Widow in White

Chapter Eight: Nobody to Love

Richard leaned back in his chair and sipped his brandy. His club was quiet, almost unfashionably so, though it boasted amongst it members dukes and marquesses. Tonight, it was quieter than usual, for most of popular society would not return to London for another month or more. There were only a handful of half-asleep old men in the coffee room with Richard, while downstairs the card and smoking rooms were empty. The only activity in the entire building came from the liveried waiters, who were taking advantage of the quiet to dust bookshelves, sweep floors, and order receipts.

Richard had never been one for crowds and bustle but even he found the club uncomfortably solitary tonight. Earlier in the evening, he had left his townhouse in Grosvenor Square because the dead stillness had become somehow oppressive. Every room had been darkened but his study on the ground floor, and he had felt the weight of the ten black, quiet rooms above pressing down upon him like a gravestone. None of his friends were in London yet or he might have made one of his rare social calls. Instead, he had called for his coach and come through the empty, snow-glazed streets to his club in the hope of company.

But even here, he found himself alone and surrounded by oppressive silence. None of the old men around were his friends; besides, half of them were asleep and gently snoring, and the other half required no company other than their newspapers.

Richard finished his brandy, but didn't signal the waiter over for another. Instead he sat there, slowly spinning the brandy glass round and round on the table. He did not want another drink, nor did he want to go home. And he felt vaguely self-conscious about sitting alone and doing nothing. At least the waiter had his books to dust, the old men their newspapers or their snores and dreams. Richard had nothing but his glass. And it was empty.

Richard had just convinced himself to get up and go when downstairs in the hall the entry-door slammed. One of the sleeping old men near Richard jerked awake mid-snore.

"Wassat?" he shouted, waking the other sleeping man. "Who's there!?"

"Good evening, Lord Wiltshire," Richard said drily. "Just the wind, I think."

But it wasn't just the wind. A moment later, there were heavy, rapid footsteps on the stairs outside and, with another door-slam, Giles Fordham burst into the coffee room.

By now, no one was sleeping, and all the men with newspapers had dropped them to their laps to glare myopically at the intruder. The waiter too had stopped dusting the bookshelves and stepped forward to the door. Fordham ignored him and strode into the room, his eyes pinned upon Richard.

"Albroke!"

Richard raised his eyebrows. "Fordham." He turned to the waiter. "Another brandy please."

The waiter set down his duster and went to obey. Fordham was not to be so easily disconcerted. He came close and stood over Richard. His hands were clenched tight at his sides, but his manner was now controlled. That was what he was like, Richard remembered uneasily. Even as he had whipped the life from Evans, Fordham had never been anything other than cold and controlled.

"I didn't know we were members of the same club," Richard said lightly, trying to hide his unease.

"We're not." Fordham wrested his glove off and flung it on the floor by Richard's feet. "I've come here to call you out."

"Call me out?" Richard laughed. "What on earth for?"

"For seducing the woman I was to marry."

Richard stared speechlessly at Fordham. Around them, every man was now peering forward curiously. Lord Wiltshire had even cupped his hand behind his ear to hear better. Richard knew the scene would be all over town by noon tomorrow. His throat went dry.