Chapter Eleven
Adrian’s faithful eveningporter welcomed him home with a bow. Mr. William then carefully relieved Adrian of his cloak, hat, and gloves.
The old man was a comforting sight.
When Adrian had leased this property after returning from the war, Mr. William had specifically requested to join his household. As his father’s widow had no objection, Adrian agreed.
Given that Adrian had left his father’s home to join Harbury’s household before he reached his majority, the older man’s loyalty touched him.
He was surprised, in fact, to learn that any of his father’s staff held him in affection. Most had left after having been compelled by his father to testify against his mother.
“All well?” Adrian asked.
“Very good, my lord.” The porter cleared his throat. “Although I should tell you that the Duke of Harbury arrived an hour or so ago. I told him, of course, that you were out for the evening but…” His voice trailed off.
“A little worse for wear, is he?”
The porter inclined head.
Adrian sighed. Better and better. “Have someone make up a bed in the spare room and leave him to me.”
A spark of approval lit the porter’s eye. He started to back away.
“One more thing before you go…”
He handed Mr. William the package Mrs. Dove-Lyon had given him with the instructions to have a brew prepared in the morning.
“…or better yet, midday.” If anything, he needed a good night’s sleep.
“You may place your trust in me,” Mr. William replied. He bowed and then set off in the direction of the staff quarters.
Adrian trudged through the hall, reluctantly trawling through events of the evening in his mind. After finding out that the Blackbird had come to Bessie in search of a husband, he’d made the rash decision to flee the Lyon’s Den and never return.
Bessie had known just how intriguing he’d find the Blackbird. She’d known, too, that the Blackbird would refuse to see him again. She’d used the young woman to make her point—that using others as a salve for his pain insulted both the ladies and his own honor.
He felt betrayed.
Worst still, he knew Bessie had been right. He’d been shirking his duties while seeking comfort for an affliction better treated in more practical ways. Words alone would never have made him realize just how far he’d strayed from his own standards and ideals.
The Blackbird had also made accusations, some of which had come uncomfortably close to being true as well. She’d accused him of treating women with thoughtlessness and scorn.
Scorn? No. But thoughtlessness…?
Perhaps. However unintentional.
He’d had to be extraordinarily careful.
Whispers had followed him as a child—something only to be expected when one’s parents had been as infamous for their rows as they had been for their mutual infidelities, eventually culminating in a spectacular trial followed by a Parliamentary divorce.
And while he’d made no effort to court public opinion, he had taken pains for his liaisons to remain private. He’d believed having Bessie plan his assignations protected himself from scrutiny and his lovers from mistaken attachment.
Had he been deceiving himself?
As Bessie’s lesson had made plain, he’d centered every decision, of late, solely on his comfort. Yes. In fact, he had become so self-indulgent he’d sunk to merely using women.
His jaw tightened.
Much the way his father had used his mother and as many women as would permit him to take his pleasure. At least before he wed Caroline.
