Haverford waited impatiently for Abersham's door to open, the seconds seeming like hours.
When Haverford had stopped at the Firthley's hotel room on his way to the boy's pied-a-terre—that he wouldn't even have, if not for his mother's largesse—Firthley had assured the duke he was thoroughly convinced his nephew had cleaned up his life, and—aside from relations with his parents—Abersham could be trusted to act with honour and sound judgment.
"I do not know this Penchley fellow, so I cannot assign him a motive," Firthley had said, "but I am aware, as are you, that the lad has others working against him here and in Paris, trying to discredit him—either with your daughter or Society in general. I have never, even for a moment, seen sign of such infamy from my nephew, and were you to consider it without Lady Sarah in the equation, you would say the same."
Firthley seemed convinced, but Haverford could not take his daughter out of the images in his mind of Abersham's misdeeds. Penchley had painted a perfectly clear picture.
"It is not a pretty story, Your Grace," Penchley had stammered when confronted directly about his knowledge of Lord Abersham. "And as there is no direct evidence, I should hate the young man to be defamed if he is, in fact, innocent." He wrung his hands, an enormously troubled look crossing his face. "But I cannot see how..." Penchley took another few minutes of babbling to convince himself to tell the tales there was no question of him hiding from Haverford. "But if he has asked for Lady Sarah's hand... of course, a father must make inquiries. She is such a beautiful girl, an innocent angel; it would be a travesty were he to... No. No, I cannot allow it. Your Grace, I will be pleased to share what I know."
Haverford almost wished he hadn't. He would never be able to erase the images from his mind, and he wasn't sure how he could ever speak to Nick and Bella of their son again without losing his stomach.
Beating and torturing girls? Unwilling victims plucked from the streets? Bloodstains in every room? It cannot be true. The boy had been wild, and Haverford himself bore part of the blame for that. But he had never been vicious.
Had he?
And, in all fairness, as Penchley had stated, no perfect evidence existed, but the weight of the circumstantial was profound. Penchley had heard it directly from the lips of one of the boys' alleged victims:
"She said they had made her a pet, Your Grace, the four of them, and kept her caged and chained, under threat they would dispose of her, should she try to escape. She did escape, thank Heavens, with the assistance of a young man who subsequently helped her recover herself, but he was forced to bear the onus of their poor treatment of her, as you might imagine. Her stories were quite..."
"I will hear them now in their entirety, Penchley, or I will have you reassigned to Outer Mongolia."
Penchley had outlined the most horrific abuses, then added testimony by a maid paid to clean after one of their bacchanals: "'Blood in every room,' she said, Your Grace. 'splashed around like they were swinging someone's severed arm.'"
Three young men of Abersham's acquaintance—Eton and Cambridge associates who were attending the University of France, not Abersham's school—had spoken to Penchley, all telling the same story of Abersham bragging about keeping a girl who would do the bidding of anyone he ordered.
Finally, as though to soften the blows that had come with each new revelation, Penchley had ended with, "And of course, boys will be boys, and the Comtesse de Lodève is known for her appetite for young men, but she has never before... as I understand it... she made complaint to the king, Your Grace. His Majesty was not convinced by her claims, it should be noted, but he was, perhaps, not aware of the totality of Lord Abersham's activities in Paris."
Under Haverford's questioning, more and more detail became clear, all of it damning. If Nick had heard even half of what Haverford now knew, it would finish him off for good.
Haverford took Penchley with him when he demanded audience with the English ambassador in Paris, but left the man outside the door, ready to be called in should there be any discrepancy in what Haverford had been told. But no, the ambassador confirmed Penchley had told the same story to him, and what Haverford repeated back was entirely consistent with what he had reported to London. The official investigation by the Paris police had been small, rapid, and inconclusive, and had required little involvement of the embassy, and no active bribery, to be closed. Which might be a function of the nobility of the gentlemen involved, were it not Paris.
When Haverford sought out the witnesses Penchley named, he was stymied at every turn. The young men had left Paris once they finished school, the woman, Abersham's "pet," was nowhere to be found, and the maid had vanished into the Paris streets. He wished his brother were here now. David was an enquiry agent; he would find the truth in a matter of hours.
Haverford banged his fist against the door again. It was an eight-room apartment; there was no reason to keep him waiting.
The nephew of Nick's man opened the door and Haverford brushed past him. "I'll find my own way, Blakeley." Something grim in his face must have convinced the servant to close his mouth and step aside. He took the coat and hat Haverford thrust towards him with a small bow. "Shall I... er... announce you, Sir?"
Before he could, however, Abersham appeared in the foyer, his face eager, another young man observing the scene over Abersham's shoulder, considerably warier than the marquess.
"Uncle Haverford. Is my father with you?" Abersham looked around, as though there were a place to hide in the entryway.
"I thought it best to leave him out of this interview, Abersham. You," he barked, pointing at the extraneous people in the room, "Blakeley, you and this... whoever this is, have a pressing need to run an errand, do you not?"
Abersham used his brows to send a message to his friend and tipped his head toward the door at Blakeley's glance. The two others removed to a different room, but did not vacate the premises. Blakeley left a door open behind him, and Haverford stalked over and slammed it shut, then steered Abersham into what had been Wellbridge's study, last time Haverford had been here.
