Rumours in the Regency Ballroom. Diane GastonЧитать онлайн книгу.
His father looked at him over spectacles perched on his nose. “I wrote to you two days ago.”
Adrian had received his father’s missive, but had stuffed it in his pocket and headed off to Madame Bisou’s, where he’d engaged in a marathon of card playing and drinking, something that had become a pattern for him of late. When he’d woken up this morning at Madame Bisou’s, he’d had no clear memory of how he’d spent the entire previous day. His father’s letter and one from Tanner were still in the pocket of the coat he had slept in.
Adrian answered his father. “I came as soon as I read it.” Which was true enough. “I confess, I feared bad news, but you both look the picture of health.” Better to shift the attention to their health than to dwell on his own.
“There is nothing amiss with us,” his mother said. “Would you like a sherry, love?”
Adrian’s stomach roiled. “Later, perhaps.”
His father ceremoniously took off his spectacles and folded them, placing them on the desk. “I summoned you because of concern about you.”
“Me?” Adrian was genuinely surprised.
“This dissipated life you are leading—” his father began.
“—is not healthy for you, dear,” his mother finished.
He looked from one to the other. “Dissipated life?”
His father leaned forwards. “This drinking. Spending all your time in gaming hells. Coming home looking as if you slept in your clothes.”
Obviously someone from Adrian’s household had been reporting on his behaviour. Adrian’s bets were on Bilson, the loyal butler. Loyal to Adrian’s father, that is.
“Father, my behaviour is not much altered from what it has always been.” Except perhaps for the drinking to excess and finding himself in a bed with no memory of how he had arrived there.
“You are drinking entirely too much.” His father rose and walked from behind the desk.
His mother cupped her hand against his face. “You will lose your handsome good looks if you drink too much. You’ll get a red nose and have blotches on your cheeks.”
“Where have you heard such things about me?” Adrian gaped at them.
His father looked chagrined. “Well, people talk, you know.”
Former servants obviously did.
Adrian lifted a hand to his forehead. The headache from the previous night’s drinking lingered there, no longer a sledgehammer, but a dull thudding. He shook his head. “A few months ago when I asked for something to do, take over one of the estates, perhaps, you all but told me to go drink, gamble and otherwise cavort. Now you are outraged that I am doing what you said I should?”
“I would never have told you to get a red nose, dear,” his mother said.
His father huffed. “You wanted to take over one of the estates? How can you expect me to trust you with such a task when you are being so reckless with drink?”
What else was he supposed to do? Adrian wanted to ask.
“I think it is high time Adrian went searching for a wife.” His mother nodded decisively. “The Season is over, but he might go to Brighton. There were plenty of eligible young ladies in Brighton when we were there, were there not? It is something to consider.”
“I did not mean to put the boy in shackles, Irene,” his father retorted.
His mother stiffened. “Marriage is akin to being shackled?”
“I did not say that.” His father hastened to his wife’s side and put his arm around her. “I merely meant he ought to enjoy life while he can, without duty dictating to him.”
His mother pouted. “You implied a man cannot enjoy life if he is married.”
“I did not say that,” his father murmured.
“You did say it,” his mother persisted.
Adrian held up a hand. “Do not argue over this.”
His mother pressed her mouth closed, but his father lifted her chin and gave her a light kiss on the lips.
She reluctantly smiled.
His father kissed her again and strode over to a side cupboard, removing a decanter of sherry and three glasses. “Marriage is a great responsibility,” he said to Adrian. “I do not encourage you to marry now, while you are engaged in such dissipation. I urge you to show more restraint. Stop the drinking.” As he spoke Adrian’s father poured sherry into the glasses and handed one to his wife and one to Adrian.
Adrian almost laughed. Only his father could chastise him for drinking at the same moment as handing him a drink.
His mother took her glass. “Well, I do urge you to look about for a wife. There is no hurry for it, I agree, but you might as well discover who will be out next Season.”
Adrian set his glass down on the table.
All he could think was that had Lydia accepted his proposal all those months ago, he’d have no reason to become dissipated.
But Lydia had not accepted him.
Adrian picked up the glass of sherry and drained it of its contents.
As soon as he was able, he extricated himself from the insane asylum that was his parents’ townhouse and headed back home, vowing to be more discreet in his activities so the details did not get whispered in his father’s ear.
Adrian winced at the brightness of the day. The sky was a milky white and hurt his aching eyes if he looked up. He tilted his head just enough to keep his eyes shaded by the brim of his hat. He neared Hill Street, depressing his spirits even more. All of London was depressing him.
Perhaps he should visit Tanner after all. Tanner had written to invite him to Scotland where he and his wife were spending the summer months and awaiting the birth of their first child.
Ha! Not likely he would be welcome there. What was this with having babies? Was every woman bearing a child this summer?
Adrian vowed he would not think of that. Nor of Lydia refusing his proposal.
But Tanner had also offered Adrian another of his estates, Nickerham Priory in Sussex. Adrian had visited Nickerham with Tanner on Tanner’s tour of his properties the year before and could agree it would be an excellent place to spend a summer. High on a cliff overlooking the sea and cooled by sea breezes, there would be nothing to do but ride the South Downs or walk along the seashore.
Adrian might very possibly go insane there, left to nothing but his own company and his own thoughts.
Vowing to write Tanner a gracious return letter this very day—or tomorrow—Adrian crossed into Hill Street. He rarely walked through Mayfair without finding himself passing by Lydia’s townhouse.
He spied the reporters lounging about her door and became angry on her behalf all over again. The leeches. Why did they not leave the lady in peace? Why could they not content themselves with writing about the thousands of weavers assembling in Carlisle in protest against low wages, the trade crisis in Frankfurt, or an earthquake near Rome? Why devote so much space to speculation about Lydia? He’d read in the papers that the father of her child was anyone from the Prince Regent to a passing gypsy.
Was she in good health? he wondered. Bearing children might be the most natural thing in the world, but many women died from it. Babies died, as well. His mother had borne Adrian a brother and sister, neither of whom had lived longer than a few days.
Staying on the opposite side of the street, Adrian tried not to glance at her house. Another gentleman approached in the opposite direction.
“Good day to you, Cavanley.” The gentleman greeted him in clipped, but jovial tones.