Philip had expected no warm familial sentiments from his estranged father, the earl wasted no breath even on the most mundane pleasantries. “Don't skulk,” snapped the earl. “Come and let us have a look at you.”

With a half shrug, Philip ventured forward and forced his bow of obeisance.

“You've the look of your mother,” the earl accused. After a prolonged scrutiny, he raised his index finger vertically and made a loop in the air.

Philip's brows pulled together.

“Turn around,” the earl demanded.

Philip performed a slow revolution with arms akimbo to the earl's appraising nod. “You've grown tall in stature. That's to a man's advantage. I daresay you surpass Edmund.”

“Four plus years are bound to have wrought many changes,” Philip remarked with insouciance.

“Yet your insolence persists.”

Philip met the intimidating stare without faltering. Eager to hasten the interview and end the unpleasantness with all dispatch, he said, “I'm at a loss why you've sent for me after all this time.”

“Willoughby informs me that you're soon to come of age.”

“In scarce more than a fortnight.” Philip consoled himself that a mere seventeen days separated him from the respectable competence that would allow him to plot some viable and rewarding course for his future.

“It is high time you accept your responsibilities.”

“My responsibilities? And what might those entail?” As if ignorant of the diatribe that would inevitably ensue, he had intentionally baited the earl.

“You know damned well what is expected! You've run amok, disgracing your family nigh long enough. It's time you come to heel.”

An eminently revealing turn of phrase, as if he, like some well-trained hound, would suddenly accept his father's dominion at the snap of his fingers.

“Just what would you suggest?” Philip continued his affected air of artlessness.

“I
suggest
nothing. I
demand
your deference to duty.”

“Ah, back to that, are we? Just what is
duty
to a wastrel, my lord?” Philip spoke the last with a sardonic curl of his lip and sprawled lazily in a chair, intentionally fueling the earl's simmering temper.

“Then let me make my expectations of my youngest son absolutely clear. Upon attaining your majority, you will immediately cease this dissolute lifestyle and prepare to assume a seat in the House of Commons.”

“I will do what?” Philip affected astonishment.

“There will be a general election in a twelvemonth in which several Sussex MPs, in Bramber, East Grinstead, and Seaford, will become vulnerable for replacement.”

“Bramber has representation? The village can't have but thirty residents.”

“Nevertheless, the borough has two representative MPs and twenty registered voters.”

“Then it's nothing more than a rotten borough that rests in the pocket of the major landholder.”

“Which would be me.” Lord Hastings's lips curved into a shameless smirk.

“But Edmund already serves your interests in the Lower House—why would you want me?”

“Winds of change are blowing. Walpole's losing his grip on the ministry and his power is steadily slipping. With this shift, our time of vindication may be coming at long last.”

“Vindication or usurpation?” Philip asked. “I have no taste for politics,
my
lord
, and even less stomach for Jacobite intrigues.”

“You would refuse an offer of position and future influence to continue in your reprehensible, shiftless, and ignominious existence?”

“You would deem treachery and intrigue a nobler calling?”

The earl's face went rubicund and his eyes bulged. “I'll cut you off without a groat, you ungrateful whelp.”

“That's quite a threat when I've not drawn a bloody farthing from your hallowed coffers in over four years.”

“And you live hand to mouth for your obstinacy. Although in time you'd inevitably have come begging, I'm disinclined to further humor your conduct.”

“You thought I'd come groveling?” Philip laughed. “You are hardly in a position to know my state of affairs.”

“I have my sources when information is needed. I know exactly your state of affairs, you insolent whoreson!” The earl attempted to rise and cursed in pain.

Refusing to be cowed, Philip stepped closer to the earl, speaking lowly but clearly. “You seem to have forgotten the matter of a certain trust,
my
lord
.”

“It is out of your grasp until you attain your majority.”

“Precisely.”

Silence reigned while realization dawned. “It is but a pittance that won't last you a six-month. I'm prepared to offer you a substantial quarterly stipend.”

“A bribe to toe the line?”

“An inducement,” the earl said. “Two hundred fifty pounds per quarter.”

Philip blinked.
One
thousand
pounds
per
annum.
It was an enormous sum. His pride moved him to dismiss the offer, but his common sense gave him pause. “In return for what?”

