friends. Clement had reminded him that he’d broken a dinner engagement with no word of explanation.
How does a man stop running? How does a man pick up his old life?
He makes amends. He repairs bridges.
Yesterday had been a disaster. He’d lost his head at Louisa’s. That melody. That slender woman at the harpsichord.
He didn’t want to think of that encounter, or what had come after. He’d fled the house in disgrace, mood black and growing blacker. He hadn’t returned to his apartments, hadn’t stopped by the club. He’d gone to a tavern and drank his lunch—five flips, so maybe that counted as a meal. Each flip had at least part of an egg stirred into the gin, and sugar. Dinner … dinner had been more of the same. But without the eggs and sugar.
Maybe I shouldn’t have ripped up that ticket.
That’s what he went to sleep thinking.
Maybe I should buy another.
But somehow—though he woke late in the morning, head filled with sand and glass, body aching—he was determined to try again. London. The
ton.
All of it. He wasn’t giving up. His visit to Trombly Place had been a false start. Today would be different.
He rocked on his heels, looking up, up the façade of Bennington House. The sky above was blue. He tried to keep his mind sunny and blank.
He wouldn’t tell Daphne and Bennington the truth. Why he’d failed to keep the engagement. He’d give them an airy, charming excuse then launch into an off-color anecdote from his travels. The one about the dancing girl who stripped off her clothes and folded herself until she could have fit in a hatbox. Or the one about the Albanian cavalryman who shot his friend in the hand over a mummified crocodile phallus.
He wouldn’t say what he could now admit to himself. That the people he’d cared about and who’d cared about him
before
—those were the people he had the most trouble facing. They had also been friends with—he didn’t want to think her name. Not today. For today, let him be free of her.
But she was suddenly there, on the step beside him, a presence he could almost see out of the corner of his eye, could almost touch.
Phillipa
. Bennington was the only core member of their set who hadn’t
been at the party when Phillipa died. He was kept at home with a headache. He’d been spared that final scene. But Daphne had been there. He made his hands into fists, resisting the urge to bring them to his temples. He heard, again, Daphne’s screams. Saw her, kneeling, arms twined around her own neck. She had sobbed until her face had purpled.
When the butler opened the door, he managed to smile.
He was shown through an imposing hall—gleaming white marble with Roman statues in the wall niches striking martial poses—and into the sitting room. This room too was imposing, decidedly masculine in its décor, with heavy mahogany furniture and gilt-framed oval portraits of the Bennington forbears, all soldiers, on the navy blue-papered walls. No feminine touches softened or brightened the space. Even the curtains that hung over the tall windows were thick and somber. There was a massive portrait-book and a few cheaply printed newspapers on the low table, the only items in the room that looked moveable, as though they hadn’t been in the same spot for fifty years. Isidore was reaching toward them when the door opened. He turned.
“Sid,” said Daphne Bennington in her sweet, high voice and held out her hand. He took it. She smiled, a dimple flashing in her creamy cheek. She wore a low-cut gown of green silk that left a great deal of her breasts exposed and little to the imagination as to the luscious contours of the remainder. “We wondered if you were halfway to Dar es Salaam by now.” She gestured to the leather settee, and he sat while she moved to take the armchair opposite. She was a petite woman, almost child-sized, although her lush figure told quite another story. The chair dwarfed her, and he was struck again by the ponderous, uninviting
How does a man stop running? How does a man pick up his old life?
He makes amends. He repairs bridges.
Yesterday had been a disaster. He’d lost his head at Louisa’s. That melody. That slender woman at the harpsichord.
He didn’t want to think of that encounter, or what had come after. He’d fled the house in disgrace, mood black and growing blacker. He hadn’t returned to his apartments, hadn’t stopped by the club. He’d gone to a tavern and drank his lunch—five flips, so maybe that counted as a meal. Each flip had at least part of an egg stirred into the gin, and sugar. Dinner … dinner had been more of the same. But without the eggs and sugar.
Maybe I shouldn’t have ripped up that ticket.
That’s what he went to sleep thinking.
Maybe I should buy another.
But somehow—though he woke late in the morning, head filled with sand and glass, body aching—he was determined to try again. London. The
ton.
All of it. He wasn’t giving up. His visit to Trombly Place had been a false start. Today would be different.
He rocked on his heels, looking up, up the façade of Bennington House. The sky above was blue. He tried to keep his mind sunny and blank.
He wouldn’t tell Daphne and Bennington the truth. Why he’d failed to keep the engagement. He’d give them an airy, charming excuse then launch into an off-color anecdote from his travels. The one about the dancing girl who stripped off her clothes and folded herself until she could have fit in a hatbox. Or the one about the Albanian cavalryman who shot his friend in the hand over a mummified crocodile phallus.
He wouldn’t say what he could now admit to himself. That the people he’d cared about and who’d cared about him
before
—those were the people he had the most trouble facing. They had also been friends with—he didn’t want to think her name. Not today. For today, let him be free of her.
But she was suddenly there, on the step beside him, a presence he could almost see out of the corner of his eye, could almost touch.
Phillipa
. Bennington was the only core member of their set who hadn’t
been at the party when Phillipa died. He was kept at home with a headache. He’d been spared that final scene. But Daphne had been there. He made his hands into fists, resisting the urge to bring them to his temples. He heard, again, Daphne’s screams. Saw her, kneeling, arms twined around her own neck. She had sobbed until her face had purpled.
When the butler opened the door, he managed to smile.
He was shown through an imposing hall—gleaming white marble with Roman statues in the wall niches striking martial poses—and into the sitting room. This room too was imposing, decidedly masculine in its décor, with heavy mahogany furniture and gilt-framed oval portraits of the Bennington forbears, all soldiers, on the navy blue-papered walls. No feminine touches softened or brightened the space. Even the curtains that hung over the tall windows were thick and somber. There was a massive portrait-book and a few cheaply printed newspapers on the low table, the only items in the room that looked moveable, as though they hadn’t been in the same spot for fifty years. Isidore was reaching toward them when the door opened. He turned.
“Sid,” said Daphne Bennington in her sweet, high voice and held out her hand. He took it. She smiled, a dimple flashing in her creamy cheek. She wore a low-cut gown of green silk that left a great deal of her breasts exposed and little to the imagination as to the luscious contours of the remainder. “We wondered if you were halfway to Dar es Salaam by now.” She gestured to the leather settee, and he sat while she moved to take the armchair opposite. She was a petite woman, almost child-sized, although her lush figure told quite another story. The chair dwarfed her, and he was struck again by the ponderous, uninviting
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