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Lear searched his face with a puzzled expression.
With an effort, Nick restored his customary expression of amused carelessness. “Only ships I want to see are theatrical props, old friend,” he said heartily, gesturing at the stage where the prow of a ghostly ship, stark against the blue backdrop, was rolling into view, signaling it was nearly time for Venus to sing.
Her talents had been completely wasted in the chorus of that halfpenny opera.
She had a smoky swirl to her voice that quickened a man’s pulse.
This was where Nick belonged.
Here, in the depraved heart of the decadent kingdom he’d built for himself.
If the future held madness, he’d damned well drain every last drop of pleasure out of each moment left.
He’d go insane in grand style, the most envied man in London, with a voluptuous goddess in his bed, and a cellar full of expensive brandy.
“Besides,” Nick said, “you know I can’t leave the duke here alone. His mental derangement waxes and wanes. Today he’s fine. Tomorrow he could be manic like poor old George. Rest his soul.” Mad King George had gone to his troubled grave in the end of January, only four months previous.
“Where is Barrington?” Lear craned his neck, searching the room. “I haven’t paid my respects.”
“Left him slumbering in his chambers with his attendant, Stubbs, watching outside the door. No doubt the old man’s dreaming of searching for elusive ghost orchids in tropical climes.”
“I brought him some rare bulbs from Spain this time,” Lear said. He brought the duke orchids every time he returned to London. “Packed them in bark and kept them warm and cozy so they should have survived. There’s money in orchid collecting these days. May have to find a wealthy investor and hunt some myself on my next—”
A deep voice sounded from the stage, drowning his words. “Ho, there! Comely Venus! Have you seen my son?”
Nick glanced up sharply, sloshing brandy over his cuff.
His father balanced on the prow of the ship, swaying in time with the lengths of billowing silk waves. For some reason he was wearing evening dress, though his cravat had come undone and his white hair was standing on end.
Lear snorted. “Slumbering in his bed, eh?”
“How the devil did he climb up there? And where’s his caretaker?” Nick scanned the room for Mr. Stubbs, whom he’d hired from an agency after too many nurses quit because of the duke’s amorous advances. His father’s mind may have weakened, but his predilection for buxom older ladies remained firm.
“Young lady, you ought to put some clothing on,” the duke called to Venus.
Venus made surreptitious silencing motions, striving to maintain her beatific smile as the audience laughed.
“You’ll catch your death on that clamshell in your altogether,” the duke scolded loudly.
Her moment of triumph was quickly evaporating.
“He’s liable to break his neck,” Nick said. “The ship’s not meant for anyone to stand on.”
It was only a shell made from rotting old timber and mounted on wheels. Nick had rented the ship, as well as an entire theatrical troupe, for the evening from a theater on King Street.
“Help me fetch him down.” Motioning for Lear to follow, Nick headed toward the stage.
“Thar he be!” the duke thundered, pointing at Nick.
“Come down from there,” Nick called.
“Come and fetch me,” the duke crowed.
More laughter from the onlookers.
Venus pouted and stamped a dainty foot on her plaster clamshell.
Which made the audience laugh even harder.
