Oz smiled. “I’m not going out of my way.”
“If your wife bothers you so much you’re drinking day and night,” Sam said sharply, “why don’t you go and see her?”
“Why would I do that?”
“So you might be less overdrawn on sleep and less pickled in alcohol.”
Oz softly sighed. “Go back to my needlessly worried staff and tell them they’re all remembered in my will. And tell them, too,” he said, his voice grating very slightly, “it’s my affair how I go to the devil.”
But that evening, Marguerite confronted him as well, although in a more tactful way.
“Oz, darling, you’re losing weight drinking, not eating, rarely sleeping. I worry about you.” The proprietress of one of London’s elegant brothels was seated across from Oz, a small fire in the grate between them, the lights dimmed in her sitting room because Oz found bright lights objectionable of late.
“I’m fine.” Since that night he’d been vicious to her, he took care to be civil. “I’ve never needed much sleep.”
“You do need some, though.”
“I sleep at home,” he lied.
She didn’t argue nor say he spent a good portion of his time in her apartments-not sleeping. Nor talking. Nor touching her-which betrayed the state of his spirits more than anything.
Monkish, Oz was not.
“Sam was over,” she quietly said.
He didn’t look up, his gaze on the glass balanced on his chest as he lounged in his chair, his eyes heavy lidded. “Ignore him.”
“They’re worried about you.”
“Ignore them all,” Oz crisply said, and lifting the glass to his mouth, he drained it and reached for the bottle on the table beside him.
“You know Fitz, don’t you?”
He looked up from pouring. “Groveland?”
She nodded. “He didn’t quite know how to deal with love either,” she said, not sure she wouldn’t be tossed out of her sitting room for mentioning the word love.
His gaze sharpened, a spark of anger visible even in the shadowed light. But when he spoke he’d sufficiently curbed his temper. Setting the bottle aside, his voice was mild when he spoke. “Spare me your romantic sentiments, darling. My drinking has nothing to do with love. I don’t give a tinker’s damn about love. I’m bored with life in general and my life in particular and overset with ennui. I wish to be insensate.”
“You should talk to Fitz.”
“You overstep,” he said very, very softly, his gaze over the rim of his glass touched with violence.
“I know. Someone has to when you’re acting like an undisciplined child.”
“I may give you a thrashing again,” he said, lightly mocking. “Have you thought of that?”
“I’ll call for Jeremy. He’s bigger than you and sober.” Unblinking, Oz placed one hand on his coat pocket. “But does he have a weapon?” His smile was faint, his voice passionless. “Just so you know before you call him.”
Her fine nostrils flared. “How tedious you can be, Oz.” Coming to her feet in a rustle of rose silk, she said in a voice brittle with temper, “Go and talk to your wife for God’s sake!”
He stared at her back as she walked away, then at the door that closed behind her, nothing moving in his lounging pose for so long he might have been comatose. Even his breathing was indistinguishable. Until finally, he set his untouched glass aside, ran his fingers through his hair, uncut since leaving Oak Knoll, exhaled softly, and heaved himself to his feet.
Emptying his pockets of money, the sum capable of launching a midsize business, he dropped the bills on Marguerite’s desktop and slowly walked from the room.
He couldn’t go home yet. It was too early. In the morning he could be distracted by the daily transactions necessary to the efficient functioning of his shipping line and merchant bank. Each day at eight o’clock sharp, he bestirred himself to listen to Davey’s recital of cargoes loaded and unloaded, of ships arriving and embarking, of telegrams received from his Indian banks; he dutifully signed all the new documents prepared for him and issued what orders were required. Those few hours were the only respite he had from the persistent, damning thoughts of Isolde that confounded and perplexed and in general screwed with his mind. Her physical loss had unsettled him more than he’d expected, complicated his life more than he’d expected. Left formless doubts abrading his spirit.
He glanced at his wristwatch as he stood on the pavement outside Marguerite’s. Eleven. So-where now?
He was in St. James, close to all the clubs and brothels.
He smoothly turned as Marguerite’s front door opened, his physical facilities unimpaired by drink. “Harry!” He smiled. “Just the man to join me somewhere-anywhere, so long as the liquor flows and the company amuses.”
“I don’t know about the company, but there’s liquor aplenty at Harvey’s,” Harry said, swiftly descending the stairs. “I promised my wife I’d be there an hour ago. Come and shield me from her sharp tongue and sharper temper.”
“You might want to change first,” Oz pleasantly said. “You reek of cunt.”
“You can stand in front of me. She’ll think it’s you.”
“By all means, allow me to be your shield and protection from domestic outrage,” Oz cheerfully intoned.
“Better you than me,” Harry grunted, taking Oz’s arm at the elbow and propelling him down the street.
The entertainment was in full swing at the Harvey’s in Grosvenor Square, the curb lined with carriages, every window alight, the sound of music faintly heard as the men approached the entrance.
“Why the hell are you obliged to make your bows?” Oz asked as they moved up the stairs. “It’s not as though you and Vanessa share many social occasions.
“Something about her mother,” Harry mumbled. “I didn’t listen. But she made it clear I was expected to play husband tonight and smile when required. Christ, she’s going to be pissed; I should have been here long ago.” He grimaced as the front door opened. “I’m expecting you to take the brunt of her displeasure. I’m blaming my tardiness on you.”
“And how exactly have I postponed your arrival?” Oz asked with sardonic deference as footmen took their coats. “Give me a hint.”
“Jesus, I don’t know,” Harry muttered as they made for the rose-garlanded staircase. “Think of something. Who better than you knows how to make excuses to women?”
It was true of course; he’d made it a practice the past few years. So moments later when they found Harry’s scowling wife tapping her foot outside the ballroom, Oz smiled winningly. “It’s my fault entirely, Vanessa. I forcibly conscripted Harry in the interests of the nation. We were entertaining Wales. Daisy’s in Paris with her husband and Wales is moping.” The Prince of Wales’s newest affaire was in that frenzied early phase of overwrought passion.
“Mother’s been asking for you.” She shot a vexatious glance at her husband, who was partially concealed by Oz’s large, well-developed frame, although everyone knew an invitation from Wales was a royal command. “Come, darling,” she said, her tone modified by understanding, her gaze quickly swiveling to Oz so the diamonds in her ears twinkled. “I’m sure Oz can find someone to amuse him.”
As Harry followed his wife, he shot Oz a raised-brow look over his shoulder. Clearly he had no idea why he was being summoned by his mother-in-law.
Oz entered the ballroom a moment later and stood preoccupied and attractively powerful on the verge of the floor for no more than five seconds before a bevy of females descended on him like vultures spying a fresh carcass. Very pretty vultures as it turned out and as determined as their bird-of-prey counterparts to plunder the spoils.
If only his senses responded to the lovely, perfumed throng dressed in courtier gowns, glittering with jewels. If only he gave a damn about all the fawning females. But their bare shoulders and low dйcolletages displaying comely breasts like so much ripe fruit, the smiling mouths and seductive glances paying homage to him, the salacious double entendre that passed for conversation reminded him instead of the sameness he’d come to detest. Restive and moody, he replied to their artifice and banter with disinterested courtesy even as he was tempted to say, Pick a number between one and ten and I’ll take you in turn. Or, he thought, surreptitiously scanning the room over their perfectly coiffed heads, a quick retreat would satisfy more.