Van thought of lying about it, then shrugged. “It misfired. Faulty flint.” Then he saw the look on the valet’s face.
Noons retreated. “I’m sorry, my lord. No, I’m not sorry! I couldn’t bear what you might do when I was out of sight. And see, I was right, wasn’t I?”
For a moment, Van wanted to throttle him, but then he forced a smile. “Yes, by gad, you were right. For six weeks, at least.”
“Six weeks, my lord?” Noons gingerly picked up the pistol and put it out of sight in a drawer.
“Never mind. First order of business is to tidy me up so I can visit my bank.”
“Bank, my lord?” Noons glanced at the empty decanter in concern.
“A small loan to enable me to go fortune hunting. So, work your magic.”
Three hours later, rested, shaved, and turned out to Noons’s satisfaction, Van looked in a mirror. He wished the signs of dissipation could be polished away like the scuffs on his boots.
If the Golden Lily had been real, however, he’d polish up. Though he often felt like Methuselah, he was only twenty-five. His body must still have some repairing powers.
He rubbed a finger down the scar on his right cheek. That wouldn’t go away, but that, at least, was honorable.
He put on his hat and went out to test whether his visitor had been an apparition or real. A strange mission, almost like a trial. If he returned with no money and no hope, he would have to execute himself.
With that in mind, he paused by a gunsmith’s shop and counted his few coins. Yesterday, he’d paid Noons and his bills, then taken the rest of his money to Brooks’. He’d come home and bought that one bottle of good wine. Now he had just over a shilling.
He left the gunsmith with a flint, a sixpence, one penny, and a farthing. All he possessed in the world.
Oh, he could tease things out by selling bits and pieces, but after last night’s disaster, that would be stealing. Despite his words to the real or imaginary Mrs. Celestin, his estates wouldnot completely cover his debt. Everything he owned, even to the clothes on his back, belonged to the men holding his IOUs.
The only hope lay at the bank. With the careless acceptance of fate that had carried him to hell and back for nearly ten years, he walked on briskly.
As he approached Perry’s, however, his steps slowed. Somehow, passing through busy streets, greeted by the occasional acquaintance, he had begun to slide back under the damnable seductiveness of life. It shouldn’t be difficult to stroll into the bank and ask whether an account had been set up for him there, but it had become the moment that would dictate whether he would live or die.
He hovered, seeking alternatives, but he knew there were none.
He’d inherited neglected estates drowning in debt. He had no skills but soldiering, and the war was over. Even if it wasn’t, he couldn’t go back. He knew now how Con had felt. Con had sold out in 1814, then returned for Waterloo, but after the break, he’d lost the habit of war, the crusty, protective shell. He’d come through the battle without serious physical wounds, but damaged in other ways. Van had known that. He should have found Con and tried to help. He’d been too wrapped up in his own problems.
In some ways Van had enjoyed war, enjoyed the constant test by fire, but he’d never become hardened to death. Each death around him had spurred him to fight more wildly, as if picking up the banner of the fallen without caution or consequences.
A clear form of madness. He’d been aware of that, and yet it had gripped him. No question of stopping, of backing away, with all the ghosts cheering him on.
But that drug had gone, drained to the last, overdosing drop at Waterloo. Once gone, there was nothing left. He could not fight again. He could not help a friend.
Why did a person live? What was the point? He’d carried on only because of another set of ghosts, his family preaching his duty to continue the line, to repair Steynings and restore it to the home it had once been.
He’d turned to gambling. He had luck and he stayed sober, so he generally won. Paid his way, in fact. He’d never made enough to change anything, however, in part because he couldn’t bring himself to fleece the innocent or those who couldn’t afford it.
Tiring of it, he’d made a bargain with the devil. He’d gamble the night away without restraint or caution. If he emerged a winner, he would settle in the country and work at restoring his home. If he lost, he’d put an end to it.
He’d lost. True to his bargain, he’d stayed through the night, even though the debts had mounted, actually welcoming the growing total that would remove any ambiguity.
He mourned that moment when he had known exactly what he must do, so like the absolute of a forlorn-hope charge in battle. Then, with a muttered curse, he took up his last forlorn hope and walked into the bank.
It was oak-paneled and sober, looking respectable and solid, as a bank must. Was it her bank? If she was real, if she had deposited the money, would everyone here know his account had been set up by the rich Mrs. Celestin?
He had no reason for pride anymore, but it still stung.
A neatly dressed clerk came forward, bowing. “How may I assist you, sir?”
Van gathered generations of wealth and arrogance as armor. “Lord Vandeimen. I have an account here, I believe.”
