Chapter Nineteen
The knocking on his door pounded like hooves against Brandt’s head, bringing him from ravaged dreams into the summer-baked room. He didn’t care where the hands on the clock might be—the hour was too early for him to awaken. He needed another bottle of brandy to cleanse his mouth. He called out to his valet, ‘Enter.
‘Enter,’ he commanded again when he heard no footsteps.
The door swung open.
‘Heathen.’ The word screeched into his ears as if attached to flying glass. A woman wearing a bonnet the size of a parasol stood beneath the transom. For a moment, he thought he dreamed of a butterfly, the dress fluttered so and bead trim sparkled. A pale face, with dark eyes rimmed in lashes any siren could be envious of, stared at him.
The drunken haze confused him. This was a boarding house—not his home. For a moment, he had forgotten.
Memories returned, anger flooding his body.
He rolled on to his side, and propped himself on his elbow, re-orienting himself, and feeling a breeze waft over his body. Completely over his body.
Everything came back to him. Or enough of it did. He’d shed his clothing when he’d returned from the tavern. He felt beside him for a covering. Nothing touched his fingers but a mattress so thin he could feel the ropes beneath.
‘Why did you call for the door to open?’ The woman at the door had her hand over her eyes—and her cheeks were flushed. The one behind her seemed to be taking measurements.
‘I was dreaming of—’ He could not tell her he dreamed of Mary. Of a world of servants and health and sobriety. ‘I dreamt of a swarm of annoying bees and I called for the door to be open so they might fly out,’ he said. ‘Instead one rushed in.’
How had he wronged the woman at the door? He couldn’t recall her face, and she didn’t look at all the kind he consorted with. She had the look of an outraged wife on her face, but she wasn’t his outraged wife.
He took a breath to calm himself and wished the night hadn’t been so warm he’d shed his clothing, his covers and the last threads of his dignity.
The female at the threshold looked as if she’d been snatched from Sunday services and plopped in the middle of a brothel.
But no devil had forced her to open his door.
He reached to the side of his bed, ignored his small clothes and went straight for his trousers.
With his body turned away, he pulled his clothing over his legs.
‘Perhaps you could introduce yourself.’ He spoke calmly to the daft one even as the second woman tiptoed to examine him. He was at a blasted soirée and he had not accepted the invitation. ‘You are under the impression we are acquainted. And I am under the impression we are not.’
She sputtered.
‘And to what do I owe the pleasure?’ he asked, finishing the last button and turning. He would have preferred to have on his small clothes, but then he would have preferred to have drunk a lot more and fallen asleep at the tavern.
The drink had finally destroyed him, but not in the way he had expected.
‘Cover yourself,’ the young woman commanded. ‘You heathen.’
‘You can take your hand from your eyes,’ he said. ‘I’ve got my trousers buttoned.’
Eyes, which reminded him of sunlight shining through sparkling glass, took a quick look at him. ‘A shirt?’
‘Oh, let’s save that until after we’ve been properly introduced.’
‘We will never be properly introduced.’
She wouldn’t be in a tavern, or on the darkened streets. And she shouldn’t be in his room. He paid little care to the society folks with their haughty stares. They didn’t interest him at all. Never had—even when he’d lived the other life.
‘Your shirt.’ She waved a finger, pointing at a direction beyond his back, and her eyes appeared to be fixed on his torn window curtain.
He looked around. The peg where he usually put his shirt stood empty. He picked up his waistcoat and slipped an arm into it, then the other. ‘Since you’ve seen me from top to bottom, this will have to do, Love.’ He fastened one button as a kindness.
‘Save your words for the lightskirts,’ Miss Butterfly Bonnet said.
Calling her love had snapped her out of her embarrassment.
‘So you are not of that business,’ he muttered. ‘Pity.’
Her eyes turned to slits. ‘Until I opened the door, I was quite innocent. Now I’m tainted for ever by what I’ve seen.’
He sat on the bed. ‘Think how it is for me. To wake up with a shrieking shrew at the door I can’t for the life of me remember how I’ve wronged.’
‘Oh, I envy you,’ she bit out the words. ‘Would that my life was so pleasant.’
They stared at each other.
‘You might tell me the nature of your visit.’ He examined his mind for a reason for this woman to search him out. ‘I truly don’t know you or know why you’re here.’ He yawned. ‘Come in.’ He waved an arm to indicate the two wooden chairs by the uneven table.
The older woman, peering into the room, gave the girl a push. ‘Quick before someone recognises you.’ Then the older woman pulled the door shut.
The young one’s eyes widened, but she covered her surprise with a tightening of her jaw and squared shoulders.
She took a tiny step inside his room, but she stayed within an arm’s reach of the door.
‘Sit.’ He straightened his shoulders and adopted the look of a coddled peer. ‘I will ring the butler for tea.’ He let his eyes look thoughtful. ‘Oh, goodness, I fear it is his half-day off. We will have to make do with brandy.’
He noticed the overturned glass on the table and looked around for a bottle. He reached down to the edge of the bed and found one still standing with about three swallows left in it—for a small person.
He picked it up, held the bottle in her direction and raised his eyebrows.
Her chin moved, but she didn’t open her mouth.
‘Speak your business quickly,’ he commanded. ‘Your bonnet is giving me a headache.’
He relaxed his arm, still holding the bottle. None of this would have happened if his wife had lived. The thought of her stabbed at his chest, and he wished he didn’t breathe in the blackness with every breath.
Just the touch of Mary’s finger at his cheek had given him more pleasure than he could ever find in a bottle.
He finished the liquid, then flipped the bottle into the corner, enjoying the clunk.
The lady with the overgrown bonnet watched him and her face condemned him. Her nose wrinkled and the corners of her lips turned down.