“Your loyalty and support of Edmund's advancement.”

“That toad-eating, detestable prig?”

Lord Hastings returned a black look. “He is your brother, and heir to this earldom.”

“Half brother,” Philip corrected. “And how precisely am I to pledge support to one whose own loyalties shift with the tide? Stuart Pretender one day and the Hanoverian-born Prince of Wales the next. Above all, Edmund would hedge his bets.”

“Your naïveté astounds me.”

“As I stated, politics does not suit my nature; thus I must regretfully decline your offer.”

“You what?”

“I decline, my lord.”

“You'll come to regret this, Philip, and sooner rather than later!”

“Mayhap you're right. Shall I call Grayson to bring you a restorative? You appear rather flushed.”

“You may go to the devil!”

“I may very well yet, but it'll be in my own way,
my
lord
.”

My Own Dear Gallant,

I'm about to expire of a widow's ennui.

Meet me at 1:00 at the stairs of Cuper's Garden

where we might walk and take tea.

Lady M.

How poetical
, Philip reflected dryly before re-pocketing the foolscap. He was yet unsure how he felt about this somewhat clandestine meeting. He didn't trust Lady Messingham. His instinct told him not to. It warned she was intent on a far deeper game than she let on, but part of him, the reckless part, didn't care. She'd singled him out amongst many men who would gladly share her company, heady stuff unto itself. Moreover, rather than seeing him as a ne'er-do-well as did so many others, she openly admired his dubious skills and even looked to him as a mentor. He couldn't make sense of it, but there it was.

Philip had tried to heed George's advice and forget her, yet he found himself unable to dismiss Lady Messingham from his mind. He just couldn't seem to move beyond that night at Marylebone, or the interlude on the terrace at Belsize House. His attraction had become a powerful force that battered against his common sense and against his will, and although his gut said to stay away he just couldn't get enough of her.

Nevertheless, while his masculine pride rejected the idea of dangling after a woman, this same pride drove him to pursuit. She was so unlike any other he had known, but was this hold, just as George had suggested, simply because she was above his touch? Philip couldn't deny that was part of the appeal. Her occasional displays of aloofness and patronizing disdain simply made the conquest more challenging.

Until now, the fair sex had never presented the slightest resistance. Most of the females with whom he dallied would have lifted their skirts for a good tupping in exchange for a mere wink and a smile, but
she
was quite another kind. Even now, her damned haunting kisses lingered, as if branded on his lips as well as his brain.

***

Cuper's Gardens, or more frequently called Cupid's Gardens, with its myriad arbors and walks, was an ideal location for a lovers' tryst
.
Located at what once had been just a narrow strip of meadow surrounded by watercourses on the south side of the Thames, there were two approaches to the gardens, one through St. George's Fields (best traversed in daylight) and the other by boat with the waterman tying up at Cuper's Stairs.

Philip had come by way of the fields. By her stated rendezvous point, he knew she would arrive by water, but at a quarter past the appointed hour, she was nowhere in sight. The only passengers disembarking at the stairs were an elderly woman with her companion, a few married couples of the middling class, and a young woman in the dress of an upscale shopkeeper.

He looked impatiently upriver for another vessel, saw none, and consulted his timepiece with a frown. Piqued that she had played him for a fool, he turned to depart, but a husky feminine voice arrested him.

“Child! Do you not recognize me?” She had concealed her identity with a plain cotton gown and a chip bonnet, which might have passed for a better servant's garb. She was devoid of powder or paint, and her hair simply coiffed. The effect, subtracting a decade from her age, was remarkably fresh and equally charming.

He endeavored to kiss her hand, but she demurred with a cheeky grin that displayed a previously elusive dimple. “I am incognito, don't you know?” She executed a flirtatious curtsy for the benefit of passersby.

“Indeed you appear quite the pert lady's maid.” He grinned. “But I fail to understand the subterfuge.”

“Do you not? I am already dubbed the Merry Widow Messingham by the
Tatler
, that cheap broadsheet, all because I attended that rout at Marylebone. How I was identified behind my domino, I'll never know. I have been ever so careful, but I still risk complete social ostracism for engaging in any social activity. The less I am known in public, the better.”

