Henry recognized that his master was in no mood for conversation as he helped him change into evening dress. The earl was frowning, and his fingers were unusually clumsy with his cravat so that the pile of discarded squares mounted as he struggled with the intricate folds.
He couldn't send Theo away while his mother was there. He'd just have to hope that his mother and sister would keep her so occupied she wouldn't have time to go spinning off on her own frolics, and once the visitors had left, he'd pack her back to the country.
He left the house half an hour later, dwelling with a degree of satisfaction on the irksome evening Theo was going to spend, unaware that a messenger was already hotfoot to Brook Street with a desperate plea for support in the evening ahead.
The Belmonts, Edward Fairfax, and Jonathan Lacey arrived at Curzon Street within the hour to rescue a desperate Theo from perdition.
In his small, elegant house on Half Moon Street, Neil Gerard prepared to receive his guests. They were all members, past and present, of the Third Dragoons, and they were the only people who might continue to regard Sylvester Gilbraith askance. Neil hoped to overcome whatever lingering prejudice they might carry.
That done, Sylvester would surely have no need to dig into the past himself. It would be against his interests to exhume the rotting corpse of a scandal that everyone was prepared to leave buried. But as the ultimate insurance, Neil would plan a little excursion for the busy Lady Stoneridge. He knew Sylvester's pride. The man would be willing to sign anything, even a full confession to something he didn't remember, rather than have his wife's supposedly adulterous indiscretions exposed to Society. And that piece of paper would signal the end of Gerard's excruciating contract with Jud O'Flannery.
The door knocker sounded, and he heard his servant hurrying to open it. From the sound of voices, it appeared that several of his guests had arrived together.
"Good evenin', Neil." A bewhiskered captain entered, rubbing his hands. "Nippy out there tonight." His gaze fell on his host's countenance. "Good God, man, whatever happened to you? That's quite a shiner."
Neil touched his blackened eye, smiled thinly with his swollen lip. "Took a tumble from my horse," he explained. "Nasty brute, I've a mind to send him to the knacker's."
"Nothin' to be done with an ill-tempered nag, that's what I always say," the captain said cheerfully. "Now, see who I found on your doorstep." He indicated a florid gentleman with mild blue eyes, who had stepped into the room behind him. "Haven't seen old Barney here for months. Where've you been hiding, old chap?"
"In Spain with the Peer."
"Headquarters, eh?" The captain nodded and accepted a glass of wine from his host. "So what's goin' on?"
The other man didn't reply immediately. He glanced at the table set in the window alcove. "You expectin' quite a crowd, Neil?"
"Only five of us," Neil said, handing him a glass. "Yourselves, Peter Fortescue, and Sylvester Gilbraith."
"Stoneridge?" Barney raised an eyebrow. "I'd heard he was in town. Married, isn't he?"
"Quite recently. Soon after he inherited the title."
"Mm. Thought you had no time for him, after that nasty business at Vimiera."
Neil shrugged. "It's water under the bridge. No one really knows what happened. He was acquitted. It's hard to dismiss an old friend out of hand."
The other two nodded thoughtfully. "Well, I own I've always thought of him as a decent fellow," the captain declared into his now empty glass. "I'm ready enough to give him the benefit of the doubt."
"Good." Neil smiled and refilled his glass just as the door knocker sounded again. He hoped it would be Fortescue, so that by the time Sylvester arrived, everyone would be in agreement as to how to greet him.
The stringy figure of Major Fortescue loomed in the door behind the servant. He was greeted warmly by his friends, a glass pressed into his hand, his questions as to his host's battered countenance answered.
"Gerard's expectin' Gilbraith," the captain said. "D'you remember that rum business about the colors?"
"Yes, and I never believed a word of it," Fortescue declared. "He was a damn fool to resign from the regiment. Made him look guilty."
"He was severely wounded," Neil reminded him.
"True, but he had no call to resign." The major took a deep draft of his wine.
Sylvester heard their voices as he stood in the hall, handing his cape and gloves to the servant. They were well-remembered voices from the past. Gerard hadn't told him who his fellow guests would be, but he'd set up a reunion of old comrades. What the devil was he playing at now? Was this to be some twisted exercise in mortification, despite his previous gestures of friendship?
Sylvester stiffened his shoulders as he prepared to enter the room.
"Lord Stoneridge, sir." The servant announced him.
"Ah, Sylvester, welcome." All smiles, Neil came across the room, hand extended. "Before you ask about my eye, I took a tumble from my horse. Now, you know everyone, of course."
"Of course. But it's been a long time," Sylvester said deliberately.
"Too long," Fortescue declared, grasping his hand in a warm clasp. "Why the hell did you resign in such a hurry, man?"
"A head wound is no light matter, Peter," Sylvester said. "It still plagues me."
His old friend examined him closely. He seemed to be hesitating, and Sylvester guessed he was about to bring up Vimiera, but his eyes were puzzled rather than hostile.
Before he could do so, however, Gerard spoke with brisk heartiness. "A glass of claret, Sylvester, and come to the fire." And the other two men moved forward with their own greeting, and the moment was past.
And it never came again. There was to be no opportunity to air the subject; it was as if it had never happened. For a moment Sylvester thought how easy it would be to settle for that. People were willing to forgive and forget… to give him the benefit of the doubt. He could resume a normal life. Except that he couldn't live with himself any longer; he could no longer live under the shadow of cowardice. And then, of course, there was the fact that Gerard had tried to kill him.
As the evening wore on, he watched Gerard and recognized with the eye of experience the man's fear, the edge of near panic in the flat eyes. How often during their boyhood had he seen it? He was filled with a depthless disgust for the man, a disgust far greater and more potent than simple anger, and realized that he'd always felt it to some extent, even in their schooldays when he'd tried to persuade the boy to stand up to the bullies.
And how had he acquired that black eye and split lip this time? Not in the corridors of Westminster School, certainly, but his face had come into contact with more than the hard ground.
As they sat around the card table, it was clear to everyone that Neil's game of whist was distracted, infuriating the captain, who was his partner. As the party broke up, Major Fortescue voiced the opinion of the group.
"You serve too fine a claret, m'boy, for a man who's not the world's best card player." He flung an arm around Gerard's shoulder. "Damn fine claret it was. Can't say I blame you for over-imbibing."
"Well, I can," the captain grumbled. "Lost me fifty pound clear, you have, Gerard. I should have let Barney have my place."
Sylvester wondered why he had been the only one to notice that Gerard drank little. Deliberately he hung back as the others left.
"Another glass, Sylvester?" Neil didn't sound too enthusiastic as he made the offer out of courtesy.
"Thank you." Sylvester sat down beside the fire, blandly ignoring the reluctant tone. "An excellent evening, Neil. I owe you a debt of gratitude."
Smiling, he accepted a refilled glass and calmly began the hunt. "Tell me, did you discuss Vimiera with our friends before I arrived?"
Neil's eyes shifted and then he smiled stiffly. "A word, perhaps. We're all agreed that the story's dead as the proverbial dodo. No point ruining good friendships over it. You'll not find it mentioned again by anyone."