After slamming another door, Haverford demanded, "I want the truth, Abersham. All of it. And I want it now."
Abersham looked both bewildered and terrified. For once, he fell back on the manners his mother had instilled, not the arrogance he got from his father.
"Of course, Sir. I will tell you anything you'd like. I am not perfect, and I am not proud of everything I've done, but I've naught to hide from you. Would you care for a seat? May I offer you something to drink?"
Haverford ignored the invitation. Better to get this over with.
Poking a finger into Abersham's chest, he spat the words he had been repeating in his head all day long, ever since Penchley had told all he knew of Abersham's exploits in Paris. "You tell me you have been celibate for months, and I accept your word as a gentleman. But I have now heard details of the time before you gained your senses. Details that, as a father, I cannot ignore. You had an affair with the Comtesse de Lodève? This is true?"
Abersham had the grace to flush. "Yes, Uncle Haverford. In a manner of speaking. We... At least... Yes."
"She made a complaint of you to the King. Something about unnatural practices. Do I have that right, too?"
"I suppose so... But I explained... At least... It was her idea, since I couldn't... er... wouldn't..." Abersham was scarlet, his eyes darting guiltily to every corner of the room. And well he should feel guilty. Beating the Comtesse, even at her instigation, was bad enough, but to inflict such damage the woman felt compelled to make complaint to the king? And she was by no means the worst of it. Finally, the boy muttered, "The king did not believe her..."
"Is it also true you and your friends disrupted one of her soirees with six females you kidnapped from the streets, who fought so hard to escape they left you with bruises and lacerations?"
"Female cats, Sir. It was meant to be funny. I had made a bet with friends."
"La petite chatte. Yes, Abersham; I learned French slang at school, too."
Undoubtedly, they had fought like cats, and so they should. Haverford just hoped the poor women got away without further harm, though he had never known men like this to allow their quarry to escape. And no one had ever known the Comtesse de Lodève to let anything, no matter how sordid, interrupt her pleasures. That woman was the Bride of Caligula, by all accounts.
"No, sir!" Abersham's face blanched, what had been moderate anxiety turning to utter horror. "Not—"
"This is how you entertained yourself in Paris? And, one must suppose, in Marseilles? One shudders to think what you might have done to countless nameless women in ports around Europe during your travels. I am deeply ashamed to have set you on such a hedonistic path... that would bring you... here. It will forever be among the greatest regrets of my life."
"Of what do you speak, Sir? I've not done anything to warrant this treatment. The comtesse is a—"
"Drunken fights that landed you in prison, too, or so I understand. And you and your friends cutting a swath through the ladies at Court."
"Once in prison, Sir. And it was jail overnight, not prison. It was a misunderstanding. Over cards." His voice wavered a bit at that. "And no swaths were cut by me, sir... Truly, I am not certain what you have—"
Cards, was it? The source of his supposed funds, perhaps. Not a word of contrition. Not any sense that his behaviour had been abominable.
"Uncle Haverford, those days are past me, I swear. I love Lady Sarah. I will be the best and most faithful of husbands, if you will only..."
"I wish I could believe you, for I have loved you as much as my own son..." He turned his head to blink away sudden and unwelcome tears, and to disguise the sentiment choking him. Finally, he turned back, cold, hard, and in control again. "But you have not behaved as a gentleman of honour, with women, with men, with anyone."
"But–I–"
"A good husband? I saw what marriage to a debauched, selfish man, governed by temper and pride and his carnal appetites, did to my mother. Do you think I would allow my daughter to wed such a man?"
Abersham flinched and paled. "I am not—I would never—"
For a moment, Haverford's eyes failed him; the greenling in the room bore the visage of the man Haverford hated most in the world. It was to the former Duke of Haverford, twenty-seven years dead, that he hissed. "You greatly mistake if you think yourself fit to touch the hem of her gown. You may rot in hell before I let you have her."
The voice that answered brought him back to his own mind, now made up: "But, Uncle Haverford–"
Haverford frowned. As well they had no witnesses, for Sally would not be pleased with what he was about to say.
"Wellbridge has disowned you, boy, though it broke him to do it. Make your own way in the world, as you say you can. I would not give my little girl into your hands if you were the last bachelor alive. Leave her alone to find happiness with someone worthy."
With luck, whatever poor sod won Sally's hand would not suffer too much for having a wife who loved elsewhere. And Abersham would grow out of his hideous proclivities before he married and spent a lifetime torturing some other man's daughter.
He expected the Northope temper to erupt, but Abersham showed some signs of maturity, straightening his shoulders and nodding. "I see." Swallowing hard, he said, "Thank you for your time, Your Grace. Please give my best to Aunt Cherry and Aunt Eleanor. Blakeley will see you out." He pulled the cord to summon the servant.
Haverford inclined his head again, his jaw stiff. "Abersham. Leave Sarah alone. No more letters."
Abersham flinched, but did not otherwise respond, except to bow.
"Your Grace."
Haverford turned his shoulder, refusing to look at Abersham as he followed Blakeley out of the room. He accepted his coat and hat and stepped into the hall. Then, once the door was closed, a wipe with a handkerchief restored his eyes to decency once more.
A man protected those he loved, even from themselves.