“Hence the disguise.”

“Indeed! I couldn't stand another moment trapped in a cage without any diversion. I've lived thusly for far too long, Philip. You have no idea what it's like, and as a man, you likely never will. I envy you your liberty, you know.” The note of wistfulness in her voice was impossible to miss, as was the razor edge to his reply.

“My liberty? I think you harbor misapprehensions about my mode of life, madam. I live under a yoke as surely as you do. I have neither rank nor fortune, for which sin I am consigned to live on the outer fringe of
good
society.”

“But does that not afford you even greater independence? You are not forever under their watchful eyes. You may come and go wherever you choose, whenever it suits you, and with whatever company pleases you. You do not call that freedom?”

He paused to consider it. “In all truth, I have never viewed it in such a positive light, but rather have seen myself living in a kind of perdition between two worlds.”

“How do you mean, Philip?” She took his arm and they began to walk.

“Regardless of my sometimes diminished circumstances, I was raised the son of an earl and educated, at least for a time,” he injected wryly, “at one of England's finest schools with the scions of peers. Even a younger son is afforded some advantages in coming from such a station, but now I have left that life entirely behind me.”

She digested his revelation with a frown. “You mentioned being a younger son the night we met, and I knew immediately by your speech and bearing that you were the son of a gentleman, mayhap a knight or baronet. But an earl's son? I don't understand…”

“Why I turned my back? It is a long and no doubt tedious tale. I would not presume to bore you with it.” Philip attempted to close the line of discussion.

She turned to face him with a searching look. “I would not find it dull in the least. I realize now just how little we know of one another. I would truly like to know why you reject a privileged life, one so many only dream of. I am at a loss to understand it.”

“That makes two of us!” Philip laughed, still wondering what devil had possessed him to inflame the earl's passions and reject a comfortable future out of hand.

“You have regrets?”

“Daily, my lady. I have no possessions to speak of but what I win at the tables, and when fortune favors me after my brief periods of privation, I have a most unfortunate tendency to spend like the prodigal. Yet I love what I hate. It is a vicious cycle of feast and famine, leading me to extravagant binges followed perforce, more frequently than not, in seeking out the pawnbrokers on the Strand.”

“Forgive my ignorance, but what is a pawnbroker?”

“A vile creature who makes his living at the expense of desperate wretches.”

She frowned, dissatisfied with his explanation.

“A pawnbroker, if you
must
know, is a type of money lender, but rather than loaning solely at interest, he accepts an item of value as surety, and loans a fraction of its true worth, with the promise of repayment at an unconscionable rate of interest within a predetermined time. If the loan is repaid as agreed, the item is reclaimed by its owner.”

“And if not?”

“If not, it is permanently retained by the pawnbroker.”

“And this transaction is legal?”

“Perfectly. Pawnbrokers are brigands under the full protection of the law,” he said sardonically.

“You have had many dealings with such creatures?”

“Unfortunately so.” He spoke with contrition.

“If you have no possessions of value, what would you pawn?”

“The spoils of the gaming tables. Gold rings, silver watches, bejeweled snuff boxes. You would be surprised what men will wager when the fever is running high. I've even wagered the clothes off my back a time or two,” he confessed ruefully.

“You'll get little pity from me, Philip. It is at least your choice to live as you do.”

“Do you not see the difficulty of such an existence?” he asked. “I was bred for a world in which I now have not the resources to sustain myself, but having become accustomed to the finer things, I can never be satisfied with less.”

She stared. It was as if he had spoken her own mind.

Oblivious to her reaction, Philip continued, “Until I obtain financial security, my life will never be truly my own. Yet my only way of achieving such security is to abandon my free will and pledge myself to follow another.”

The veracity of his words resonated loudly in her brain. “I identify with your plight more fully than you know, but you do have the choice. You could always swallow your pride and go back.”

“God no! I'd never give the ol' bastard the satisfaction.” His vehemence took her aback.

She turned to face him. “But you just said you harbor regrets. What was the cause of such an irremediable rift with your family? Do you not at least continue relations with your siblings?”

