Page 44 of Restored

The man nodded and disappeared, and Henry began to slowly make his way around the room.

He recognised almost no one. Having been gone from town nearly two decades, he had relatively few acquaintances in society circles. There were a few faces he thought he recognised, but only one he could positively identify: the elderly Viscount Linton. Linton had been ancient when Henry was a boy and appeared not to have changed so much as a hair in the last eighteen years. He frowned in Henry’s direction as though trying to work out who he was.

The other men in the room glanced at Henry less obviously, mildly curious but mostly hiding their interest. As for Henry, he smoothly wove his way between the tables, stopping every now and again to watch play for a while before moving on.

He finally found Freddy in a small, private room off the main chamber. There was no croupier dealing the cards or observing the play in here. Just the players at the table.

Henry stood, unnoticed, in the doorway for a few moments. Despite having claimed he would be taking no part in the game, Freddy was indeed one of players.

Henry glanced around the table. He immediately recognised Lionel Skelton, who was around the same age as Henry. The younger son of some minor baron, Skelton had been a wastrel when Henry had first known him, and Henry could see that nothing had changed. Back then, Skelton had been a big, strapping fellow, but he had not aged well. Now his face was bloated from drink, his features coarse, his small eyes bleary.

Henry took a little longer to recognise the man sitting beside Skelton, but finally placed him: Nigel Tavestock. Eighteen years ago, Tavestock had been an unremarkable, quiet young man with mousy hair, always in the shadow of the larger, more assertive Skelton. Now, Tavestock was bald as a coot, thick in the waist, and had a florid complexion that made him look rather flustered, an impression that was not improved by his dishevelled cravat and wrongly buttoned waistcoat.

Beside Tavestock was another of Skelton’s old cronies, Cecil Hammond. Where Skelton and Tavestock had swollen with age, Hammond had shrunk. He was a weedy, thin-mouthed fellow with a weak chin and watery eyes.

It seemed these three birds still flocked together… and were still seeking to take advantage of pigeons. Pigeons like Freddy, who was not—as he had suggested earlier this evening—merely watching the game but was fully engaged in it, and was presently studying his cards in complete ignorance of Henry’s arrival.

Henry felt an odd combination of helpless love and frustrated anger as he watched Freddy. He may be two-and-twenty, but Henry would always see the little boy in him. The sturdy, adventurous little boy, who used to lead his more careful elder siblings into scrapes that Henry would inevitably have to rescue them from—like George from that tree.

Just then, Freddy looked up, as though sensing Henry's attention, and his eyes widened with horror. “Father,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

The other men around the table all looked up at that.

“Avesbury?” Tavestock said, sounding surprised.

Henry nodded. “Good evening, Tavestock,” he said. “You don’t mind if I join you.” It wasn’t a question—he pulled out an unoccupied chair and sat down. Tavestock blinked and shot a panicked glance at Skelton, who pressed his lips tightly together but voiced no objection.

Hammond kept his cool a little better, merely nodding at Henry, who returned the gesture politely.

The final member of the party, who looked to be a few years older than Freddy but considerably younger than the others—perhaps in his late twenties—had to be Percy Bartlett. He was certainly dressed like a dandy, just as Marianne had described, with absurdly high shirt points and a complicated-looking cravat arrangement. His brown hair was carefully curled and arranged to look romantically tumbled.

He was almost handsome, but not quite. There was something about his pale eyes that Henry didn’t like. They were slightly bulbous and a little too far apart, giving him a vaguely froggy appearance, and his upper lip looked as though it had a tendency to curl in a sneer.

“Your grace,” the man said, inclining his head.

Henry smiled coolly. “Mr. Bartlett, I collect?”

Bartlett nodded and smiled, seeming gratified at being acknowledged by a duke.

“Yes, your grace, I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Likewise,” Henry said with cool politeness. “Any friend of Freddy’s.”

Freddy’s face was pink and his mouth was pinched. Plainly, he was mortified by Henry’s turning up here.

“Checking up on me, Father?” he asked tightly.

“I thought I’d call in and see what Sharp’s is like,” Henry replied mildly. “I won’t stay long. I’ve an engagement elsewhere.”

“You’ll stay for a hand at least, your grace?” Bartlett said.

Henry noted Skelton’s flinch at that comment. It was a small, involuntary movement, so much so that Henry almost discounted it.

Almost.

But he knew Skelton of old.

“Why not,” he said, smiling in Bartlett’s direction. “Once you finish this game.”