“Sibling,” he corrected. “Only a half one at that,” he added with contempt. “To answer the second part of the question, I do not. Edmund and I grew up little more than strangers. We are separated by over a decade in age. He was already at school when I was born. What little rapport we might have developed was destroyed by his jealousy.”

“Jealousy of what?”

“I think it was my relationship with my mother, though I'll never understand why. His own died shortly after giving birth to him. My mother was a warm and loving woman who tried her best to nurture him, but he hated her. He hated us both.”

“How very sad. Where is he now, your brother?”

“Edmund, Lord Uxeter, was in London last I knew, though we thankfully run in distinctly separate circles.”

“Lord Uxeter? I believe I have met him at Leicester House! He was among the most unctuous of Prince Frederick's entire troupe of toad-eaters.”

“Madam, you have most aptly described my elder brother.” He laughed. “He would curry the prince's favor. He maintains only a seat in the House of Commons for a rotten borough in Sussex, but has boundless ambition for advancement, whereas I have not the slightest interest.”

“Is this the core of it, then? Your desire to go your own way?”

“In part. Suffice to say my bridges are now naught but smoking embers. It's a complicated morass, but enough of me.” He abruptly turned the subject. “You sneak away from your house in disguise. Is that not also rebellion against those who would rule you?”

Deciding not to press him further, she answered with an unconscious jut of her chin, “I suppose one might perceive it so, but I promised myself upon my return to London to explore all of its delights. I intend to do exactly that.”

“So you, like me, would thumb your nose at the lot of them.” He grinned roguishly.

“I'll be discreet. 'Tis why we meet here, where the company is comprised of merchant cits, young attorney's clerks, and Fleet Street sempstresses, rather than at the more fashionable Vauxhall. I have little risk of recognition here, and I trust you with my secret.”

His eyes glittered in a way she had not remarked before. “Perhaps your trust is misplaced.”

“Oh, I think not,” she said breezily.

“Then you do me too much honor.”

“And you may soon weary of that
honor
!” She tilted her head back with an impish grin that both charmed and disarmed him. “But for now, pray let us pay our shilling and walk the gardens.”

The acres of park comprising Cuper's Gardens were once part of a notable resort that had fallen into disrepair until Boyd Cuper transformed the whole into a well-frequented and picturesque public pleasure garden. The walks also included some very good bowling greens. It was at one of these that the strolling couple stopped for a time to observe a group of boisterous youths playing at bowls. When Philip taunted the lads for throwing into the ditch, she goaded him into trying his own hand at the game. He eagerly doffed his coat while she looked on, chortling with delight.

Philip was newly enchanted, having never seen this side of her, so lighthearted and carefree. They passed a lazy afternoon in complete amity perambulating the secluded walks and impeccably manicured arbors. Their promenade ended along the river at the Feathers Tavern where they partook of tea and Mrs. Evans's famed almond cheesecake
al
fresco
at a table near the orchestra stage.

The Welshman Jones, the famed blind harper, played selections from Corelli and Handel.

While they sat in silent appreciation of the music, Lady Messingham studied him in mixed fascination and befuddlement.

No doubt, he cut a handsome figure with his deep-set, penetrating eyes, and strong, almost exotic-looking features, not to mention those sensuous lips, but it was more than a physical attraction she felt. Philip Drake was a fascinating man-child, with an experience of the world beyond his years coupled with an easy boyish charm. His physical appeal was impossible to deny, but it was becoming much more than that. It seemed with every hour they shared company the pull became stronger.

What was this hold he had suddenly taken on her? He was twenty years old, a mere youth for heaven's sake. While she had first singled him out from amongst the Marylebone gamesters, believing his youth would make him easy to manipulate, to control, he had proven otherwise. She had yet to sway him fully to her purpose.

Only that morning she had reviewed her accounts with Allendale. Even after taking steps to economize, her debts continued to accrue. She still needed money, and Philip was in a unique position to help her—if he chose to do so. Perhaps it was time to try a more honest tack? This moment, following their frank discussion, seemed as good as any.

“Philip,” she began, “although I've immensely enjoyed our time together, I confess to have asked you here by design.”

“Indeed?” Instinctively, his inner guard came up.